“Am I really homeless?”
That’s what I often asked myself during the months I was sleeping on my ex-husband’s floor, my clothes crammed into a suitcase next to my head.
When I thought of the word homeless, I pictured someone sitting on the sidewalk asking for spare change. I saw layers of dirty clothes, missing teeth, body odour. I imagined an old lady with a shopping cart, ranting unintelligibly.
I wasn’t sleeping on the street. I wasn’t begging for money. But through three whole seasons – from Halloween to Easter – I didn’t have a home address.
Most of my stuff was still at my ex-boyfriend’s house. I’d walked out on him the night he went on a particularly bad bender and squeezed my wrist so hard I thought it was going to snap. I’d go back to his place to pack and he’d stand over me, yelling that I was a loser, a bitch, a whore. I’d cry, he’d apologise, and I’d end up staying over. Not much got packed, but on those nights, at least I slept in a bed and not on the floor.
Most days I’d camp out at my local coffee shop, plugging away at freelance assignments. A woman used to have meetings there almost every morning, talking loudly about the book she was writing. Her voice was like a knife hacking its way right into my brain, leaving me struggling to string words into sentences. I’d grit my teeth and shove my headphones into my ears when I saw her coming.
Months later, when I had a new apartment and her book was published, I read a review of it, and the memory of those long days at the coffee shop came rushing back. I remembered sun glinting off the windows as icicles dripped on the sidewalk out front and people hurried past; I always wondered where they were going and wished I had somewhere to go. I remembered the banter of the old men who came in each day at the same time, and the smell of the toasted bagel with butter I ordered every afternoon when I was starting to fade.
Top Comments
Is it just me, or is this article really confusing? I'm not sure if the author is actually socially homeless (ie not able to find a home), or if she's simply choosing to be a drifter.
I'd go for a drifter grifter hybrid...it seems leaching on your friends and family for rent free accommodation, free storage without worrying about bills and rent is now viewed as a "safety net"
I thought the same thing and then she mentioned a child. Very confusing.
Yes home is a feeling but it’s a concern how you keep ending up in the same situation. That doesn’t have anything to do with lacking a feeling of “home” growing up.