Living in my car was a test of my survival skills. Three months—ninety days—felt like a lifetime. Every night was the same question: where do I park? Walmart was always the safest bet. They allowed overnight parking, and the same cars showed up each night, each of us choosing our own little patch of asphalt. Unwritten rule: never park right next to someone else. We kept our distance, a strange kind of courtesy.
After work I’d grab food, find my spot, and hope for one near the woods. Those were prime—close enough to slip into the trees to pee without being seen. If you arrived late, you either walked farther or got creative in plain sight.
Once parked, the ritual began: recline the seat, organize my belongings, settle in. Some people had window shields. I didn’t. My car was all windows and a sunroof—great for daylight, terrible for privacy. And it was summer. Hot. No AC, no gas to waste running the engine. Windows open or roast alive.
The first nights were trial and error. I didn’t know the sunroof had a bug screen, so I was eaten alive by mosquitoes at first until I figured it out. After that, I was… not comfortable, but less miserable.
My routine became predictable: park, use the store bathroom, wash up, return to the car. Dinner in the passenger seat, phone plugged in, blanket and pillow ready. Then the long hours. I’d scroll social media just to pass time. Music made me anxious for reasons I still don’t understand, so silence was my companion.
At nine, the store closed. The parking lot went quiet except for the cars arriving to settle in for the night. An eerie stillness always fell over our corner.
And then came the night it rained.
Without radio or news, I had no idea a storm was coming. I was wrapped in my blanket when something woke me. I was freezing—strange for August. The blanket felt heavy. When I sat up, cold rain hit my face. My windows and sunroof were stuck open. A bad jump-start days earlier had blown the computer that controlled them. Now the sky was dumping water straight into my car.
Everything I owned was soaked. My clothes, my blanket, the seats—everything. There was nothing to do but pull the wet blanket over my head and wait for morning.
When the rain finally stopped, I drove to a laundromat, fed quarters into a dryer, and stood there dripping while my life tumbled in circles. Thirty minutes later, I had warm clothes again. I wiped down the seats, changed, and spent the rest of the day trying to thaw out. I bought garbage bags—finally using my head—so next time I’d have something to keep the rain off me.
Nothing like a surprise midnight shower to remind you that rock bottom has a basement.
Just another night in paradise,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 