Writing From a Homeless Heart

The monster crouched behind the dumpster, blood dripping from its nostrils. It whimpered softly, shifting its limbs to achieve a more comfortable position as it waited for night to fall.

It had made the mistake of coming out in the daylight to seek food. Clutching the loaf of day-old bread to its chest it scampered towards the alley and cover. As it rounded the building two young men almost bumped into it. Face twisted in disgust, the shorter man struck out with his foot sending the creature sprawling to the pavement. Dropping the bread it covered its face with upraised forelimbs and hunkered in a defensive position. The man kicked it in the side.

"Oh, God, that's disgusting!" said the taller, brown-skinned human, tossing his longish dark hair out of his eyes. "Stop it!"

The smaller man seemed disinclined to take his companion's advice and the monster could see the muscles bunching in his thick, pale arms. The creature lurched to its feet and staggered away from the pair as swiftly as it could. The darker man put his hand on his friend's shoulder and he did not pursue the beast.

In its hiding place behind the dumpster the animal began to rock its body in reaction to the pain. As the day wore on the creature's haven became uncomfortably hot and the smell of decay made it feel sick. It moved its body awkwardly, trying to relieve the pain in its cracked ribs without success. Despite the pain, the hunger, and the heat the monster began to drift to sleep. Its sleep was broken and filled with haunting dreams. The thing dreamed of fresh, running water gurgling into a basin where it quenched its thirst. It dreamed of a time when it lived in peace and safety, its den amid fields of lush grasses bordering a deep, wild forest.

Its comfortable den was long gone, taken over by new tenants after the monster's dam and sire mysteriously disappeared. There was no going back. The creature, still a juvenile, wandered aimlessly, seeking food and shelter where it could. Its fur had been sleek and glossy, its muscles strong. Now it lay shivering in the heat of an alien city, its muscles wasted, its fur patchy and dull.

The thing woke up shortly after dusk, dehydrated and maddened by thirst. It uncurled its tortured body and stiffly crawled from behind the dumpster out into the parking lot. Looking around carefully for predators the monster limped towards the city park. It had seen a fountain there and imagined it could smell the water.

The creature arrived at the park, gasping from the effort, each breath bringing a new order of pain to its broken ribs. Cautiously it crept towards the lighted fountain. Thirst dissolved its caution and the monster plunged its face into the water sucking in great gulps of the cool liquid.

Suddenly, hands grasped the weakened monster's head, shoving it into the fountain. Terror gave the animal greater strength and it managed to throw off its attacker for a moment, allowing it to suck in air with far greater thirst than it had shown the water moments earlier.

The man grappled with it, shoving it down against the fountain. The creature's head cracked into the rim of the fountain. Snarling, it desperately lashed out at the man, its teeth bared.

Just after sunrise several police officers and a CSI unit were in the park, called by an early morning jogger. Approaching the twisted corpse near the fountain, one policeman asked, "Another runaway, you think?"

One of the Investigators said, "What a shame, she couldn't be more than 18."

Perhaps the hardest part about being homeless was being de-humanized. Before I lost my home, I was a cherished daughter, a fine student, a sister, a niece, a grandchild. I was "that shy neighbor girl" and "that smart kid" - but homelessness changed it all.

Sometimes, just for fun, teenage boys would harass me - shove me around and kick me. Just to pass some time. People would look away or cross the street to avoid me though I never begged. Cops would wake me with a toe to my ribs or the back of my head, never asking if I was OK, just poking me like a stray dog or a bag of garbage. Somehow, these small, everyday assaults on my person and dignity hurt more than the vicious attacks that left me hospitalized. Perhaps because they were always so casual, so frequent that they completely buried whoever I had been. I became a thing rather than a person.

So once bad then horrible things started happening to me, I justified the casual cruelties and brutal wrongs in my own head, too. I became detached, depressed, I viewed myself as a sub-human thing, a vile creature it was allowable to abuse. Things that if done to someone else would have filled me with righteous anger became OK, because it was just me they were happening to. People could do things to me that I wouldn't stand by and allow them to do to an animal. All because I had become, in my mind and theirs, nothing more than a monster, a beast that didn't even deserve life.

I still struggle with these feelings and you can see them clearly in my writing.

A gaping chasm
shaped exactly like me
clings closer than a shadow.
Too many touches,
too many sweaty fumblings
as I helplessly cried.
A sucking void exists
where a little girl should be.

I caught a glimpse
of something in the mirror
that I don't want to kill.
For an instant
a terrified child
stared out of my reflection.

Words pour from my fingers
like pus from a septic wound
as I press harder
against the ragged,
broken parts of my self.
I drain the infection
and vomit the poison
that took residence
in my mind,
transform it into art -
black and white marks
on a screen.
My own words
laid end to end
form a lifeline
I extend to the little girl
I thought I saw in the mirror.

Harshly night pricked her with a thousand pins
each piercing sharper than the one before,
her flesh paying the cost of two men's sins.
Innocence lost with blood, she fought no more.

Darkness pressed in like smoke upon a flame
searing her skin like the cuts on her face.
Blood dried up like bark, burning like shame.
Lying in the dark, her hopes had no place.

They'd beaten in her head
and left her for dead -
Beaten out desire, beaten out her heart,
beaten out the fire, beaten out her art.

Curled up on the ground, head against a tree
her grief profound and no more tears to cry
behind a hedge windbreak where none could see
a girl felt heartache, felt all her dreams die
For the first time...

Being homeless was an extremely dark time for me. But I would have to say that if I could change the past, I wouldn't. Every bit of terror, pain, and indignity shaped the person I am. Not only that, but the experience of dragging myself up from less than nothing - I guess I'm pretty proud of that.

I also saw uncompromising goodness during the bleakest points - people little better off than myself who helped and nurtured and saved lives including my own. I grew to see all of the good people as family.

Let me explain about that. When I say the good people I'm not talking about who society would call good people. I'm talking about people who, even when broken and discarded, beaten and abused, maintain a spark of love and decency in their spirits. I'm referring to the prostitute who "ordered too many burgers" all the time and sought me out to "get rid of the extra ones" on her way home. I'm referring to the crack head who stood up to the well-dressed young man who decided to knock me around a little. I'm referring to the discarded old man who bathed me like a child and pushed me in a shopping cart to the ER after I was raped and stabbed. I'm referring to everyone who is like them, or would be like them under the cruel pressures and birth pains they've suffered.

I wouldn't change my knowledge of their existence for anything in the world. Underneath it all, even in the worst of worst times human beings are good at heart.

You'd think having seen some of the most evil things a man can do to another, and seeing its imprint written on the faces of those I came to see as family - you'd think I'd have learned to see the evil in mankind more clearly than the good. But I do. I see evil more clearly than ever before. But I see where it comes from. I see how sometimes, the breaking of a man snuffs out that spark of love and decency in his heart. Sometimes, there's not even tinder left should someone decide to try re-lighting it. It's not something chosen, it's a spiritual injury.

Since I escaped the streets, I've done what I can to help others do the same. Mostly, it has been personal and direct - taking in discarded teens, teens who were too gay, too pagan, or just too much effort for their parents. When I was too poor to buy extra food, or was already pushing the limit on the number of occupants in my apartment I gave literacy and companionship. But I've also tried to wake people up to my understanding, to wake them up to the value of every human being. None of this is charity, none of this is "good works" - this is my family and it's my responsibility to care for them. It's yours, too, whether you know it or not.

You won't find me
hiding in the landscaping
dreaming of the last beating.
No one will see me
crying with joy
finding apple peelings
sealed neatly in a Ziploc bag.
No cop will wake me
with his foot in my ribs
as I curl up beside the dumpster
at the gas station.
You won't notice me
washing in the ocean,
eating raw crabs again.
You just won't...
because I'll die first.

A few people have asked me "if homelessness has affected you so deeply, why don't you donate your lens earnings to charities that fight homelessness?"

I would love to donate the proceeds of this lens and all of my others to help homeless people. Unfortunately, I'm on the very edge of homelessness myself.

Just over two years ago, I became unable to work my job as a floral designer due to frequent bouts of illness, seizures, and weakness. Suffering from fibromyalgia, lupus, a benign brain tumor, and an undiagnosed fever disorder I found myself unable to hold down a job.

So I applied for Disability. I figured since I was truly ill and unable to work that all the money I'd payed in to Social Security over my working life, many years with more than two full-time jobs at a time, money would be there for me to pay for medical care and living expenses.

Because my major problem (the one that is probably most responsibility for making me unable to work) is the undiagnosed fever disorder which brings high fevers, fatigue, seizures, delirium, and loss of consciousness I've hit a snag. Since the cause of the disorder is unknown its symptoms were not considered in determining my ability to work by the SSA. Only the fibromyalgia and lupus were considered and their symptoms were not decreed great enough to make me unable to work.

To file another appeal, I was told I must have further medical evaluation (at my own expense) and be under a doctor's continuing care. But you see, that's not likely because in Michigan, there's no aid available other than food assistance for non-parent, non-pregnant adults and I've been unable to work a regular job for two years. Medical care would be available - if I were determined to be Disabled by the SSD. So you can see how this is circular - I can't get medical care because I can't get declared Disabled and I can't get declared Disabled because I can't get medical care.

There were a few times, right after I became so ill, once my money ran out, that homelessness became a near thing. I panicked. I talk about my homeless experience with a strong voice and I try to seem unharmed by it but I was deeply wounded by it. I was terrified of becoming homeless and often had suicidal thoughts. I couldn't bear the thought of the beatings, the rapes, and the dehumanizing conditions. I suffer from PTSD and had a lot of panic attacks and bouts of severe depression during that time.

Somehow I've been scraping by, surviving on my freelance writing income and the kindness of friends and my loving though financially struggling partner. Without the love and support of my partner and friends, I'd either be homeless or dead. Even though I earn money writing, it's not enough to live on and my illness prevents me from even writing at times, especially during fevers or bouts of weakness and fatigue.

So in a way, I guess the proceeds of my lenses are going to prevent homelessness in a very real way - it's just that it's my own.

I thank you all for reading. I thank you for your kind words and blessings.Get your own Tip Jar