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I live in a place I don’t really want to live. My sister said she’d help support me, even though we both knew that I was going to pay more than the 30% of income toward rent regardless, and that was the only way I got in.
I did this on my own. Social workers don’t help. No advocate helped. Neither the Center for Urban and Community Services (CUCS) nor the Harlem Independent Living Center helped. And I don’t know if Community Access really does help.
All my last social worker ever did was depress me more. One time, she told me: “Oh, with your income!” In other words, I’m such a lazy ass; I should go and make money.
It’s hard to make money when you have to take pills.
I’ve had jobs. Working for a real estate company one time, I was so stressed when a lady yelled at me that I left and went to the bathroom to cry. It’s not like I never worked, damn it!
I used to say the same thing: “Oh, those people on welfare.” I’m not on welfare. I get SSD and some SSI, and yes, sometimes I do feel bad that people make sacrifices in order to work and have shelter, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to an apartment. It’s obvious that the only consumers getting apartments are people who stay in a homeless shelter.
What makes me depressed is that homelessness means everything when it comes to qualifying for mental health housing, but some people are not really homeless. I get mad that irresponsible, young, unwed moms who made stupid mistakes of conceiving without protection, have more of a priority to receive housing. I shouldn’t be punished for being single without children, for not being in a shelter, or for getting upset and frustrated when I tried to do what I’m supposed to.
I was almost 40 when I got tired of living with my mom. One day I was so depressed that I packed my bags to stay at a homeless shelter. I just felt so angry, so tired, so frustrated.
I still needed help for the future.
Today, I am paying more than 30% of my income on rent [in a neighborhood I settled for]. Sometimes, I feel sad that this was my only choice. I feel depressed and I don’t want anybody in the building to know. I cried last night and today. It just makes me feel so isolated. I don’t want to be isolated.
I’m trying to prove to everyone that I can live alone. I want to live independently. I hope that stress doesn’t kill me. I hope that I don’t die from sadness and isolation. I hope to live in the Lower East Side in the near future, near my 74-year-old mom to help her and her close friends. But who will help me? I don’t know.