I am struggling immensely. There is a raging, invisible tempest inside me.
42 days and counting at a homeless shelter, surrounded by and exposed to dozens of disgusting, disturbing men. Forced out into the routinely grotesque heat or other elements every single day from 10AM to 3PM. Still no call from either of the two transitional housing programs I applied to. I am thoroughly repulsed by the male portion of the human species. I have to listen to every vile bodily function imaginable, in hideously close proximity. I have lost count of how many physical and verbal altercations have broken out, and those just being the ones I’ve personally witnessed myself. Mornings are almost always a horrendous sensory overload of men in my face everywhere I turn, maintenance workers rattling things, staff barking at people to get out of bed, and discourteous derelicts obnoxiously blaring hip hop music. Cereal is provided in the morning in these peculiar feeder devices with cranks that you would use to dispense food to a pet dog or rabbit. There’s an alarming number of senior citizens here, several with apparent mobility and incontinence issues. Strange creatures crawling out of every corner, wandering around aimlessly, making bizarre noises; some of them clearly drugged all the way into outer space, some of them talking to themselves, muttering incoherently, or laughing maniacally. One guy semi-regularly puts his fist through the wall. Another guy had his hair set on fire while he was asleep. The police are competing with the plaster repair people to see who makes more trips here. The endless roaring and growling of loud movies is a constant aural presence at all waking hours. The men sit around in recliners and stare at the television screen all afternoon and evening until lights-out, which eerily calls to mind the parlour wall scenes from “Fahrenheit 451” by Ray Bradbury. Just numbing themselves daily with mindless entertainment, I guess, to distract from the dreary state of their circumstances in life. The ones who aren’t absorbing the steady stream of angry, testosterone-fuelled action flicks are either sleeping their time away in the bedroom areas or getting stoned in the decrepit gazebo outside. The layers of snoring at night are unbearable at times. There’s no courtesy given to you if you want to nap in the afternoon. No one adjusts the volume of their voice to fit the given hour. It’s not uncommon for a fight to break out at 2AM, and all the security spills onto the scene to break it up. Someone gets kicked out, only to call the emergency shelter line and return the very next day. Lather, rinse, repeat.
All the while, I‘m usually found in a corner somewhere, reading The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, like a wallflower, quietly absorbing the chaos as it unfolds around me. Very rarely does any other resident address me for any reason here, mainly because I can’t offer them cigarettes or a lighter or drugs. I stick out like a sore thumb. I have to make sure my belongings are secured at all times in the presence of these parasites.
There’s so much more I could say about this entire experience, but this is just a glimpse into the unsettling onslaught that floods my senses from day to day. I can’t get away from the maddening, mindless, maelstrom of human activity at any point during the day. One thing is for certain: I can see very clearly why the individuals around me find themselves unhoused. It’s like a cesspool of dysfunction. Quite confidently I can say that it’s the most depressing environment I’ve ever been in.
