08 August 2014

The last two years didn't matter at all

I went to see an apartment yesterday.  It's not quite downtown, in a pretty nice neighborhood. Not fancy, but very practical and just fine for me. I said I'd take it. Here's a check for the security deposit, one month's rent.  Then I had to fill out the application, which meant I had to explain about the evictions.

I have plenty of income, I can afford the apartment and utilities.
I'm a quiet tenant. No loud noise, no parties, no bullshit.
I don't drink, don't smoke, don't use.
I have a co-signer who will guarantee to pay the rent if I don't.

We'll do some checking and get in touch with you tomorrow morning, they said.

It's 1700 now, on Friday afternoon before the busiest week of the year for apartment managers. The apartment I looked at was the last one available in the building, and probably in the entire neighborhood.

No phone call. No email. Nothing.

When a landlord doesn't call back, that never means that you got the apartment.

Unless a miracle occurs between now and this time next week, I will be out on the same streets that I was on exactly two years ago. No closer to finishing my degree. PTSD is worse. There's no shelter here that will let me in, because Porchlight runs the shelters. I don't trust anyone. I don't sleep until I'm exhausted and then I sleep for 20+ hours. I can't concentrate. I look in the mirror and I don't recognize or like the face that stares back at me.

The VA?  They have nothing for me. I'm not eligible for any housing programs. I've been through all of the mental health programs. I'm already wacked out on two handfuls of pills a day.

I could die on the streets and no one would come looking for me.

"Thanks for your service", people say.

What a fucking crock of shit.

No comments:

Post a Comment

If you'd like your comment to stay private, please let me know in your comment. Anonymous comments are also allowed.