You Don’t Know Me
I am so glad I don’t have to live in a car anymore, or wonder if I’d get to eat that day. I don’t have to worry about caught between rival gangs fighting or getting harassed by cops for parking in a quiet residential area to sleep. I don’t have to wander the streets at night looking for a safe place to ride out the storm.
I like having a bathroom I don’t have to share with strangers. I like waking up in a real bedroom on a real bed, and having a roof over my head. I rejoice in the hot and cold water, and the plumbing, and the tub, though small, is simply divine.
I used to be homeless. I used to stand in line at various soup kitchens and churches hoping to get some food in my belly. I’ve had to rub elbows with the very people most of you walk across the street to avoid. I was one step from being a runaway; one step from doing things with my body that would have surely ended in my death.
I was fifteen when all that ended.
Don’t tell me I “haven’t had it hard”, or that I “have not been poor” and that I “don’t know what it’s like”.
I know exactly what it’s like.
Posted on July 1, 2012, in blogging, childhood, food, life, people, personal, sharing, writing and tagged Family, Food, girls, health, Home, Homelessness, mental health, personal, self, sex, shame, woman, Youth. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.