#the key is to bring it up like ‘im going to home depot later do u need anything?’

[immaterial-girl]

lifehack for Doing An Errand; ask your roommates if they want anything while ur out so then u Have to go

[causeimalady-thatswhy]

Is this room getting smaller?  It feels like its getting smaller.  I hear the sound of footsteps in the apartment above.  Our window is open to try to circulate the suffocating air and I hear cars driving past, going well over the speed limit.  Our TV is on, the portable dishwasher is going, and I hear two unfamiliar voices enter the building.  Which is like sitting on your bed in the house you live in and hearing someone walk down the hallway right past the door to your bedroom, only you have no idea who the fuck they are.  We hear everything here.  All of the noise is polarizing.  And then I hear my kids.  I get lost in the noises of our musty cave.  My children find me and bring me out.  They ask for a snack.  I smile, say no.  They continue playing.  They don’t know, because this is all they know.  I continue sitting, lost in thought, dreaming of anywhere to take them that isn’t here.  

We almost rented a house. A few times.  But things came up, we decided not to, we decided to wait. Four years later we’re still where we were.  Everything is more expensive, so we fucked up. We’re trapped.  In this small apartment.  With the small rooms, that feel smaller with four people living in them. Four people.  900 square feet.  That’s not even that bad.  I hear stories of people close by and far away that have it way worse.  My mind wanders to that place, and then the guilt sets in.  I should be so lucky to live where I do.  There are people in the world who are suffering.  I don’t deserve pity.  But as much as I try to pull myself out, I am suffering.

We almost bought a house. That just happened.  We got so close to freedom.  We were denied our loan.  The details make sense now, but we were told it was a go.  We were pre-approved, our offer accepted, all inspections passed, title work done, closing costs covered.  Nope, just kidding.  A week before closing.  The closing of our hardest chapter, by far.  A week before we could get the keys to a real home, with a real yard, and a real fucking laundry room.  With neighbors far enough that if they lit a bong the smoke wouldn’t damage our mattresses and couch cushions and my innocent babies wouldn’t wake up with black boogers.  Neighbors far enough where I don’t have to explain to my young children what they’re smelling in the hallway as were walking down to do laundry.  Neighbors far enough where when there are domestic disputes until 6 am, loud enough where it sounds like they’re going to spill through our cave door, our kids wont wake up confused.  Neighbors where if the drunk idiots next to us decided to throw a fucking party, the bass from their stereos woudn’t scare my kids into thinking there are loud monsters in their room.  Privacy.  Peace. Fresh fucking air.

I live in a safe place. Safety, to me though, is relative to your mind and your thoughts.  My sister basically lived in the ghetto and mentally, was totally fucking fine.  She wasn’t scared.  My apartment has “security”.  The security guards couldn’t do anything about the drug problem but hey at least I have a number to call.  I live in a safe city.  Full of tourists in the summer, rich or poor people in the winter, but pretty much safe. This city, like most others, is completely unaffordable for people trying to start their lives.  Low paying jobs galore, expensive homes galore. Middle class?  Gone.  There are people in the world who are dieing.  I am selfish to think I deserve more than them, more than those mothers who, like me, so deeply crave a better life for their children.  But their better life is across the country, continent, ocean, world.  Mine can be almost anywhere in my county.  I am blessed and lucky to be born in America.  But am I really safe? Never.

My husband is a veteran. He went to war instead of college. When it came time for reenlistment, I was pregnant and he decided to take me home and try college again.  He does everything for me.  I say he doesn’t show me affection but everything he does, he does for me.  As I’m writing this he is talking to me more than usual, and touching me more than usual, because he knows.  I want out of here. I want my kids out of here. And hes the only one who can do that for us.  Really I should be fine, the pressure is on him.  But my mind betrays me.  He works hard. He deserves a house more than me, but my kids deserve a house the most.

Theres a park down the street with a playscape and a cute beach on the bay.  My kids basically grew up there.  No backyard, remember?  Once when we were at this beach, my kids were playing on the playscape.  Two men were sitting on a bench looking out at the water. They both got up and walked towards the parking lot, towards us.  One man was holding his phone, and as he got close I saw that his camera was on.  He smiles at me, looks up at my son, takes a fucking picture of him, and says “cute kid”.  Safe my fucking ass.  No where is safe.  I could kill myself for not ripping the fucking phone out of his hand, and shoving it up his weird old fucking ass.  I called the police, because I am who I am.  And the person on the phone seemed concerned, but my husband said everything was probably fine.  Except I read about pedophilia and weird fucking people on the internet all the time. In my mind, one of those people might now have a picture of my son. Because we don’t have a backyard.

Theres a splash pad downtown where I live.  It was shut off and my kids were too little but I try to get them outside when its sunny. I try to take them places and give us all some fresh air, a break from our cave.  So I got the double-jogging-stroller and we walked.  I have a stroller for every occasion, my parents think that’s weird.  But when you live in an apartment its necessary.  I always have to pack, and plan, and prepare when I want to go outside. We were walking back to the car from this splash pad, looking out at the water.  A man starts walking toward me.  He has a phone in his hand but I didn’t notice until he took a picture of us.  He told me “You belong in Hollywood”.  I smile and quickly walk toward my car.  He gets into a green truck with branding on the side.  At least this time the kids were bundled in hats and blankets.  They probably weren’t visible in the picture.  Safe.

Once I was at my friends house. She owns her house all by herself.  She is not afraid, ever.  At least I don’t think.  We got out of the car and started walking to her front door when a man on a bicycle rode by really slowly, and stared into our eyes the entire time without saying hi or anything.  When he got to far and had to break the stare, he turned his head around the other way to keep staring as he kept riding his bike.  Eventually he stopped looking.  My friend told me, “Ive never seen anything like that here before”.  I know….its me.  But I digress.

I packed a lot of stuff already.  Each box is labeled with it’s contents and what room of the house the stuff was going to go.  I printed out the dimensions of the house so I could have them with me if I decided to go into home depot and plan.  I planned how I would arrange every room.  I thought about where I would put a Christmas tree, how the tree in the front yard would be perfect for a tire swing. I thought about how cute it would be to put pumpkins outside and what it would be like to take my kids trick or treating without driving them somewhere else.  I thought it would be fun to build a teepee in the backyard for the kids to play in, and what it would be like to actually be able to have bonfires.  Once I dreamt that we pulled up the carpet to reveal hardwood floors, just like in Fixer Upper.  Now that we’re staying I might as well throw away the stuff in the boxes.  I packed almost half of our apartment and we still don’t have any space.

My family could have stayed with us.  There were two rooms in the basement.  One for a guest room and the other for a playroom.  Perfect.  We live 4 hours from our families.  My husband and I both work.  He works a lot more, so im home a lot more.  He has always been good at making friends.  I guess its probably me...I think im nice, friendworthy?  Maybe im too nice.  Either way, I was going to try to convince my mom to live with us in the summer.  Then I would be safe, and have company.

I grew up in a suburban middle-class subdivision.  I played outside with kids in my neighborhood all the time.  I was born in 91, so I am one of the last generations that remembers a time before the internet.  We didn’t even get a VCR until DVD players were a thing.  I loved my childhood.  I had fun. I had a happy and healthy childhood with parents who loved me and a safe, happy home.  I was spoiled for that.  I know now, that is rare.  And that is to be treasured.  And I must do that for my children, as soon as I possibly can.  They are loved, and we laugh, but only inside.

I have to mourn the loss of this home, the memories never to be made.  Painting my kids rooms.  Watching them play in the leaves. Watching them ride their bikes.  Reading books by the fireplace. Picnicking in the backyard.  My kids playing with our neighbors, who are the same age.  Planting a garden.  Going on adventures without going somewhere unfamiliar.  Opening the back door and letting them run.  Just run and run.  I want to let them out and let them run until their little legs get tired.  And then bring them inside for a sandwich.  I feel like Sandra Bullock in Birdbox.  I don’t want to have to tell them to slow down, that they will die because cars are driving by too fast, or people are doing drugs on their balconies, or to tell them they cant play on the sidewalk because the creepy guy above us will linger out there too long.  I have to mourn the loss of my kid’s almost first childhood home. And pray, pray, pray it will come sooner than later.  But hey, at least we have somewhere to live, and to everyone else it’s probably safe.