Opinion | ‘I felt privileged, protected, overwhelmed and mentally exhausted’
The for-sale sign appeared in front of a neighbor’s house down the street. I had been living in my tent there until Aug. 18, and had friendly chats with them.
I was concerned the sales price of their home would be negatively affected by my tent. Societal fear and disgust of homeless people are some of the strongest prejudices in our society. Being homeless, and a community member, I work to address these issues through my behavior, my writing and conversations with the community as a Street Roots vendor. The afternoon the for-sale sign was posted, I knocked on my neighbor’s door. I told them I was being aided by Veterans Affairs (VA) to find housing. I had been told by Megan, a VA representative at the Community Resource and Referral Center I met during my Aug. 4 appointment, that I might get housing in one month. They were happy and wished me well. It’s nice being a member of the community.
I met with Dr. Ramone, who verified my previous diagnoses (CPTSD, Mild Cognitive Impairment, and Hep. C), set up numerous blood tests (11 vials in all!), gave me three referrals for a liver scan, a social worker to set up housing and mental health appointments for early September.
I had never had a medical appointment with so many issues evaluated and addressed with a comprehensive treatment plan in one visit. I am amazed Ramone gave this much care and concern to a homeless veteran, even stepping out of his medical knowledge of physical ailments to connect me to mental and housing resources. Medical professionals are typically crunched for time and move through patients as quickly as possible. Usually, doctors would only address one of my health issues per visit, and because health issues often interact with each other, I found this process ineffective and problematic for my health. In childhood, my CPTSD, dyslexia and social isolation were never acknowledged or addressed, so I was so grateful to be heard and responded to completely.
Two weeks after this doctor appointment, I was in touch with a Grant & Per Diem (GPD) specialist, Nick, to find stable, permanent housing. GPD is a transitional housing program through the VA that partners with community agencies to provide services to homeless veterans.
I was in a state of shock. This was happening so fast, and filling out forms with social service agencies generated within me an intense fear of the future and general confusion about all the paperwork. I get overwhelmed and the release of information forms means people I never met getting my personal information and using it against me (part of my PTSD). Questions on the form often seem ambiguous, having several interpretations.
Bad things seem to happen when I apply for help through social service agencies. In the past going through a social service agency meant being sold hope of housing at first, followed by reams of paperwork, hoops in the form of caseworker meetings, classes and attending recovery meetings. This took up so much time there was no time left to earn money, meals were missed because free meals at missions took time waiting in line, often an hour or so. The end result for me was always a caseworker shrugging their shoulders as I am asked to leave a shelter, my time having expired, and returning to the street. That’s the homeless shuffle: lines, hoops and hope turned into despair.
When I showed up for the appointment, Nick introduced me to Lani, who is now my case worker. What proceeded was what seemed like hours of filling out forms. Nick guided myself and Lani, a new hire, through the bureaucratic maze and implications of the never-ending forms. Two things I’ve been directed to do through my experience with AA is follow directions and do the next right thing, and these two ideas helped me survive the housing application process.
My brain was numb from the shock of good news and exhausted from working past its limit so my fears stayed shunted while I signed where directed and reassured myself it was all the right thing to do. This is the form-filled highway to housing the wizard Nick knew on levels mere mortals could neither comprehend nor have any chance at success.
I felt privileged, protected, overwhelmed and mentally exhausted. Nick finally said we were done. I was just relieved. Lani said she would call me in half an hour to give me an update.
I was at New Seasons when the phone call came. They wanted me to sign lease paperwork the next morning. Disbelief and a specter of thought that I should be happy left me with a question mark of a mind. It was just two weeks from my medical appointment and it seemed like the VA had moved heaven and earth to get me into housing, though temporary and contingent upon jumping through undefined hoops I feared I lacked the mental stamina to do. I already felt like I was running on empty.
It was late in the afternoon of Aug. 17 when I knocked on the door of the neighbor with the house for sale. I told them the good news that I would be leasing a Single Room Occupancy (SRO) with the VA paying my rent, so this would be my last night sleeping in the tent next door. They were glad for me again and wished me well. I was happy to not be a burden on their home sales.
I was still too high strung. After sleeping for three hours I awoke and failed to get back to sleep. With so much to do, I got up at 2 a.m. and started packing and cleaning up my camp. Outside my camp looked orderly, but inside it was a rat’s nest of half-finished projects, parts of projects rejected and set aside, stuff spilled, various packaging from food and many water bottles. Hoarding and poor organizing runs in my family.
It was 11 a.m. the next day that I arrived at Central City Concern to sign the lease paperwork. There was a lot of it. Rules and conditions for reasons I might be evicted went in one ear and out the other. My brain was not capable of retaining this information and I couldn’t make sense of a lot of it.
I was cleared to get my room keys. They came with a fob. This is the first time I ever had a key fob, and it felt kind of special. They had to explain to me how it worked. I am a proud old curmudgeon who loves to say I don’t understand how new technology works.
I called my mom. She had offered to help me move, so we drove to my camp, loaded up her SUV and drove my things to my new room. She bought several kitchen items and food for the fridge. The room has a full-size fridge where I plan to have items for my paleo diet to ward off diabetes.
It was the first evening in my new room. My room has a great view of the west hills between buildings with the Fifth Avenue food carts below and the trees shading them. My room is larger than most, with about 160 square feet: a microwave, two-burner stove and sink make up the kitchen. The bathroom is shared so better wear thongs on my feet so as not to share fungus with community members. My floor is all veterans with shared experience and innate trust, which creates the mellowest floor in the building.
One bad thing about downtown is there is always a bar playing ‘THUMP THUMP THUMP’ bass music until about 3 a.m. Another thing I heard was a scream “NOBODY CARES IF I DIE …” Someone’s mind had slipped beyond the breaking point, and I knew it could have been me. My emotions were bittersweet. Here I was, my first night inside, lucky because I had received aid in the confusing housing process. The part of my community that slept outside still suffered because there is only so much affordable housing and a much greater need.
I had once again lost my homeless privilege — the shared commiseration and camaraderie of people experiencing poverty — in trade for housing. Once a formerly homeless person gains housing, they can develop a tendency to isolate, created by the invisible veil that slips between oneself and friends still homeless. You have access to a bed, shower, basement laundry and the security of a locking door. They are still seeking the physical security of shelter and the psychological safety from society’s condemnation. The blanket of homeless stereotypes is woven with fear on a loom of hatred with threads spun of the worst acts committed by those shredded from the stress of being stranded outside.
Editor’s note: Dan Newth is a member of Street Roots’ MoJo program. MoJo is composed of vendors interested in journaling life on the streets and writing about issues important to our community. This is Newth’s account of unexpectedly receiving housing after a recent doctor’s appointment.
