It started for me when I was 15 years old. My abusive mother threw me out onto the streets, isolating me from any other family members. We as people are social creatures. Part of what makes us who we are is teamwork and family. When you have no family, you are left with no options.

Most of the homeless people I have met were disowned by their families well into their adult years. The rest are like me, including kids who are dropped off at homeless shelters on their 18th birthday by state child welfare agencies, washing their hands of them.

We are thrown into a world where we are always vulnerable and socially abhorrent.

Even trying to have an adult romantic relationship is an anathema. Most people don’t understand what it’s like not having family and shy away from us as we seem unusual in this aspect, even though we had no choice as children. So, even more alone, we dwell wherever we can and seek out the company of those who will have us.

For a majority of us, we fall subject to addictions and other negative behaviors. Coping with this situation is beyond even the most resilient of us, myself included. Alas, I never fell victim to my own desire to escape through substances and crime. Yet, as I sit here and write this, the realization of my despair overwhelms me.

Recently, within the past two years, I stopped living in my car. Now, after that two years of car dwelling, I cannot bring myself to even look at my car, much less drive it. I have been trying to sell it for months to stop feeling such stress. That was a very stressful existence, even more so than sleeping on the streets.

Why? The reasons are varied, but the stress of merely living in a place not meant for human habitation is quite traumatic, regardless of the endless YouTube videos about car/van life. These people never talk about the real reason why they chose to do so and, by the looks of it, have funding sources which I definitely don’t.

When I see these videos pop up in my YouTube feed, I delete them. I don’t want to watch someone glorify homelessness in an abject and unreasonable way. It’s disturbing. There’s no glory in being homeless. No liberty. No freedom.

To date, I’ve never seen a video or read a website that gives the homeless a true guide in which to navigate the sea of homelessness.

I close with:

“The moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped.”

– Hubert Humphrey

“The greatness of a nation can be judged by how it treats its weakest member.”

– Gandhi

“The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.”

– Fyodor Dostoevsky

“There's a dilemma over how to balance concrete economic interests with critical opinions on the state of human rights. It's the human rights that suffer, and that's a great price to pay.”

– Vaclav Havel

Editor’s Note:

Inspired by his own words in this piece—that he’s never found trustworthy website or video series for navigating homelessness—Mark Gansert has since written a 4,000 word guidebook for those facing homelessness.

Stay tuned for the more about An Improbably Comprehensive Guide for the Mostly Harmless Homeless by Mark Gansert, to be published soon by Speak Up.

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Homelessness is shock from trauma. Like being in a car, riding along, laughing, singing—and a sudden blinding light that over takes your field of vision.

Homelessness is a sudden head on collision. 

Unexpected.

Homelessness is the sands of your life and heart: shattering.

Homelessness is the mess everywhere and the bleeding.

It is a numbness, a stupor of thoughts that I can’t quite make sense of.

Homelessness is: Grief. 

Homelessness is trying to wait on God for safe people.

Homelessness is looking for safe places to process it all: to speak, release, and find healing. And trying to do so there are still many microscopic pieces everywhere.

Homelessness is learning to be comfortable in discomfort.

Homelessness is having humility continually—receiving and giving, but only parts of you or what you can, or are able to.

Homelessness is an ocean of vision — seeing life, people, and places anew. 

It is finding God’s treasures that are only visible in the the darkness. 

It’s finding your voice and helping others understand what you, yourself are still learning.

Homelessness is now beginning to settle and be actually grateful, not for Perhaps, but in Everything—Because Jesus has used homeless to transform me, make me strong out of weakness, and to give me a heart to wash the feet of those hurting—bringing comfort to others even as He washes mine and comforts me.

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I had a great childhood. My mom and dad were there for me my entire childhood and all the way up until my early thirties when my father passed away.

My life started well.

My wife, two kids, and I moved to Myrtle Beach because we’d always wanted to live near the water since we were kids ourselves. Well, unfortunately, my wife and I got addicted to methamphetamines. We were maintaining at first, but then it got out of control and slowly began to change my life. My wife would stay up for days, and after being up for forty-eight hours straight, she would have some crazy idea of something I've done that if she had been sober she would have known it would be impossible for me to have done.

Before the drugs, we both had full-time jobs. But because of our addiction, my wife lost her job. Then I lost my job. We lost our single-wide mobile home that was one block from the ocean. Then the family had to split up. I sent my three-year-old little boy to stay with my mom in York, South Carolina, left my seventeen-year-old stepdaughter at the beach with my father-in-law because she wanted to finish high school there, and sent my wife to a rehab in Florence, South Carolina. I went back to my hometown of Rock Hill, South Carolina, with twenty dollars in my pocket and a plan of working and then getting us a car so we could get out of the weather until we could get a place. I was gonna work and save until my wife got out so I could make sure she had somewhere to go while I went to rehab.

Well, she had to leave rehab early because of complications with her insurance. I hadn't had long enough to get a car, so her mom went and picked her up. After talking to her mom, who doesn’t like me at all, my wife called me and said I needed to get clean myself and hung up on me and wouldn’t return my calls.

I got a job working for a local company. One day I was helping someone move, and that was where I crushed both of my heels and had to have reconstructive tendon and ligament surgery because of a nasty fall. We had already cleaned out the house and garage. The last thing was his man cave, and it was the size of a small two-story house. He had a loft that was nineteen feet above the ground and the last thing up there was an old couch. Heavy. I decided I would go down backward because I am taller than him. It was a huge mistake. He missed the first step and all of his weight, along with the couch, pushed me violently through the hand-railing and I landed perfectly on my feet. The pain was excruciating. I knew then that I was royally messed up. I couldn't stand or even let my feet touch the ground.

After surgeries and me teaching myself how to walk again, I had no place to go but the streets. My wife, still with her mom who doesn’t like me, took my son, changed addresses, blocked me from all social media, and then changed her phone number.

So there I was in a wheelchair. Could only get in touch with my mom who is on disability and my half-brother who was about to get married and just moved into a new house. I had no clue what to do.

Obviously, I wanted to be working. I’ve always worked. But while I’m trying to get a job, what do I do? I have to eat and drink. Because of my injury, I can’t do the physical jobs that I used to do. I did application after application for “sit-down jobs” like call centers, receptionist, etc. Supposedly businesses don't discriminate, but I still haven't gotten so much as a call back. I was left with no choice but to figure out something without breaking the law.

I cannot just walk up to someone and ask for money, so I did the next best thing. I went to a dumpster, found a cardboard box, tore off a piece about a foot wide and probably eight inches tall. I decided that the piece of cardboard would be my way to eat, drink, and basically do anything that requires money. I went to Dollar Tree and got a black Sharpie marker. I have a pretty good sense of humor, but sometimes I did not really feel like being in a funny and talkative mood, so I made two signs out of that one piece of cardboard. One side was for my “just surviving days,” and the other side was for my more humorous days. One side said, “Homeless & Hungry; Anything Helps...” The other side said, “Spread Some Cheese on This Cracker.”

That’s how I became a panhandler.

I have good paying days and not so good paying days, but on my good days, after I get everything I need, I don't just go out and spend it on anything. I actually have a Chime account, and you can load the card for free at any Walgreens.

Despite what people may think, there are a lot of really good people that are homeless. There are some people out that call me and let me stay with them whenever they get enough money for a motel room. They know I'm supposed to be elevating my feet most of the day. They know I don't sit out here and feel sorry for myself. I do not ask any other homeless people out here for anything. Not a pride thing. I just know everyone is struggling in some way. We have to work together and help one another where we can.

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For this installment, Mark Hansen reads “Junkyard Angels” by Dustin LaPres.

The original essay is available free to all readers:

Click the audio player to listen in your browser or listen and subscribe via Apple, Spotify, or in your favorite podcast app.

Stay tuned for new unscripted conversations, interviews, and more original work from homeless writers—read by volunteer readers or the authors themselves.

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Homelessness is walking endlessly up and down many streets that only lead to other streets which lead to nowhere.

Homelessness is wondering where you're going to sleep at night.

Homelessness is going to sleep hungry and waking up hungry with no way to fix the issue.

My worst times on the streets have been those times I had to be alone without the woman I love, because of my addiction. There were times when it was below freezing and my girlfriend couldn't be out here in that kind of weather wand also because of my drug use back then I wasn't able to stay with her and her family. So many days and nights I spent alone without her. What hurt more than the cold wind hitting my face and the hard streets below my feet was being without my heart knowing as a man I wasn't able to provide for myself let alone myself and her. That was by far the worse situation and the most painful. I would rather go through anything I've experienced rather than go through that again. 

Homelessness is not being able to provide the life you wish that you could for the ones you love.

There have been many many times when people have been nice to me out here on the streets. There are some who mistreat homeless people, but for the most part everyone has been generous with money, food, water, clothes, and even kind words of inspiration. 

Homelessness is meeting interesting people and seeing how beautiful and kind some people can be.

In the beginning for a while there wasn't anyone helping me but now there is. My grandmother is helping quite a bit. With my girlfriend and I both working now we are looking into getting a real home very soon. My grandmother has been extremely helpful and is currently looking into potential homes that we can afford. 

Homelessness is freezing in the winter and baking in the summer. 

A major injustice on the streets is discrimination against the homeless. I've been turned down many times for jobs because of being homeless. Some of those times I understand. Like when I hadn’t had an opportunity to shower or have on clean clothes. But also your face gets recognized over time and no matter how clean or well dressed, you can’t even get an interview.

Homelessness is something I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy.

Some people do think differently of me because I'm homeless. Even though I’m sober now many people assume because you're homeless that you are a drug addict or alcoholic. I was once addicted to opiates but now I am not. And it does feel disappointing to automatically be classified as an addicted person when I know truthfully I am not. 

Homelessness has taught me so many life lessons I couldn't have learned any other way.

I've been desperate for money before but I have never held a sign alongside the road asking for money. In many places it is illegal. And also I don't have the nerve to do it. If I’m going to ask for help with money I would much rather ask someone individually. That way I may be able to tell my story and then say thank you personally if I were helped.

Homelessness is a wound deep inside that you can't seem to patch.

Homelessness is not giving up hope even when all hope feels lost.

Homelessness is hopefully over for me very soon.

—Michael

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My name is Dustin Hinson. I am 31 years old and have been homeless on and off for the past five years.

I say “on and off” because there were times when I would either stay with a friend for a month or two here and there, or maybe a family member, until they got tired of my way of living.

My addiction is the main reason for my homelessness, and it began before I even knew it, with the prescription pain medicine epidemic. I played football all my life, and even played Semi-Pro. I was actually really good until a severe knee injury ended my career. I went to the doctor many times over a period of three to four months. Finally, I was given prescription opioids for the pain caused by my injury. I was on the prescription for years, becoming dependent without even knowing. One day, I went to the doctor, and he told me that I had to take a drug test if I wanted to keep my prescription. At the time, the only drugs I did were marijuana and alcohol. I only drank on weekends or special events but I always smoked marijuana from the time I woke up until I went to sleep. So, when I failed my drug test for marijuana, my prescription painkillers were taken from me. I quickly realized how dependent my body had become on the opioids. This is when I began to seek street drugs.

At first, it started off by buying other people's prescriptions, but soon that wouldn't be enough. Eventually, it led to buying fake pills pressed with fentanyl. Once my tolerance was built up, I stopped taking the pills because they stopped working. That is when I started buying heroin. Heroin to me was a lot better than the pills because it lasted for hours and made me feel better than anything in this world ever has. It brought me peace and made me feel as if all my problems were gone, at least until the high wore off and I was back searching for my next dose.

Eventually, heroin got expensive, and I could not afford my habit, so I began to sell heroin after I met someone who had a lot of it for cheap. It wouldn't be long before I would catch my first drug charge that put me in the county jail for four months. Once I got out, I moved in with my mom again, but that only lasted a few weeks. I stayed clean for about three days until finally my addiction got the best of me and sent me out on a mission to find heroin. When my mother found out, she immediately kicked me out and I was on the streets.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do: bought more heroin to sell. Eventually I would again be locked up and charged with my second possession with intent to distribute heroin charge. This time, I was released on a suspended sentence with three years of probation. I was homeless but didn't tell them that, so they would give me probation. It wouldn't be long till they would figure this out, and I was on the run with warrants for my arrest. I ran as long as I could until they found me, arrested me, and sentenced me to three years in the South Carolina Department of Corrections.

I stayed for a year and a half and was released on parole. My grandmother let me stay with her for about five months until she found out I had relapsed and started using again. This time, it was fentanyl, not heroin. My mother told me I needed to move out because she did not want fentanyl in her mother’s house. So, I became homeless again and have been ever since.

Some nights are harder than others, especially when it's cold, or when it's raining, or when it's cold and raining. You never know where you're going to lay your head at night. You never know if it may be your last day on this earth. It has been so cold some nights that I thought I would not make it until morning. Even in a tent and a sleeping bag, my body aches from the cold. Every now and then, I am able save up money to buy a hotel room to get my beautiful girlfriend and me out of the cold for just one night.

Lately, I have been working with someone I found on Craigslist. He pays me very well to help him install walk-in tubs and showers. Although I am still struggling with my addiction, I find myself every day thinking of how badly I want to quit using. I have begun to wean myself down as well as save money for emergency funds.

My girlfriend was arrested on Christmas Day and sent to prison and is to be released next month. I want nothing more than to build a life with her, have a place to live, and a car to drive. She is my rock and she keeps me grounded. I have begun saving money for when she is released so we can possibly buy a car and get jobs.

People don't realize when you're homeless, it's hard to get a job. You never know where you're going to lay your head at night or when you're going to take a shower. And no business wants someone coming to work who hasn't showered in a week or so.

Also, I was shot recently while walking to the store and was unable to work for a few months. But now I am working again and doing a lot better.

I used to look down on homeless people until I became one and started learning other people’s stories. You shouldn’t judge someone for their situation because you have no idea what they've been through. Some have problems with addiction like me. Some have left their homes because of domestic violence or sexual abuse. And some just choose to be homeless.

This is my story.

My name is Michael, I'm 36 years old. I live in South Carolina.

I became homeless a couple of years ago through poor choices and taking my many blessings for granted.

I fell in love with a girl I'm still with today, four years ago. She's perfect in every way to me, and I cherish her as she is the most beautiful woman in my eyes. I hope to live my life with her until the end. Shortly after we met, we both got jobs in a great work environment that paid well. Blue-collar work but it paid well. We both made close to a thousand dollars a week and soon moved into our first home. We were both happy and hard-working people, living life in peace and enjoying our relationship.

I began having back pain with the hard labor my job, so I started taking Suboxone and sometimes opioids to maintain my work ability. This went on for some time.

One day I went to work without taking anything and realized I wasn't feeling like myself. I felt hot and yet had the chills. I felt nauseous. I thought I had the flu. I soon understood that I was addicted to opiates, physically. So I began taking opiates to function without pain every day, whether I worked or not.

I spiraled into the addiction. Then I lost my job.

My girlfriend never touched a drug before and still hasn't to this day. She lost her job as well due to call-out points adding up.

We soon moved in with family. They gave us a timeframe to get things together or we would have to leave, regardless. I was only focused on getting my drug. My addiction dragged my girlfriend down with me in many ways. To this day, I know she truly loves me because I've literally watched her stand by my side and go through every bit of horror my addiction caused through the years, without even coming close to turning her back and leaving me alone in my self-made hell.

We eventually left the family home and began living in a car. We drove many places, saw many faces, and encountered a lot of challenges. Drug runs. Odd jobs. Ups and downs. We lived in every motel in two cities back and forth. Lived many different lives. None of which were promising due to my instability from addiction. We froze in that car in winter and sweated our body weight in summer. We always fell asleep cuddled together. Many nights, I would look at her as she fell asleep first or if I woke up in the middle of the night from withdrawals. I would stare at her beautiful face and not understand why I was putting this drug before the love of my own life.

One day before donating plasma, I took more of my drug than I intended and I died. I flatlined in front of her in the car in a parking lot. I woke up to the sight of EMS and cops surrounding me. They seemed to be angels in a weird way. Blood was pouring from my nose. I heard my real angel screaming and crying behind the car I was still in. I had overdosed in front of her. But she acted fast and called 911 and I was saved with Narcan. The EMS team had told her I was "hanging out with Jesus" and to be calm. It’s true, I actually died.

What did I do after that? I went to the hospital for more Narcan. That way I could stay addicted and have an escape plan every time I overdosed. When my girlfriend arrived at the hospital to pick me up, I immediately went looking for my drug. I couldn't understand why even death was not enough to sober me up. How could I keep throwing life away with a girl I met not two years ago and was so sure of, and dying itself in front of her couldn't keep me from this drug?

I held several odd jobs around town and lost them all. She has a job to this day and still hasn't ever touched a drug. I've been beaten up on the streets, robbed and stabbed. I've seen about everything. But what hurt the most was seeing the girl I love refuse to leave and endure this with me, knowing she deserved so much more and seeing in my mind the life I could have and was throwing away.

I got sober a couple of months ago. But it wasn't easy, and it wasn't done through a rehabilitation facility with medication. I sat, laid, and slept most of every one of the 10 days in a row it took to endure the withdrawal symptoms. I ate food from a community fridge at a church nearby and relied on good-hearted people to help as well, time to time. Every time I felt weak, my love for her kept me going. She wiped every tear and bead of sweat, and I let every painful moment be a reminder never to get on opioids ever again.

I'm technically still homeless, although now I'm currently in a motel room. She has a job, and I am going to a scheduled job interview Monday morning that pays 18 dollars an hour. It's a start. I've been sober a good while now but I have also had to take things slow because I've had to remove a lot of familiar faces and things from my life. People, places, and things that would be a direct line back to addiction.

Re-entering the sober world hasn't been easy. Hopefully, soon we will be able to move back into a real home. I guess this is primarily a story about addiction, but it led to homelessness which I endured for years.

What life advice have I gained through it all? Stay away from hard drugs, period.

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Previous Installments:

A Life of Homelessness — Part 1

Michael Francis: A Good Soul

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"You'll save more money, you'll save more money at Menards."

This was played over the PA system at the hardware store where I worked in the hardware department, an incredibly annoying sound that was a mental detriment to everyone—from the general manager to me.

Even though I had a college degree in Philosophy, I couldn't become a manager; they only hired business majors. It was a dead-end job, without a doubt.

My newly-pregnant wife and I found refuge in the most absolutely disgusting SRO occupancy in all of the Chicagoland area. The place was called the Northside Union Hotel. Well past its days of being a hotel, it was now owned by a heroin addict and his father, who was a bizarre sort of extremist religious person.

Most of the people in the hotel were of the good sort. Quite a few disabled individuals living on Social Security checks, others were working poor like myself.

The management of the hotel, Irene and Milton from Rhode Island, was hilarious and most welcoming. Both of them were in their late 70s and had that thick Northeastern accent. After two beers, they were nearly unintelligible unless you also consumed two beers while listening to them.

For six months, we lived in that one cockroach-infested nightmare of a hotel, along with our neighbors. The porch/fire escape outside Milton and Irene's room had collapsed; it had been a sort of community hangout. Directly over the fence on the property next door was a large pool hall/nightclub. We would watch the fights and drunks spill out of the place for entertainment.

Irene paid for me to repair the porch; I got the materials at a discount from the hardware store. Milton and I actually overbuilt it, as it was too important for everyone's safety.

That, and we made it just a tad larger to accommodate more lawn chairs.

One night a fire broke out on the third floor. It spread very fast. Everyone made it out safely, but after two firehouses of trucks and all the firemen, the building was a loss. The only thing left standing was the porch that Milton and I built.

My wife and I, now homeless and with no resources, found ourselves dealing with Section 8 as she was 7 months pregnant. A local church had a house they had rehabilitated, and they let us stay there. We slept on the floor. My wife was miserable. Near Halloween, she went into labor. For 72 hours, she suffered through abnormal labor before the OB finally decided to induce. I became the father of a baby girl.

Shortly after she'd given birth, we accepted a place in the housing projects. That's right—a white family living in the housing projects in Gary, Indiana.

I had enrolled in the local community college, seeking an AAS in Automotive Service Technology, which let me work on my battered and super rusty Toyota Celica hatchback.

One semester into classes, and the college decides to move the AST campus to an entirely new building—someone failing to tell the professor, a man who had taught auto mechanics for over 20 years at the same location.

To make matters even worse for Gene, all of his shop tools were loaded into a tractor-trailer and dropped off at the new campus.

Then the local high school district decided that a community college would be a great place to teach high schoolers shop class—something the 70-year-old, very well-to-do Gene had no intention of doing.

The first day of the new semester, we walked into a great modern shop. That is completely disassembled. Lifts, air compressors, all the lines and electrical not done. Racks of Iron Duke engines sat in testing cages and on engine stands, in utter disarray.

And no Gene to be found. Dr. Jeffs, the Dean of Instruction, showed up in the classroom with five guys who'd just been screwed by the community college. "We paid for this?" was the first thing out of my mouth the minute Dr. Jeffs identified himself.

He was stuck. Three of the other students left with his blessing to unenroll and get their funding/student loans back. That left me with Mike, a Vietnam veteran who'd made a career out of the Army after being drafted as a teenager. For 24 years, he had worked as a motorpool sergeant.

When Dr. Jeffs learned about my degree in Philosophy, he asked me if I wanted a job teaching the high school shop class. I couldn't pass that up and agreed. I was getting paid as much as I had been as a longshoreman. I asked him if he could hire Mike to help me put the shop together. He didn't understand until we showed him the shop—a pile of parts for 6 frame lifts stood 10 feet high. He was over a barrel. He hired my new friend Mike, too.

I then learned exactly what the high school intended to do. So it went like this: the troublemakers would go to school, like real high school subjects—the "4 R's," allegedly.

Then they were bussed to the community college, and for 4 hours the other half of the day, it was shop class.

Oh, what had I gotten myself into?

No wonder Gene bailed.

When I told Mike over a chess game and a left-handed cigarette in his attic with a model train setup, I remember he scrunched his eyes in pain. This man had stepped on a mine which took off his junk and left pieces of shrapnel still being found 20 years later. He knows pain.

We had taken classes together at the community college last semester. He told a story in the public speaking class. He didn't need to talk, nor did he say any of his story. It was about a friend he lost in Vietnam. It was brutal. Not the death of the man who was his friend, but brutal because it was the first time Mike had ever experienced death.

"Mark, you know damn well I can't take the job with my disability," he said while passing me a cigarette. "I've got to do this, Mike," I told him through coughs. "You know where I live. Even your old, ornery, well-armed self can't survive in my neighborhood."

He agreed I didn't have a choice.

On the weekends, I would sit outside our apartment in the projects and fix the "ghetto" bikes the children rode. Broken chains, handlebars without plugs, flat tires. There weren't too many bikes to begin with. So it didn't take very long, and soon everyone knew me as the mechanic—a guy who'd fix your car for cheap.

Teaching teenagers who weren't exactly interested in school to begin with, on top of a healthy smattering of Behavioral Disabled, was not worth what I was getting paid, and my wife was pregnant again. With no idea what I was doing, zero budget for textbooks or materials—which is significant in an automotive repair garage— I stood in front of the kids and wrote on the chalkboard in big bold letters:

Hotwiring Cars

Underneath this, I wrote, in very small print:

call it Ignition systems. Don't tell the principal.

— with a smiley face.

As the morning students rolled in at 8:20 and took their seats, I sat in my office with Gene's books from his old office. I found a gem of a book on Model T repair from some long-gone publisher.

The kids couldn't see into my office with the way I had the desks set up. I could hear them talking about hotwiring cars. "Did you read the board? All of it?" I called out. My most attentive student got up and read the small print. "What does it say?" The teenagers laughed as the student repeated it word for word.

I stepped out of my office with a smile on my face and introduced myself.

I was now the shop teacher.

To be continued.

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