Yesterday I went to the launch of a project I helped with called Opening Doors. I’ve shared the website in the past but in case you missed it. Home – Opening Doors
I met an advocate there, who deals with people who may be in crisis situations and they become her clients. Example: Couple about to take a newborn baby home where they are living in a brother’s garage. They already have a 4-year-old who is in preschool and because I asked questions, you would imagine they could just move into a room inside the house, so what’s the issue? They already have three generations living inside the house, twenty people so, no they are stuck in the garage. The top number one question they would get asked. Are you on the public housing list?
Anyone who is on that list, asks when will they get a home? How long is a piece of string? That is a list you need to be on, but it doesn’t guarantee you will get anything.
So, the significance of one’s home is even more important to anyone with a disability. It’s a place to be safe, to keep one’s precious things, to build important memories, to regroup at the end of the day, to replenish energy, to sleep. Then to get up the next day ready to fight another day.
So, in short, keeping this in mind,
· Brain injury: 47 years
· Moved out of home at 19 years
· Moved lots until 30 years
· Diagnosis of ABI at 34 years
· Since treatment at 30 years, onset of severe disability where I can no longer work and need care.
· Have moved: 4 times!
Keeping in the back of your mind, I had a boyfriend, sorry I thought I had a boyfriend when I first developed my disability. I digress or context done.
As I mentioned my situation to the advocate, how many times I’d had to move since my disability and while in comparison to her clients with the new born baby, I had told a friend that finding decent housemates since my disability had been like getting my heart, soul and wallet robbed by complete strangers. A friend had bitched to me when he had his disability, he had, had to give up his awesome housemates and he couldn’t understand why I had not been more empathetic towards him.
So, I pointed out, while I’d moved four fucking times and had lived by myself for seven years or more, renting. His family bought him a fucking house! Now admittedly his house is in the outer suburbs, he owned the house. No renting.
and now 10-15 years later, he’s moved into an apartment in Abbotsford where he can walk to the city and he still thinks I should be all empathetic towards his plight.
Sound bitchy don’t I? Yeah, the inner bitch comes out occasionally.