Being approached to write this piece made me feel useful. I’m thankful to finally be compensated for work. I'm a writer and musician, and for some reason, regardless of the continent, compensation is always up in the air. Even paid gigs are sketchy with dubious numbers, but a new band always needs somewhere to play, and wants to be heard.

Of course it's very difficult to make it to Step 1 when money is required for certain access, special memberships, advertising—and still nothing is guaranteed. So I want to take this opportunity to say what's on my mind at this very second, and to try and give a picture as clear as I can, because things do get fuzzy. Never getting enough sleep. Having to worry about violence. Life is hard as it is without financial problems. I bought my first house at 22, but when the housing market crashed, I crashed too. And then, if you don’t have any cushion, you are forced to pay 300% in interest because you have bad credit. Psychological setbacks on top of all that. The urge to give up is always present—except when an opportunity like this arises. I've thought about this for hours—how much to reveal. What to reveal.

I don't think it's easy to find happy homeless people. I can't believe that we have over a million homeless, in the richest country in history.

As a child in school, we would hear about how important it was to be good on the inside, while simultaneously hearing that every quiz we took could determine our future. The future was about getting into college, competing with other classmates for jobs. Now, a profile avatar seems to be more important.

I believe everyone should have access to a place to be safe. Poor people aren't expecting mansions; a small room with the essentials in a bigger building works. I experienced it in Australia. They had coordination with the food trucks, as well as weekly visits to drop off hygiene products. I made a few friends, and despite being the only American, there was kinship that I miss right now.

Despite evidence of rising homelessness, I believe there will always be a stigma. I saw it firsthand numerous times. The term “starving artist” is common, but accepted. Which is upsetting. During The Great Depression, the government got into the theater business with the Federal Theater (WPA). The government knew we couldn't afford to lose the arts, and it brought us many talented artists such as Orson Welles and Lillian Hellman. It allowed people to maintain their dignity as well.

You can display your talent and ability, but somehow being homeless at one time or another suddenly changes everything. There’s a subtle myth that someone can't be that talented if they lack money. It's the only discrimination in conversation that seems to not only be tolerated, but encouraged in this dog-eat-dog society. Conversely, if you drive a nice car, wear expensive clothing, they will assume, "He must be great because of this" as opposed to judging what was asked.

Just a few days ago I asked my brother to check out my Substack. He doesn't even reply—it's very odd. I almost want to put my hands in front of his face and yell, “Hello!?” The one thing I can be sure is that I can type anything I want, knowing this is the last place he'd visit. I'll send him an article I just finished, hoping a few views catch on to bring on more. Even his subscription might boost it up in the recommendation department, but he couldn't do that. But then he'll send me video after video (while constantly lamenting he has no time) of ridiculous random things or facts I had told him directly days ago with articles I wrote myself, so he can't expect me to get excited for telling me that Santa Claus does not exist. And I would be happy to give him this information, free of charge, but he would rather pay for biased information.

Although he only lives 40 miles away, it was the first time he had been over in almost three years. My sister (or her two daughters) has never been over here, despite the many times I visited her. Despite not having a car and despite having panic in cars, something I had much earlier in life with a father who drove like a maniac. My mother tries to be a diplomat, but it never helps. She said it was because of possible pot smoke, as if I couldn't be given a heads-up. If then I were to refuse, then I could live with that. Two weeks ago, while talking to my mother, she indicated they were all at my brother's house. Suddenly, the aroma of marihuana didn't matter. It's pure snobbery. And my siblings come to this area visiting other relatives.

In the “artistic” field, especially with the internet, everything is about image. It's always a bit easier to avoid lying while having the ability to portray an image more successful than reality by the gift of omission. But year after year with hardly any success or attention, I stopped hiding it. But then my own words become weaponized and used against me the first instance there's an agreement with someone else who is aware of the truth.

I'm almost certain I didn't get the job in Australia because of my homeless issue. The owner of the company actually was impressed with my resume and interview. He asked me to stay after and offered me a job, starting with training. On the first day of training, he called to notify me he had given us (there was another woman training with me) the wrong tablet. I was staying at a homeless shelter that was very helpful, clean, and was available to all residents of Australia, as well as myself, for six weeks. When he came to pick it up, he looked around and asked if it was a hostel. When I had informed him it was a homeless shelter, I never heard back. Very soon, I had to go to the US consulate to get a ticket back to the US. I spoke to my previous landlord who said the house would be available in a few days, so I made the journey.

There were serious problems that the landlord wasn't solving, and I had no where to go. Shortly after, I was squatting in that very house I lived in for six months. It was so cold. No heat or electricity. The first night I parked my car at the parking lot of a convenience store, and walked there with a backpack. Bad idea. From then on, I would turn off my lights and park behind the house. I would wake up at 7am and go to the old University I couldn't finish because my loans from the government stopped at $50,000.

I might be living in a ghetto, but it's something. However, I still think about being homeless constantly. I've had nightmares about being out in the street, without any clothes on, unable to fight because my arm won't cooperate with my subconscious. “Dreams.”

Now in my 40s, I figure I either survive on what I do, or I don't. I won't tell anyone to not give up, but I would ask: Have you have exhausted all your options?

For me, I figure that since I've struggled this much, I can give things one last try.

Read more from this author at The Loyal Opposition.

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One Last Try