Hi! How’s it going?
Me? Oh, I’m just sitting here waiting for Hurricane Milton to make landfall tonight. It’s been churning around aimlessly in the Gulf of Mexico for what seems like an eternity, lazily collecting itself while Hurricane Helene plowed up and across the southeastern United States. Fortunately, I am blessed with a super-competent Governor here in Florida, and that’s all the politics I’ve got (at least for today).
As I mentioned previously, I had to find a new domicile yet again earlier this year. I moved into another shared-home environment on June 1st, out of necessity since rents are still outrageously high even for one-bedroom apartments, not to mention all the other stumbling blocks (eviction history, less-than-stellar credit, abysmally-low income) that keep me from securing independent living. I’m currently paying for two rooms plus a private bath in a tiny duplex that I share with a woman, her boyfriend, a neurotic little dog, and three doofy cats.
I hate it here.
Over the past four-plus months, I’ve maintained the fiction of “there are pros and cons to any living situation.” I’ve done this because it’s expected of me: The happiness narrative continues to haunt my path. Christians and Christian-presenting do-gooder types are, as ever, not interested in hearing about any struggles or aches or pains or God forbid COMPLAINTS. I have a roof over my head, blood pumps through my veins, and air goes in and out of my lungs with enough consistency to fog a mirror, therefore shut the hell up and don’t complain or express unhappiness about anything, ever, or thou shalt be shunned.
At some point in the past few days, however, something broke inside my already-broken brain. I’m not sure what the final straw was. But I can’t pretend anymore.
Have I mentioned that I hate it here?
It’s true that there are pros and cons where I live. I like lists, so here are some pros:
- The rent I’m paying is relatively cheap, and includes all utilities.
- The male roomie keeps the AC comfortably low (though the female roomie, an old lady with an old lady’s temperament, complains about the cold).
- There are cute animals in the house that have come to love me.
- My roomies do not seem to have a problem with me staying home all the time (something that bugged my previous housemate).
- The neighborhood is relatively quiet.
- There is no obvious mold here, which deserves to be acknowledged.
That’s about all I can think of. But here are some of the cons:
- The rooms were rented to me unfurnished. I’m sleeping on an air mattress that I bought on Amazon (because I wasn’t willing to spend money on a real bed, or anything else that won’t fit in my car).
- The air mattress, tolerable as a temporary sleeping spot, has just now sprung an unrepairable leak as Hurricane Milton is bearing down upon me; I have to wait for a warranty replacement that may not come for several days.
- My roomies do not own the property. They themselves are renters, and are subleasing my rooms to me, apparently without the knowledge of their landlord.
- The female roomie is herself disabled and is also home all the time, which, as it turns out, bugs me. I’m painfully aware of the thin walls and the fact that I’m almost never alone in the building.
- The female roomie does not respect my privacy. I have to keep my door locked because she was walking in on me after knocking without waiting to be invited. She then expressed offense upon finding my door locked. The female roomie also attempted to commandeer space in my rooms — space and rooms THAT I AM PAYING FOR — to store some of her own belongings, and she had to have it explained to her why this was unacceptable.
- The male roomie has an illegal handgun, which is frequently left in plain view on the coffee table. (I know it’s illegal because he told me how he acquired it.)
- The male roomie does not have a valid driver’s license (again, I know this because he told me), but drives their shared vehicle to his off-and-on construction jobsites.
- The male roomie sleeps on the living room couch at night instead of in the bedroom with his girlfriend. He goes to “bed” no later than 8:00 PM and sometimes earlier. (Thankfully he does not sleep in the nude.) (I asked.) (Yes, I really did.)
- The property is tiny. About 750 square feet total of living area for three adults and four pets. The kitchen, while containing a normal set of full-sized appliances, is INCREDIBLY cramped.
- Whenever I (or the male roomie) are busy in the kitchen, especially if I am cooking a large meal juggling multiple pots and pans, the female roomie finds an excuse to also busy herself in the tiny kitchen, which is far too tiny for more than a single person to occupy at a time, and she frequently manages to drop something breakable on the floor in the process, requiring her to then slowly and painstakingly clean up the mess while I continue to flail knives and hot pans. The male roomie has remarked upon this habit of hers; it is a known phenomenon.
- The drainage in this neighborhood is essentially non-existent; there is no sewer system, and only a dirt culvert (ditch) exists to collect runoff. When it rains even a small amount on this street, I cannot flush my toilet until the water recedes, which can take hours or sometimes days. Since this is southwest Florida, where it rains frequently, and since one of my many health problems this year is causing me to have to go to the bathroom A LOT, MULTIPLE TIMES A DAY AND SEVERAL TIMES THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, this is a persistent problem. My roomies have offered varying explanations for the issue, including “the water table is too high,” “the water table is too low,” “the construction going on in the lots behind us is causing it,” and “the County has to [blah blah I stopped listening].” The street is currently flooded thanks to Hurricane Milton’s armbands, well up into the driveways.
- The house has hurricane shutters, but today when the male roomie tried to implement them ahead of the storm, it turned out they are all broken, so he applied some duct tape to them.
- I’ve tried to find a church in this area where I feel comfortable, and I’ve had no success.
- This County just sucks in general. Infrastructure, law enforcement, Chinese food, social services, it all sucks. All of it.
There’s more (isn’t there always?) but you get the idea.
But what broke in my brain this week was the expectation that I continue shutting up about it all.
Listening to Good Little Christians™, you might come to believe that uncomplainingness is next to godliness. I’ve written on the subject before (see “There are people worse off than youuuuuu” and “You never know till you try“). I really think there’s nothing a God-botherer loves more than to wag his or her finger at someone experiencing unhappiness in this broken world and daring to say so.
I’ve been fighting off a hellish level of depression and anger lately. Almost all of the Christian people I used to know have stopped checking in with me (my out-of-state friend Miss R is pretty much the only one left). A few days ago I was considering sending a text message to Miss R’s friend — the one who helped me with rent money for a few months last year after I left Elderly Roomie’s house — to ask her for more prayers for my miserable spiritual and physical health again. But my brain, commandeered by The Abuser, started reminding me of some of the things Miss R’s friend said to me back then. Like how I was “ungrateful” for Elderly Roomie’s “gift” of a moldy roof over my head, and her comments about poor people’s bad attitudes, their entitlement, and so on. Stuff I’ve heard from plenty of other Christians over the years. And in the face of those memories, I said:
I’M DONE.
I’m done pretending to be positive so that Christians won’t accuse me of complaining or of being ungrateful.
I am WAY too old for this shit.
Maybe someday I will find a Bible-believing church where I’m not subjected to teardowns and mockery for having normal human emotions. A church where people in leadership not only understand feelings, but anxiety, PTSD, and clinical depression and the ways in which it can manifest in an otherwise decent person. You know? Maybe there’s a place like that out there somewhere, with a congregation not composed entirely of fair-weather Christians. There might be a church out there somewhere for me, where I can say things like, “I’m having a really bad week, this bad thing happened and this other bad thing happened and I’m feeling bad feelings” without being called a murmurer, a complainer, a divider, sowing division among the brethren. Maybe I’ll say all those things and describe how unhappy I am and a pastor’s wife somewhere will say, “I hear you. How can I help?” instead of “Your attitude is so negative.”
And maybe I’ll win the lottery, and I can buy a little energy-efficient house with a Starlink dish and a big kitchen with lots of outlets on a couple of acres by an inland creek and throw in a pony, as long as I’m dreaming.
Until then, I need to be okay with this:
I am alone in this world, with Jesus.
That needs to be enough for me.
He cares about my stupid little problems, even if nobody else does.
I am his, whether you like it or not. And if you don’t like it, fuck off. I’m done with you.