Not Again…My 4th Bout with Housing Shortage


In the following excerpt from my unpublished memoire, A Woman Sleeping on a Couch, I describe that feeling when we realize we no longer have a home. I think this is a story that too many people relate to. But the reason I’m posting this excerpt here is because of my Gofundme campaign to move to a better city because Brattleboro is just another Bellingham–just across the US. (I will leave the donation link at the end of this post).

Me back in 2013 before my bout with homelessness.

My journey began with a cough, not a clear the throat kind of cough, but one that pushed me out on a limb. While I took the sign of asthma returning seriously, my landlords refused to budge, that is, the words, “reasonable accommodations” traveled from one ear to the other without making an impact. After all, living in a laissez-faire city such as Bellingham, Washington, one is required to go with the flow. Only I couldn’t because of a cough that started innocently then kept me up at night-worrying and wondering where it was all heading.

So when the Aquarius Full Moon appeared on the horizon mid August 2014, I gave notice to vacate the apartment and culprit of my cough, without any prospects of a new home. By the way, the Aquarius Full Moon represents unexpected events.

A friend who helped me move into that apartment responded to my e-mail with applause, “I admire you.” Hadn’t I been complaining about the apartment for three years? In that regard my decision was hardly heroic and more of a desperate act.

On the other hand, my father shouted on the other end of the phone, “Why are you moving out just because of lead in the plumbing and mold? We have lead in our home and you don’t see us moving!” 

My mother who spoke in hush tones, agreed, “I believe you made a big mistake. Now, where are you going to go?” 

True, moments passed when I agreed with her, but only in theory, not in practice. The outer world would label me a fool, but people on a spiritual path similar to my own, such as my friend who expressed admiration realized that important journeys begin with a leap into the unknown. Thanks to the wacky Aquarius Full Moon I had entered the free-falling mode.

During my last night at my Sehome ghetto apartment, I paced while anxious thoughts pinged around my mind like a pinball on a winning streak. Had I made a mistake? I had a peek-a-boo view of Bellingham Bay and a full view of downtown. I lived in a third floor apartment with wood floors and some Victorian charm (even if I’m partial to the Arts & Crafts style). Then my lungs erupted into another spasm.

But at two a.m., I wondered where I would sleep the following night. Even though Craig’s List bore some fruit as far as housing, none of it matched my wish list, which at that point resembled a novella. 

This reminded me of the Abraham-Hicks Vortex and the rockets of desire I sent into that Vortex every time my Sehome apartment annoyed me. Hay House author Esther Hicks channeled a spirit collective that told us that when we experience what we don’t want, we send rockets of what we do want into an energetic field called a Vortex. Then when we match the frequency of the Vortex, we manifest our desires. Not so easy given all the drama we experience during the course of our everyday lives.

The home I envisioned in my vortex had no mold, rust, noisy neighbors, smell of pot, boiling cabbage, or fried fish. The vortex home had an elevator and a washer and dryer in the unit, not down four flights of stairs. And the kitchen had counter space, a fan, and tiled or wood floors. But, still sleep eluded me as my vortex filled up images of my perfect home, not materializing within twenty-four hours. 

Sheer terror and my dream home didn’t exist on the same frequency on the vibration dial. I didn’t require Esther Hicks explaining that scenario to me. I already knew. Of course, I knew because as a metaphysical coach, I blogged about frequencies and tuning the vibration dial.

So the next day, I packed belongings, scrubbed the tub then arranged with friends to move my belongings into a storage unit that I rented at the last minute. I asked my parents to book a hotel room for me so I avoided sleeping on a street that night. And as it turned out, I never slept on the street and I refrained from ever calling myself “homeless” preferring the term “in between homes.” However, my permanent address was a post office box, hardly a home address.

Along the way, I met other middle-age women who also experienced their midlife crisis in between homes. I found some comfort in swapping stories especially with one woman who couch-surfed for a month then ended up in a cushy apartment with a garden in the sought after South Bellingham neighborhood. Even she lived on borrowed time since her personality hardly matched up with the empathic hermit in which she cohabited.

While I could have focused on the negative and ranted about challenging situations I faced on my housing quest during a housing shortage, I chose to tell my account from a humorous angle. I figured millions of people found themselves in similar situations every day. If I provided comical relief for those folks, they raised their frequency through laughter. And as they raised their frequency, they arrived closer to manifesting their dream home, even if that was just any moss-covered roof without leaks hanging over their heads.

Besides, who wouldn’t find storage unit diving (more like swimming), humorous as I searched for a pair of job interview shoes that I found located in the far back corner in the bottom of a tall bag? I crawled on my stomach over boxes, suitcases and garbage bags full of books, compact discs and clothing to the far corner of the unit, hoping not to sprain my ankles in the process. Then I tossed all the shoes in the top of the bag over my shoulders, grabbing the prize at the bottom of the bag. Voila!

By the time I completed this ordeal, which also involved dragging the boxes and bags in the front of the unit to the hallway, sweat dripped down my face and my shirt, heavy with perspire glued to my chest (and I’m not someone who sweats easily).

One last caveat, while I lived in between homes I had no phone service and no car. I proved to myself that we survive without cell phones and taxis are a God-send, especially when I sped off in one escaping from ring-side couch in full view of a marital war that spanned a night with both people shouting, “Projection!” at each other. I’ll always associate that word now with melodrama of the worst kind. Obviously, those two were versed in psychoanalysis and the shadows we project on others.

However, the biggest weight I carried on my sore shoulders revolved around a controversial health condition I acquired at the age of twenty-eight that left me vulnerable to common chemicals most people use every day. This condition makes finding healthy and affordable housing near impossible, especially in a “green” city that doesn’t recognize the personal health effects of chlorine, car exhaust, and household cleaners. The irony doesn’t escape me, but even “green” cities such as Bellingham battled with the two-headed monster called denial and fear.

While Bellingham has received a sustainable makeover in the past two decades, it still hadn’t fully released its industrial roots which continue to pollute the air, water and earth.  Some people are forced to live in self-imposed confinement as they recover from MCS. I recovered from this condition for the most part but, living long-term among certain chemicals still threatened me. So in this regard, finding “a dream home” became a lifelong quest.

During my quest, I experienced meltdowns, shake ups, and hysterical fits of laughter. I gained the ability to step outside of myself and watch my life as if it were a movie playing on a giant screen. Only, I won’t receive any Oscars for Best Bad Performance by a Non-Actress.

By the way, 8 years later, I believe that Abraham-Hicks is completed BS.

Copyright 2015 Patricia Herlevi All Rights Reserved

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