{"id":11142,"date":"2019-05-01T08:17:51","date_gmt":"2019-05-01T12:17:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wordpress-537697-2997182.cloudwaysapps.com\/?p=11142"},"modified":"2022-10-09T07:37:13","modified_gmt":"2022-10-09T11:37:13","slug":"what-if-homeless-prevention-services-actually-worked","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wordpress-537697-2997182.cloudwaysapps.com\/what-if-homeless-prevention-services-actually-worked\/","title":{"rendered":"What if Homeless Prevention Services Actually Worked?"},"content":{"rendered":"
It’s true we should not play the game of “what if” because it prevents us from moving forward. And perhaps this game that I often play is the source of my bitterness, resentment and inability to move on with my life. Nevertheless, I can’t help but think about what could have been, perhaps what should have been if I was never homeless.<\/p>\n
If I never stepped foot in those shelters, if I didn’t drop out of college, if I had spent these past few years of my life differently, who would I be? Would that version of me be better, happier, more successful? What about the lives of my children whom haven’t yet been born? Did I rewrite my destiny? Have I been changed forever? Will I take these memories with me for the rest of my life?<\/p>\n
Every homeless person or formerly homeless person I’ve ever met has asked me similar questions while expressing the same sentiment, which is: Homelessness changed me<\/strong>. I am different because of this experience and I will never be who I was before homelessness happened. Not everyone feels bitterness or resentment as I do, but almost every homeless person I know feels sadness or longing for a former self. For a time before it happened.<\/p>\n Although I am housed today, employed, and truly experiencing a rebirth, and living a new life, sometimes I can’t help but imagine what could have happened if we were never homeless — if we never made it to shelter in-take, or we never went to housing court, or even moved into that apartment my husband and I were living in, at the time of our eviction.<\/p>\n The morning we officially became homeless, it was so cold, and I was so afraid. I remember tears swelling up behind my eyes and it permanently being stuck like this. Sometimes the swelling would reduce and be replaced with fits of rage.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n In those moments of intense emotion, I wanted to burn down my apartment building, burn down my landlord’s house in Long Island (Yes, I did look up where he lived, I did find his Facebook account, saw images of his wife and children, and contacted the Department of Housing and Urban Development to find out everything I could about this building and every building he owns, when he purchased it, and the amount of the loan he got from the bank…), and then, eventually, the judge’s house, the courthouse, and really, just the entire island of Manhattan, up in flames of redemption.<\/p>\n As we carried what was left of us in a duffel bag and headed for shelter in-take, I turned and asked my husband, “How could the beginning of the rest of our lives be so bleak?” How dangerous of a thought that was. The future seemed so uncertain at this point, and really, that uncertainty solidified my rejection of hope, my rejection of life itself<\/strong><\/em> — but, as they say, nothing happens overnight. The build up to this moment was long, grueling and tiresome.<\/p>\nA Cold, Scary Reality<\/h4>\n
Nonexistent: Homeless Prevention Services<\/h4>\n