I lost my home almost three weeks ago. We won’t call it an “eviction,” exactly, but that’s what it amounts to. My apartment was bedbug-ridden and the management decided I had to go even though the monsters predated my tenancy. So I went.
I am living in a hotel room. I have no adequate winter clothing. While I have been assured that the Long Branch Housing Authority will clean the clothes I had to leave behind because of the bedbugs that infested my apartment, I know damn well I won’t see them again. Tomorrow I’ll probably have to go to a County shelter. I’m just about out of money.
I had to leave behind my TV. Yes, it rots brain cells, but it’s also a comfort and source of amusement. I can’t carry it around and I can’t store it. Where would I store it?
We often take “home” for granted. Don’t do that. Don‘t ever take anything for granted.
I have lost my cat. I’ve been Tolstoy’s guardian for over 10 years. I love him and I think it’s reciprocated. But when I was in the hospital the Animal Control officers took him to the shelter from which I got him in July 2002. He’s had bedbugs too. I can get him back if I have a place for him. I don’t. He’s better off with a new family if someone wants an older kitty.
Even though I am supposed to know better, there are moments–days–when I feel as though God has forgotten about me. No punishment, no elevation. Nothing. Sometimes I believe negative attention would be better than the crash of silence. The heavens are just black and empty.