As I said last week, having never been homeless, I’ve been luckier than many with mental illness. For, indeed, some estimate that as many as 50% of the homeless in America suffer from some form of serious psychiatric illness.
When I wrote this just 8 days ago, I had not yet come across journaling I did in 1996 about my own fear of homelessness. In fact, I had forgotten about this completely until I discovered the following yesterday morning:
I continued this discussion the following day, listing items I thought I could sell to prevent homelessness, as well as plans I hoped to have in place in the event that I did lose my housing. (Note: “Lizzy” was my Maltese at the time.)
At the time I wrote this, I was in the middle of my first review of benefits from Social Security Disability—something I now know happens regularly. However, I’m appalled that I thought the threat of homelessness serious enough to warrant writing about it, let alone planning how I would manage were it to become a reality.
And, to be honest, I’m horrified that I somehow considered this analysis, though dark, also evidence of hope. If I believed that gray was ” the color of hope,” and if I considered this writing hopeful, I hate to imagine what I might have written in a state of true despair.
Or was I just that out of touch with reality?