Skip to main content

The Hardness of The Homeless

This was written by me while I was homeless in Seattle sometime in 2015. At the time of writing, I was staying in the hospital, all hopped up on drugs because I was detoxing from alcohol and going through withdrawals. There are many errors within, yet the message remains the same. It will forever be etched in my memory and provided a solid foundation which sparked my newfound love of writing.


The Hardness of The Homeless

Some of you live in big cities, some of you don't. But some of the cruelty and pure ignorance of the people that I see bites me to the bones. It can be simple kicking of a pigeon (who are quite annoying, I know) just trying to do their thing, to passing someone who is just crashed out in the middle of the sidewalk, not stopping to see if they’re ok.  Now I know in downtown King County alone we have 10,007 homeless on the streets.  I am part of that number.  Yes, some nights I sleep in parks or under overpasses, getting my stuff stolen and beaten up for the little that I have.  Getting wet under those damn wool blankets that are made of who knows what.  You've all seen them.  Putting cardboard down just so my ass isn't bruised in the morning.  ‘Why not go to a shelter,’ you say?  They are full.  There’s not enough. And the ones I do try to get into cost about 5$ a day because they are mostly for people in some sort of program.  ‘Get into a program’, you say.  Waitlists are shitlists.  Some do what they can, going to WorkSource or selling papers on the corners, but even then people just look at them like pieces of spent meat. 
I’ve lived in downtown Seattle long enough to tell who really deserves a dollar and who is just going to go straight to use that same dollar for crack, but it's still a hard thing to see because I live that life.  I've been one to hold my hand out and to be constantly rejected and sneered at. I get what I can, when I can, doing odd jobs here and there and some general labor.  Even returning stolen goods for gift cards for people, only to turn them in at a pawn shop for cash, but the constant search for a dollar just to eat or sleep somewhere is a struggle I never saw myself growing up to face.  
Job applications are another thing.  3 time felon, 3 misdemeanors, no phone, no address, only one good reference from FareStart.  I got skills, but I know I go to the bottom of the application stack.  It's a hole that I’ve never been so deep in, but I have faith in God that He will reach his hand in and let me out and give me another chance.  Seattle is a huge city of chance, and I know that I’ll eventually have many, I just gotta do the work to find them.
As for the homeless, yeah it's an epidemic, and it’ll only get worse.  Fuck the walking dead (which is all we seem to be), soon you'll just hear clanging cans and hands reaching out for you wherever you go.  All that moaning and shuffling feet from people who eventually just lean over and nod out.  Who knows what to do… I know I’m gonna do my part though.   Look to God, do the work, and persevere.


Sorry for any spelling and grammatical errors.  I'm in the hospital. I had nowhere to go and it's cold outside. It’s the only option these days.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Robin Red - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 It hadn’t started as anything major—the dates. Some call it prostitution, hooking, fishing, whatever, but I reserve those names for the ones who are actually working the streets; I’m just a professional dater. Yes, most the dates entail sex, but to me, it’s just a part of the experience. People have needs and I’m happy to provide them for a fee in order to get what I ultimately want. It’s a win-win for all persons involved. It all began three months ago, with Bill actually as my first date. My brother is correct in saying that I fall in love easy, but with Bill, I know it’s different. I fell in love with his kind heart at the start, and his generosity is just extra sweetener on the already over-iced cake. I am still unsure on how he really feels about me, but with each encounter it feels as if we are getting more and more comfortable with each other, even sharing and exchanging our personal lives and information. Every ounce of me wants to tell him how I feel, but...

Icepick

Some recent friends of mine have been posting memories from their past, so I decided to type out an old writing from my prison book. I’ve been slowly transferring all of them to electronic format, but I’m definitely not getting them out as quickly as I would like. Good friends of mine know about my memory issues, and writing helps me remember, so here’s one of the few sober memories that I’ve been able to retain. I know it’s a little long, and that this generation only has the attention span akin to gnats and only like to read shorthand, emojis, and memes, but bear with me. More to come. Icepick – Written 6/11/16             It was the summer of 2010, I believe, and a part of me wishes that I could call it a simpler time. I lived at a place called “Madhouse,” and for anonymity purposes, we’ll just keep it at that. Why is it called Madhouse? Because the place is a fucking madhouse—don’t ask stupid questions. In actuality,...

Freeskate

Here's something a little different.. just a little trip down memory lane for me. Enjoy! Freeskate – Written 6/15/16             They sit right where I left them, dustless and in pristine condition, on the third shelf from the bottom on top of the wooden rack in our three-car garage. Right next to the old Tonka truck that didn’t get sold at last year’s yard sale. The price sticker reads ten dollars; I would have said twenty. They sit above the old camping tent that popped a hole two years back, dumbing the night’s contents atop our sleeping heads. It still smells of musty pine. They sit below my brother’s own pair, which he traded way back when for a dream of a new set of wheels that now waits for him out in the driveway—it’s a Honda. They sit there waiting for me as the school week ends and the weekend begins, bringing with it the opportunities of freedoms and adventures yet to come.       ...