By Stephanie March
Nobody grows up dreaming of being homeless. I know I certainly didn’t. I grew up in a safe neighborhood surrounded by large homes and tree lined streets. I was allowed to play unsupervised, for the most part, outside. Long bike rides alone or with friends were never out of the question. At no point did I stop and consider the homeless or that I might one day be among them instead of in a landscaped backyard somewhere chasing fireflies.
When I grew up and moved away from home to attend college I focused on chasing boys instead of fireflies. And, similar to homelessness, at no point did I dream of becoming a victim of domestic violence. Domestic violence is a bigger problem than we realize with over 7 million women below the age of 18 falling victim each and every year. I was a smart kid but there I was, contributing to those frightening statistics.
I stayed in that relationship for a very long time- twelve years too long. After leaving I found myself involved with someone else that was also abusive. This repetitive pattern of repeat victimization is common in women with a history of abuse.
The difference was that this time I was not willing to stick it out for twelve years or even two years. I knew that he would never change and it would only escalate. My life was in danger and so I left with the assistance of police and social workers.
When I left I lost everything I owned. I had roughly thirty minutes to pack what I could and get out. I was lucky to be granted thirty minutes when many women have none. I was able to grab mementos and photos, some clothes, and essential items. I was able to get my kitten and prized “possession”, Bella, safely out of the home. You can read more about Bella’s story of survival here.
After a brief period of hiding in a hotel over the Christmas holiday, I was brought to a safe house or shelter for women and children. I sat in my room on a bunk bed listening to the sounds of children playing in another room and rolled the word homeless around in my mind. Homeless.
I tried to convince myself that being in a shelter with cameras, locks, showers and beds, and a kitchen to cook in meant something different. That I was… only partly homeless. It was only after leaving and finding a place of my own that I can now look back and admit exactly what it was, what I was, without shame or embarrassment.
The nationwide problem of homelessness in America is more than a problem- it’s an epidemic. More than three and a half million people face homelessness each year in our nation according to recent statistics. Many of them suffer from mental health issues that are beyond their control. Many suffer from life issues that are also beyond their control as I did.
It doesn’t take much to push someone living an average life into a life spent on the streets or in shelters. One missed paycheck, one messy divorce, one hurricane/tornado/flood/fire, one mental health issue overlooked for too long, one trauma from which you can’t simply bounce back.
The stigma that surrounds the homeless is similar to the one surrounding mental health. I believe it exists out of fear of the unknown and fear that we are all more alike than we are different. How any life can be turned upside down in the blink of an eye and how many of us don’t have a fail proof safety net.
I went from catching fireflies in my backyard to sharing a kitchen with other women and children in a safe house. Even after taking all the “right” steps like graduating high-school and attending college I still ended up temporarily homeless.
The lessons this experience taught me are invaluable. The humility I experienced and the capacity for gratitude even in the most desperate of situations are things I carry with me in my new settled and violence free life.
Life can happen to anyone. In between there is gratitude to be found. When you locate yours, find someone that’s lost and help them find theirs. That’s what new beginnings are made of.
Stephanie March is a writer, survivor, and advocate. You can find her on Twitter or read more at her blog.
