“What happened to me while it was happening….”

Sooday, I'm realizing that the more I learn about these initiatives, how they're run, the different funding sources, the governing documents, all the changes, and then cross-referencing all of it, the more I realize my situation was actually pretty unique. 

And honestly, I can see now why some of these people couldn't answer my questions. I don't think they knew half the time. And that's not necessarily anybody's fault. This stuff was new. There were bound to be growing pains. 

In a normal world where I'm just a rational person and not emotionally attached to it, I can separate people doing their best from bad outcomes. I don't think everybody was out to get me. I really don't. 

I think there were people at the city who were genuinely trying to help me. I think they were trying to keep me housed. I think they were trying to make exceptions for me because my situation didn't fit neatly into their program. The rental assistance thing is a good example. Looking back, I think the people pushing it thought they were helping me. They saw a balance. They saw money available. They saw a way to get rid of the problem and keep me housed. 

But I couldn't get comfortable with it. 

I didn't feel comfortable taking what I understood to be pilot money or government money to pay off a balance that I did not believe was mine in the first place. Especially when nobody would give me written findings on the tenant petition, nobody would give me written findings on the audit, and nobody could really explain how they arrived at some of the numbers they were using. 

It felt like everyone was really focused on getting me to take the money, and nobody was focused on answering the actual questions. And the more records I got, the more uncomfortable I became. Alex was changing rents constantly. He was changing rental structures. He wasn't explaining subsidies. I never knew what subsidy I had. I didn't have contracts. Interim never really gave me contracts. Everything I have, I got myself: all the funding documents. 

All the MOUs. The governing agreements. The property records. The program documents. All of that took years. Literal years. 

And I've heard from advocates that most people never even get those documents. 

They get approved for programs, but they never actually see the agreements governing those programs. At least from what I've been able to review, a lot of what I was told and a lot of what I saw didn't seem to line up. And from the beginning, I felt less like a person and more like a number. 

Today, I was hanging out with my friend. And honestly, she's kind of my mom now. That's weird for me to admit. I've only known her for about three years, but she's the person who's been here through almost all of this. We've had our own issues. We've had periods where we weren't talking. There was a point when I got way too dependent on her because I missed my mom and needed that support. 

It's healthier now. But she's really the only person who's watched the whole thing happen. Not heard about it. Actually watched it. And today, she told me something that kind of broke my heart. She said there was a point when she thought I was gone. 

Like gone. 

She said I got so consumed by what was happening that I thought everybody was against me. And what really stuck with me was when she said, "I can't believe how much you've grown, but I can't believe what it cost." And honestly, I've been thinking about that all day. Because she's right. I'm not the same person. Not in a bad way. But definitely different. 

She also said something else that I've been thinking about. She said they didn't treat me the way they treated other people. And what she meant wasn't that I got special treatment. She meant I got treated differently because I didn't fit what they were used to seeing. She was homeless for years. She knows the system way better than I ever will. And she said they saw somebody who was high-functioning. I had a work history. I had an education. I could mask. I could communicate. I could show up to meetings and sound put together even when I was falling apart. She basically said they saw numbers. Potential numbers. Potential outcomes. Potential funding. Potential success stories. But they weren't really paying attention to what was happening with me mentally and emotionally. 

She said that as long as I was doing what they wanted me to do, nobody was worried. But the second I stopped doing what they wanted or started asking questions, suddenly there was a problem. And honestly, that's kind of how it felt. 

Then she came over today and started asking me basic questions. Where's your shampoo? Where are your towels? Why don't you have conditioner? Why don't you have basic stuff? And I literally didn't have answers. I was like, I don't have any. She got genuinely upset. She was like, why didn't you tell me? And I realized I was embarrassed. 

Not embarrassed because I did something wrong. 

More embarrassed because I've fought so hard and spent so many years trying to survive that somebody seeing how little I actually have feels uncomfortable. The weird realization is that I don't even notice anymore. I use bar soap for everything. I don't have shampoo. I don't have conditioner. I don't have decent towels. I just adapted. And that's probably the part that hit me hardest. Because to me, that's normal now. She walks in and immediately notices it. To me, it's just Tuesday. 

What's really weird is that I had so much in my twenties. I made good money. I worked constantly. Six days a week. Sometimes more. I had things. I had options. I had a career. I had independence. And honestly, it feels like another person's life. Like that couldn't possibly be both me then and me now. I think one of the ways I've survived all of this is by disconnecting from that reality. Because if I really think about it too much, it hurts. That's why I focus on the documents. 

The audits. 

The rent calculations. 

The policies. 

The funding. 

The timelines. 

The evidence. 

The numbers are easier than the feelings. Because when I start looking at the feelings, I have to acknowledge that this actually happened to me. And part of me still doesn't believe it. The work stuff still bothers me, too. People act like I wasn't trying. I was trying. In the beginning, I was commuting over an hour each way on the bus. I was working at the salon. I was training staff. I was bringing in a color line. I was teaching at the school. 

I was fixing problems. I was helping people I had personally brought into the salon. I was doing all of that. But every time my income went up, my rent seemed to go up. Then they were constantly recertifying me. The numbers kept changing. The calculations kept changing. And I remember getting to a point where I literally thought: 

"I can't work too much because I'll lose my housing." 

Which is a crazy thing to think. But that was what was happening in my head. So I started cutting back. Then, when I cut back, suddenly it felt like I wasn't doing enough. So whichever direction I went felt wrong. Work more and risk housing. Work less and get questioned. That's what it felt like. And what my friend said today was basically: 

"They never gave you a clear direction." 

And honestly, that's true. I never felt like I understood the rules. I never felt like I understood the expectations. I never felt like I knew what was actually required of me. I always felt like I was reacting to decisions that had already been made. Trying to catch up to information everyone else seemed to have except me. I think the thing I'm realizing the most, though, is that my mom died during all of this, too. 

And I never really dealt with it. I never unpacked it. I was fighting this housing stuff. 

Fighting over benefits. Fighting over documentation. Fighting over audits. Fighting over decisions. Fighting over everything. And underneath all of it, my mom was gone. And I don't think I've ever really sat with that. So now, years later, it all kind of blends together. The grief about my mom. The grief about the life I used to have. The grief about who I used to be. The grief about what all of this cost. And I think that's what I've actually been realizing today. Not just what happened. But what happened to me while it was happening.