I was surviving on pride and spite, and Kerry — my therapist — was the only person who knew how close I was to losing myself. What I needed most was a place to live. The temperature kept dropping, and my car was starting to feel less like an option and more like a slow-motion disaster I was pretending wasn’t happening.
With Kerry’s help, I found an apartment. At that point, she was the only person left in my life. Everyone else had been wiped out in my “block and burn” tantrum season. I didn’t trust anyone anymore. I was convinced the evil beings who had shaped my life would somehow find out anything I said or did. And Alex absolutely couldn’t know the truth — that she’d helped ruin me. That she’d wished things on me I was too ashamed to admit I let happen. I couldn’t handle her knowing. Hell, I couldn’t handle me knowing. I was sure she’d laugh if she found out I was one step away from being a full-time vagrant. My pride wouldn’t allow that. Pride was the only thing I had left that didn’t fit in the backseat of my car.
But even then, buried under all the paranoia and spite, there was still this pathetic little sliver of hope. I hated it, but it refused to die.
I followed up on the apartment listing, and somehow the building manager could show it to me that afternoon. While driving there, I had a full-blown panic attack. I had no money — like, no money. I didn’t have a clue how I was going to pay for anything, but as usual, I told myself I’d “figure it out,” which was basically my life motto at that point. I kept checking the rearview mirror, praying I wasn’t being followed. When I got there, I parked around the corner, embarrassed by the mountain of crap stuffed in my car. You didn’t need a detective to figure out I was living in it.
I barely noticed anything around me as I found the door. A creepy old man named Lester let me in. The hallway was dark and filthy, narrow with a staircase that looked like it had seen better days. The ad said third floor, but Lester opened a door downstairs and led me into the apartment. I looked around quickly, not daring to believe something good might actually happen to me. He rambled about the place — said it hadn’t even been advertised yet and seemed surprised I knew about it. Warning bells went off, but honestly? I didn’t care. It was four walls and a roof. That was heaven to me.
He said it was available immediately, recently fixed up after the last tenant destroyed it. Desperate, I said I’d take it. Lester told me he’d put in a good word with the landlord because I was “pretty and seemed nice.” If only he knew I was a degenerate homeless basket case, barely holding it together.
For a moment, I let myself believe things were turning around. But even then, there was this tightness in my chest — like trusting anything good was a trap. Nothing in my life ever fell into place without a catch.
I scraped together the money. When he told me the total, I panicked — it was more than I expected. I promised I’d have it by the first. My “I’ll figure it out” delusion kicked in again, and somehow I found most of it. Still short, I called the landlord and said I’d need another week. I thought it was slipping away. I thought, of course, it was too good to be true.
When his next text didn’t come until the next day, I gave up. I was destined to live in my damn car forever. It was getting colder. I couldn’t do it anymore. I decided to stop believing in anything. Life was built on trust, and I no longer believed trust existed.
Then the message came. I got the keys.
I walked into the apartment in disbelief. I still didn’t trust it was real. I brought in my few belongings — an air mattress and a bag of clothes. They barely filled a corner of the living room. Depressing, sure, but still better than my car. And it was mine. I didn’t trust it, but I needed it.
Once the shock wore off, I noticed the filth. It was disgusting — the kind of dirty that makes your skin crawl. No way was I putting anything in the kitchen or bathroom until I scrubbed it until it was sterile. I wandered the rooms, imagining how I might decorate them. I was afraid to feel happy. Happiness had been evicted from my mind months ago.
I had to move my car — apparently the driveway was a no-parking zone. I left my phone behind and immediately got lost in the maze of one-way streets. Another FML moment. I drove around forever, getting more anxious with every turn. Without GPS, I was hopeless. I finally stopped at a run-down store and asked for directions. The clerk laughed and pointed across the street. My building was right there.
I went “home.” Was it home? Should I believe it? Or assume it was another illusion waiting to collapse?
I scrubbed until my body ached; my hands covered in chemical burns from the amount of bleach I had to use to erase the last tenants existence. Exhausted, I felt a tiny flicker of pride. Now it felt real. Mine.
And then everything sped up. Once I had the apartment, I felt this frantic urgency — like if I didn’t keep moving, the whole thing would vanish. I made plans too fast, faster than I could think. I was terrified that if I paused, even for a second, karma would notice I’d gotten something good and snatch it away. Momentum became my only safety. Stillness felt like a risk I couldn’t afford.
That’s all I’ve got for now. I’ll let you know if reality changes its mind,
K.
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I'm Still Here. Somehow... 