The first winter “I was homeless”

It is that time of year when everyone yearns for the temperature to come down. I remember summer days when I used to wish for winter snow. I used to love the winter. All of that changed after I spent my first winter homeless. 

For the purpose of telling my story, there isn’t a need to explain how I got there. There are so many paths to homelessness these days that we should not assume nor judge anyone ‘out there.’ 

The past winter in Columbus was brutal. It started early; it held on late. There was a three-week period when the temperature was close to, or under, ten degrees. Snow came and didn’t get a chance to melt before the next round. It made me hate winter. In fact, it made me leave Columbus for which I have called home for over forty years (I am currently residing in California). 

When you are really ‘out there,’ cold hits different. Being able to go inside is more of a luxury than you may realize. Enduring cold sets into your bones in a painful way. It takes far longer to get warmed up. When you have health problems, as most of us out here do, it makes your body even less prepared to regulate it. 

There are ways to survive. There are shelters but they kick you out every morning for twelve hours. Some let you leave things there to be safe; some places make you carry it out with you every day. 

The help I received was primarily from religious institutions and individuals motivated by faith. The programs the state has set up aren’t useless, but they are harder to access and tend to make demands many are not willing to make. If there is a church within walking distance, you are frequently treated with actual compassion and feel welcomed, and they never ask questions I feel ashamed or embarrassed to answer. 

The more hurdles and cold bureaucracy I must deal with, the less probable I am to seek help. It doesn’t make sense to ask people who already can’t manage their affairs to maintain housing and bills and other societal expectations. 

There are libraries and warming centers. I have seen many go to rehab as a kind of winter vacation, but recent cuts to Medicaid and availability are a big factor now. After that three-week vortex, I opted for that. The frostbite that overtook my left index finger is a constant reminder that I should have done it sooner. 

If you come up with a few dollars, you can sit for a while at McDonald’s or a similar place. If you look unhoused, most places make an effort to get you out quickly because no one wants us around. 

If there is one thing you feel more than the cold, it is the feeling of being unwanted almost everywhere you go in public. This comes from a look or body language. People will also remind you verbally. It took me some time to understand how many people held so much disdain and disrespect for those of us in this position.

I didn’t like my situation, but I was managing it and looking for solutions. In time, I came to understand how the scorn you receive takes root and grows through you.

When I first was out there, the number of people who made a point to tell me I wasn’t worthless, that I was loved (especially by God if no one else), and similar sentiments threw me off quite a bit. There weren’t many moments like this. Let me be clear about that. When I heard it though, I was offended, because the stigma of my situation had not yet begun to affect me. 

A defining moment was when I was offered kindness at a downtown restaurant and suddenly realized how long it had been since I was treated kindly by a stranger face to face. The tears flow again now as they did then. 

None of this is a plea for sympathy. What I came to feel was that those judging me with scorn and contempt were the ones who needed adjustment. 

We should not have to ask for our right to exist. We are going through enough without the added reminders that our circumstances somehow bother people wearing clean clothes, who slept in a bed, and ate when they were hungry. 

The author is 90 days sober as of this publication.