To the editor:
Please don’t feel sad for me or overly sympathetic. I wasn’t a victim in those years — I was on drugs, as much as I could get, and I had options I simply chose not to use them. My homelessness wasn’t something that happened to me. It was a result of the choices I was making at the time.
When I think back to being homeless in my late 20s, some memories come back: the cold, the dirty clothes, the misery — and the exhaustion. I was always tired, desperate for a place to lie down. There’s no polishing it up. It was awful. It sucked. Bad.
It didn’t start that way. I actually had a decent life: a good job at a downtown hotel in San Francisco, a cool little studio apartment, even a pet bird I’d found at work. But trying to maintain a job, pay rent, and keep any stability while using heroin and speed (back then we didn’t call it “meth”) was impossible. I tried — not very hard, but I tried.
Then came the eviction notice. It was taped to my door one day, and even then I didn’t quite believe it. I was in denial. I guess I didn’t think anyone would actually care enough to enforce it. But at 8 a.m., just like the notice promised, the knock came. A couple officers stood there while I looked around at my life and tried to decide what I could carry. I remember a female officer — kind but firm — and I remember just wandering, dazed, before grabbing a few things, maybe a guitar I hadn’t pawned yet. And then that was it. I was outside carrying everything I owned.
For the next few years, I cycled in and out: off the street during treatment, back on as soon as I returned to my neighborhood in the Mission District of San Francisco. I spent my days with people like me — using heroin and speed, wandering, looking for places to sleep safely. I stole small things: packs of cigarettes or anything I could get a few dollars for. Nothing major. My conscience was too stubborn to let me be a “good thief.”
One moment still sticks with me. I was walking down the street when an older woman dropped a $20 bill. She didn’t notice. I was sick, desperate for money, desperate for anything. But without thinking, I picked up the bill, got her attention, and handed it back. The regret hit immediately. I’ve asked myself why I did that for almost 30 years now.
And yet… that moment tells the truth, something about who I was, even in my worst years. I wasn’t completely gone.
Now I’m 53, living in an apartment near the beach in Massachusetts. I have more than enough. I have several independent jobs I genuinely enjoy. I have freedom. And because of my homelessness, I’ve never lived beyond my means. I’m not cheap, but I don’t borrow for things I can’t fully pay for. No car note. No mortgage. No financial panic ever hanging over my head.
Next month, I’m heading to Florida for five weeks — because the cold is too much for me now — and I can do it without dipping into money I need or going into debt. That’s not luck. That’s gratitude.
Being homeless left me fearless about going without. I know how little a person actually needs to be OK. That fearlessness helps me take risks today that many adults my age won’t. And yes, faith plays a part too — believing that God’s running this show, not me.
I’ve been in recovery for 24 years now — Dec. 26 will mark 25. That’s the day I plan to arrive in Florida, as my hermano would say, “If the good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise.” A 25-year gift to myself: a five week stretch of warmth, sunshine, and gratitude, working from a little deck by the beach, the warmer one.
And it all started because one day, I didn’t want to be homeless anymore.
Sincerely,
Michelle L Simons
