My Bio - Part 44

Early 2010:

Tom has been laid off for nearly 17 months. I appreciate not having to worry about him being on the road so much and enjoy seeing him have more time for the things he loves. But even though we get along well, having him home all the time is getting old. It’d be nice if he could find a job, even if it didn’t pay much or come with insurance. With our online jobs, we’d only need something part-time.

Thinking back to our adventurous days, we once boldly moved to Oregon, then to California—jobless and homeless—which nearly did us in. Sometimes, if you want out of a burning room, you’ve got to charge through the fire headfirst, not that we were necessarily in a burning room. But each long-distance move has been harder than the last, so I think it’s time to retire that adventurous side I never knew I had until I met Tom. It was fun and a learning experience, but one can only walk a tightrope so many times before falling too far to get back up. Even though the winters here are a bit colder than I’d like (it’s snowed a couple of times since we’ve been here), I love the woods. In Arizona, the flat, open land meant you could hear loud car stereos from miles away. Here, I love the hilly terrain and all the trees, even if neither cacti nor palms are native to this area. I miss the desert at times, and I sometimes think it’d be neat to live in a tropical place, but for now, it looks like we’re staying put. No guarantees, but that’s the plan. At least for now.

I’m trying to become a more forgiving person, though I know I’m not alone in struggling with this, despite all the talk of forgiveness out there. While I’ve mostly moved on from the anger I felt toward my sister, I still don’t know that I can forgive her. And I definitely can’t forgive those who created the “evidence” that cost me half a year of freedom, time with Tom, thousands of dollars, and untold degradation, anger, and fear. Forgiving people who don’t believe they’ve done anything wrong is a challenge, to say the least.

Late 2010:

There are only two hours left of 2010 as I write this. I decided I would update this bio at the end of every year rather than wait a few years. It’s easier to remember things that way and a lot seems to be happening to me at the same time not much is happening.

We still live in the old trailer on Jesse’s land. This is the longest time in the three rentals we’ve rented since we left Arizona. Jesse still drives me crazy at times too, with his dogs and his loud vehicles. But it still beats the city. Jesse’s now out of work, so that means we hear more of him than his dogs. And I don’t mean home as in fired or laid off. He hurt his back, so he told us, and is trying to retire or get on disability.

On Christmas Day of 2009, I was chatting with Marie. Had someone told me I’d be chatting with Maliheh of all people on the next Christmas I never would’ve believed it in a million years. Yeah, for me California’s definitely been the “state of reunion.” And a place full of surprises despite its disappointments.

I first found Maliheh on Facebook last May. I messaged her the day after her 53rd birthday, though I didn’t know at the time that the previous day was her birthday. My intentions at first weren’t to be very nice. I didn’t care to bully or harass her, I just thought I’d “surprise” her, so to speak, and casually drop my journal link on her.

I said something to the effect of, “Remember me? From the Deerfield/Northampton area in 1991? You were 34 at the time and I was 25. You weren’t very nice to me either.”

At the time I didn’t plan to ever contact her again, and as expected, I didn’t receive a reply from her.

Just two weeks later in early June, someone started harassing me on a site called Formspring where people can ask questions in total anonymity. I thought it was a neat idea and would be interesting to see what questions people hit me with. They were nothing out of the ordinary at first – what’s my favorite color, what’s my favorite movie, what chore do I hate the most…

It was soon clear to me that the person not only kept regular tabs on my journal but that they had personally known me at one point in my life.

My first thought was that it was either my sister or one of my sister-in-laws. But knowing it just wasn’t any of my SIL’s style, I quickly dropped them as a possibility.

Maliheh and Andy were next on the list. Especially Maliheh since I’d recently contacted her. I figured she took the time to comb through my journal and then decided to play around with me, even if she too, seemed like the serious, no pranks type.

At this time I believed Andy and I would never be friends again because he couldn’t “forgive” me for this tape of his he was so sure I had.

Either way, the “questions” kept coming.

Why is your husband such a lazy bum he can’t find a job…?

Does Tom fart more now that he’s gained weight…?

I hear you want a dog. How are you going to feed the mutt when you run out of money…?

Why did you marry a man if you haven’t been with a woman since 1992…?

Don’t you think you deserved to go to jail and pay for those you harassed over the telephone…?

This last question had me suspecting Maliheh most of all as it did not seem like anything Andy would ask.

And so I began not only doing more research on her but also sent her an accusatory message, warning her to knock it off and to never contact me again.

I went a step further and friended some of Maliheh’s friends. Not to say mean things about her, but to learn about her through them because I was curious about her, as I realized that ironically enough, I still had a crush on her. Yeah, despite our past problems and her so cruelly breaking my heart even though she never quite had it to begin with, I’d wondered about her from time to time throughout the years. I didn’t understand why I’d still have a thing for such a bitch 19 years later, but I did.

All I learned, before she contacted her friends and had them unfriend me, was that some guy used to play drums for her.

I remembered her being into the guitar, but that was pretty much all I knew about her other than that she quit smoking before we met and made me feel led on even though I didn’t handle it well back then being young and all that.

Still pissed over being “dumped” nearly two decades ago and convinced that she was the one harassing me, I deliberately badmouthed her in my journal (never using her full name) just in case she cared to check it out, though I doubted she cared, and I had no way of knowing either way at the time. Or if her friends would read along and end up turning against her for it, another thing I would later come to feel guilty over.

I even got a story idea with us as lead characters and thought it’d be funny if I sent her bits and pieces of it to read on Facebook, and also via email, now that I knew her two email addresses.

I pleaded in my journal and on Formspring for the person to identify themselves. I wasn’t scared, but I was a bit nervous. Especially before I knew what their true intentions were. But I sensed that I would eventually learn who they were. After a few days, the questions became less mean and it became more obvious that it was Andy.

And it was.

Andy, who I eventually spoke on the phone with and swapped emails with, had asked me the question about deserving to go to jail for the calls to throw me off his scent, and it worked.

At first, I was hesitant to bother with him for condemning me on how I handled my mother-in-law and basically defending the sickos that victimized me in Phoenix as well. I was not only shocked that he would take their side, but it especially shocked me because he himself was in jail if only for a day. He told me it was an experience that opened his eyes to the fact that he was a very angry person and needed to calm down. This was after he quit smoking pot and was dealing with withdrawal. He pranked some younger guy that was interested in him. I guess it wasn’t that Andy wasn’t interested back, he just didn’t like some things about the guy. And then one night they got into an argument over the phone.

“See that blue car parked on the street?” Andy had screamed at him. “Well, I’m in it and I’m watching you!”

Meanwhile, Andy had no idea there was really a blue car there. But the guy was not only terrified enough to spite him for that one but also because he was angry for having been rejected and so he went a step further by saying he tried to fondle him.

Andy spent the day in jail and did a year of probation. He felt the judge judged him before he even got a chance to have his say. This was why I was a little shocked at his defending my perps when he himself knew what it was like to be legally victimized.

After we both got some things off our chest and he agreed not to judge me for the way I live my life and handle things (though he wouldn’t keep his word), we’d continue to have fun on Formspring, only in a different way, as well as on Twitter where he would tweet his “tour dates” with his imaginary Fire Flies band, a game he’s been playing for decades.

I will admit that while it’s nice to be in touch with Andy again, who has since moved back to Springfield, so I was shocked to learn, it only made me feel bad for Maliheh. I really thought it was her for a while, even if it didn’t seem like anything she’d do from what little I knew about her. A part of me was bummed that it wasn’t her, for I kind of liked the idea of getting attention from her, even if it was in an unexpected and unusual way.

I also learned that Andy quit smoking both cigarettes and pot. He was so pissed that I could tell he was high (and said so in my journal which he had quietly followed for about a year before jumping out at me on Formspring) when he left some voice messages a couple of years ago that it’s part of what motivated him to quit nearly two years ago. I was glad to be of help!

He quit smoking cigarettes in 2002 and, having a harder time handling the heat, moved back east to a condo that is next to his mother’s condo in 2007. He’s still single but is doing well financially. He even owns his own cleaning business. I am both surprised and happy for him! He hates the cold and the snow but likes having his family around and the universal healthcare that Massachusetts offers.

My Bio - Part 43

I sent a letter to Andy’s sister Marla since I couldn’t find his address, asking her to say hello to him for me. I admitted that moving away without telling him where I’d gone had been mean and that I missed him and was curious about what he was up to these days.

Shortly after, I received a message saying that the only way Andy would forgive me for dumping him was if I sent his old recorded phone message tapes to his sister.

I was stunned by how much he still sounded the same, though I was disappointed to hear he was also clearly stoned.

I thought back to when I would record his phone messages for him, as he didn’t have the means to do it himself. But I mailed that tape to him before we left Phoenix and wrote another letter to Marla letting her know this.

“Guess I’m not the only unforgiving person in the world,” I’d written in a journal entry of mine on Kiwibox before I left that site, which was later sold and changed entirely. A young woman in Maryland responded, making a good point: she said Andy should forgive me because he wanted to, not because of anything I could give him.

Damn right, I agreed silently, feeling a bit embarrassed to be learning from someone half my age.

One day, I was browsing a prison inmate locator site and, out of curiosity, started looking up people I’d known in jail. Mary had told me about Myra and Hope, who each got forty years for child abuse, but I wondered about some others.

I studied Hope’s booking photo—she looked exactly as I’d expected: depressed and anxious. Myra, though, wore a wide smile, looking happy as ever. What could be so exciting about a forty-year sentence? I wondered. But then, if someone could be sick enough to abuse children, perhaps they could also be crazy enough to smile about forty years behind bars.

Yeah, smile, Myra. You’ll be an old lady when you go home. :)

Over the years, I’d wondered about Rosa, regretting that we hadn’t kept in touch, though I’d assumed she was deported to Mexico.

But there she was! I recognized her picture immediately. I was glad to finally find out what had happened to her, even if the news wasn’t good; sadly, she was serving twenty-five years for second-degree murder.

In late September, my worst fears for Mary came true. I knew she wanted to be hopeful and trusting, so I tried not to express my fears that she wouldn’t be released in exchange for her testimony against the man who killed her child, as she’d been promised. If anyone knew that cops, lawyers, and judges could be dishonest, it was me. And sure enough, even though she’d signed a plea agreement stating she’d be free after testifying, the judge, who clearly had a preconceived opinion about her, ordered her to prison at the trial’s end. So, after a decade in jail, she now had to serve two years in prison, with her release date pushed to June 2011. Understandably, she was very depressed, and I haven’t heard from her much since the sentencing, as she’s much busier now. She described it as a “modern-day boot camp.”

In late September, Tom learned from a news article about a site that pays people to complete artificial intelligence tasks requiring human input, which has been a great supplement to our income!

If I thought finding Rosa, despite her grim circumstances, was thrilling, nothing could compare to the surprises I’d receive on October 3rd and again on Christmas!

One day, while taking a break, I found myself thinking of the kind woman from the camp I was in as a kid who had shown me such compassion. Who was she? Where was she now? What was her life like? Fourteen years earlier in Phoenix, I had tried to find her, but with no luck. But the internet has come a long way, I thought to myself as I logged onto Facebook. Searching for a group for that camp, I found one and messaged the group’s owner with my story. He said he loved helping reconnect old campers and counselors and would do his best to identify her.

At first, I’d thought I’d attended the camp at age 9, but on reflecting on one of my few memories, it hit me: I’d been about 11. I remembered a bunch of us kids trying to convince some of the counselors that we were “bionic.” But had The Bionic Woman even aired when I was 9? A quick internet search confirmed it hadn’t been released until 1976, so I must have been 11.

I let the group owner know, adding that she hadn’t been a regular counselor. He tracked down a list of names from 1976, and a few people in the group recalled a woman with a dog who matched my description. “It’s Eileen,” they said. “She had a dog named Sydney.”

Finally, a name! I messaged her and to my delight, she responded within hours, confirming that yes, she had been at Camp Naomi in 1976 and she even remembered me! Today, she has kids and grandkids and lives in eastern Massachusetts. We’ve kept in touch since I found her.

If finding Eileen was a surprise in itself, my next surprise truly floored me: reconnecting with Marie from Valleyhead. A couple of years ago, I’d set up an account on Classmates.com to enter a drawing. While there, I looked up Valleyhead, my old school. Despite its dark history—closed in the ’90s after an FBI investigation into abuse and embezzlement—I was curious about any familiar names, and I spotted Marie’s. Tall, dark, Italian, and very much my type, she looked fantastic.

While browsing the group page, I left a public message with my Facebook details, just in case anyone wanted to reach out. To my shock, Marie did! She remembered me, asked how I was, and shared that she was living in Trumansburg, New York with roommates and studying criminal justice. I was surprised by how excited she seemed to reconnect, even saying she’d love to chat.

As we talked about our Valleyhead days, I mentioned my crush on a staff member named Mary, which led to a surprising revelation: Marie had a crush on me! I couldn’t believe it. We’d rarely interacted and never shared a room or any classes.

My Bio - Part 42

I’ve often been told I’m very smart. Yet even the smartest people can make poor decisions at times, and so I responded to Tammy’s brief Facebook message in early 2009 saying that she hoped I was doing well. I saw no harm in sharing why I felt I could never forgive her, leaving a link to my journal in my reply so she could read my feelings in more detail. God knows I’d discussed them enough there, after all.

However, instead of apologizing for her irrational behavior in defending her abusive ex and her role in my arrest, she denied any wrongdoing, insisting she never knew where I’d moved to and that it was Bill who’d called the police, not her.

I thought about it and realized that yes, Bill might have been the one to call the cops, but he couldn’t have known where to send them if he or Tammy didn’t have some clue as to my location. My guess? Tammy had probably called people in the Phoenix area with our last name until she found someone in Tom’s family willing to share our address. I’m sure they believed her intentions were good, but I still felt betrayed.

Tammy might not have known about the default warrant any more than we did, yet she still called and sent letters to Tom, bashing me and defending Bill. By then, she was married to her third husband, so I had no reason to think she still had feelings for Bill—especially after his abuse of both her and Lisa. Over the years, I’d read about how domestic violence can severely impact a person’s psyche. I felt for the women who stood up to their abusers, ending the cycle, but I struggled to empathize with those who not only didn’t fight back but seemed to seek out abusive relationships and attack those who spoke out against their abusers. I don’t think Tammy enjoyed the abuse itself; rather, I think she enjoyed the sympathy she’d receive when discussing it with others. But only Tammy could truly know, and I wasn’t about to try to dissect her mind. She was an adult, free to make her choices, however harmful they might be. All I knew was that I felt shocked, angry, and disgusted with her behavior, convinced more than ever that she wasn’t someone I should be associating with, sister or not.

Yet Tammy piqued my curiosity—was it really that easy to find someone online?

I typed in my nieces’ names.

It was.

I found myself staring at a profile photo of my youngest niece and noticed her rather vulgar screen name. Her profile, like her sisters’, was private, so I couldn’t see much else.

Stupid mistake number two: I messaged her, mentioning her screen name and casually saying hello. I added that she didn’t have to reply, and while I was sure most of what she’d heard about me was exaggerated, it was best for us to continue on our separate ways. Then I wished her luck and signed off.

If I’m honest, the message was less about reconnecting and more about curiosity. So yes, I admit it. I didn’t care about saying hi or wishing her a happy birthday. I got a kick out of the thought of her reading my journal and sharing it with her sisters if she followed the link on my profile. I knew Tammy wouldn’t be pleased.

She wasn’t.

My inbox was flooded the next day with messages from both Tammy and Sarah on MySpace and the journal site. I hadn’t expected to hear from Sarah, so her rude response caught me off guard. But really, why should I have been surprised? Didn’t the apple usually fall close to the tree?

Her message said she was standing by her mother, unsurprisingly, given she was just 18 at the time. She mentioned there was still some “damage” there and hinted at remembering past letters I’d sent her parents.

Then the cyberbullying began. I was stalked from site to site and threatened. Eventually, Tammy admitted she’d called the cops a decade ago, intending to get me in jail, and could do it again. She didn’t say it outright, but “I did it once; I can do it again” was enough for me.

She threatened to show up at our “dingy trailer” in California and take legal action against me for harassment and slander, even though they had sought out my journal on their own, and I was simply sharing my opinions and thoughts, not for any profit and not providing any identifying info. She demanded I never contact anyone in her family again, mocked my photos, called my husband “queer,” and wished us ill. She even made fun of our financial struggles.

When I’m angry, I try to keep things fair, and I wasn’t about to say she was a bad cook, for example, just because I was mad at her. The truth is, no matter my feelings toward her, she was a good cook.

Tammy was just the opposite. Suddenly, I wasn’t good at the things she once said I excelled in when she wasn’t angry at me. She mocked the things she’d empathize with if we were on good terms. She’d also invent events that never happened. If she was mad at me for something I actually said or did, she’d not only be quick to mention it but would also add in anything else she could make up on the spot.

I began posting their nasty messages in my journal, hoping it would embarrass them enough to back off since the diary site didn’t have a ‘block user’ feature. But they didn’t seem to care about how they were incriminating themselves. I had checked the laws because I learned the hard way that what you didn’t know really could hurt you, and I knew I wasn’t doing anything illegal. Tammy, on the other hand, was.

Eventually, Lisa contacted me, insisting that despite what they’d said, I was still her aunt. She bashed her mother and gave me the impression that they were no longer speaking.

I was hesitant to respond but eventually told her that while I wished her well, I didn’t think it was wise for us to be in touch, knowing her mother would likely pressure her to stop if she found out.

Lisa insisted she had been trying to locate me for years and genuinely wanted a place in my life, so I left it at that. I answered whatever messages she sent without initiating any of my own. I just wanted to be polite, not necessarily friendly.

Not long after, Lisa exposed her true colors. She messaged me in a fury, accusing me of “lying” to her grandfather about when we’d first talked, saying I’d mentioned April when it was actually August. Her message also declared that whatever happened between her and her mother was none of my business (after taking it upon herself to divulge info about it).

I finished reading her message, saddened and embarrassed for her and her mother. The sudden change in her was astonishing. She’d gone from zero to a hundred in seconds. I wasn’t sure if it was drugs or plain instability, but it was sad knowing that some people had nothing better to do than jump to conclusions and then harass others. If she had calmly asked me, I’d have explained that I never mentioned when we began talking to my father. In fact, I hadn’t even mentioned her at all—just that Tammy had reached out, and I wasn’t interested in reconnecting. But, sure enough, they dragged my parents into it, involving them in drama they didn’t need at their age and with their own challenges.

I didn’t bother responding to Lisa’s message. Instead, I added it to my daily entry, knowing she would read it and not be pleased. Maybe this would teach her to ask questions before accusing.

But then I stopped to think. Did my writing about them actually bother them? Hmm… I wasn’t so sure anymore. If it really did, why were they still reading my journal? And why did they keep sending me nasty messages that they knew I’d publish?

Holy crap, I thought as Tammy and Lisa continued their harassment. They’re getting a thrill out of this! They actually want me to write about them. It almost chilled me to think that someone in their fifties could enjoy such childish nonsense. It saddened me too. Had Tammy’s life become that miserable? I also realized that their desire to get me jailed wasn’t because my writing bothered them but because they were simply that vengeful.

I started closing as many access points as I could, now disturbed by the idea of them reading my journal, knowing they were enjoying it. But then I came to not care one way or the other who read it, something I suspect Tammy and her kids eventually tired of. After all, what’s so exciting about someone’s “dingy trailer” life full of “rats, dolls, and a ‘queer’ husband”?

Ah, the sweetness of cyber revenge. It was gratifying for a while, and I even slipped my journal link to a few others whose names I won’t mention.

But I’d had enough of Tammy and her unstable brood and was ready to move on without them. Even if we’d gotten along, I saw no point in buddying up with someone on the other side of the country with whom I shared nothing in common. We had different interests, tastes, and views on life. She was night; I was day. And I certainly didn’t need to associate with a bunch of twenty-somethings either.

Any “get-lost” spells out there? I wondered. God seemed to be ignoring most of my prayers, including the ones asking for Tom to get a job, so I didn’t expect any divine help. Instead, I lay down and entered a meditative state. I visualized their faces, distasteful as it was, and then imagined those images dissolving into nothing. Just nothing. I reminded myself they couldn’t harm me and that I had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t that I was afraid they’d actually harm me or take me to court. I was just tired of their harassment on the one site where I couldn’t block them, and I certainly wasn’t about to inconvenience myself by leaving. So I willed them out of my life as hard as I could.

And then I stopped hearing from them.

But Tammy left me with something: a newfound interest in social sites. I updated and spruced up my profiles. I didn’t care about racking up “friends,” but I was curious to see if I could reconnect with people I’d known.

My Bio - Part 41

NOTE: This section updated in March 2010.

It has been nearly two years since we left the motel and moved into the secluded little trailer in the woods. I was battling a bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder, while he held onto hopes of a better future for us. It wasn’t that I lacked hope; I just approached it more cautiously, knowing our plans rarely materialized as envisioned—sometimes for the better, sometimes not.

Living in this trailer with Jesse as our landlord has been both good and bad, but mostly good. Until November of 2008, it was the quietest place we’d ever lived, with only a few scattered barking fits, engine-gunning sprees from Jesse, and occasional gunshots. The neighbors’ pit bulls were a problem until complaints forced them to keep the dogs tied up after they tried to attack one of Jesse’s dogs and someone’s goat.

Jesse can be a pest, and his dogs, Whiskey and Brandy, drive me crazy. They weren’t much trouble until November, when they would go crazy whenever Jesse left, barking for hours. This persisted until mid-April, quieting down only to repeat the following November.

During our first four months here, Jesse was a constant presence, always coming down to tell us something, work on something, or address plumbing issues. I wished he didn’t live here, especially when our repeated requests to call first for non-emergencies were ignored. Though he still visits more than I’d like, it’s less frequent now.

Jesse went from always being home to never being home, with his incredibly loud motorcycle being more disruptive than his dogs. I have to crank up the sound machines to sleep during the day.

We’ve made some progress since moving to California, but we haven’t achieved what we came here for. We’re still broke and uninsured. Obama’s healthcare reform bill was signed into law today, but we won’t benefit from it for four years. Few jobs offer insurance, and Tom, despite his optimism, remains jobless in a collapsed economy. He thinks the election year will bring jobs this summer, and I hope he’s right because, without jobs, we’ll never get ahead.

The recession changed things. I stopped winning sweepstakes and contests, despite my efforts and spells. I felt it was time to move on to something new, which happened when Tom read about a site paying people to perform AI tasks. We started relying on these tasks after he was laid off, initially fearing a bigger nightmare than the motel ordeal. Despite our efforts to pawn items to survive, we never seem to get ahead, no matter how hard we try. We’ve had to accept what we can’t change. Even though we haven’t saved money or bought a house, at least Jesse lets us pay rent when we can without late fees, unlike a management company. Nearly a year later, we bought back the TV and iMac.

I grew tired of collecting dolls, a habit I was glad to let go of since they were expensive and a pain to dust. So, I retired my collection and even sold some of it off.

After reaching a record high of around 150 pounds by the time we left the motel, I started dieting and exercising, dropping down to 125 pounds—not the 110 I’d ideally like, but good enough for now.

I cut my hair to shoulder length, tired of the weight of overly long hair that had started creeping past my butt.

I found out that my parents hadn’t cut me off entirely. After months without hearing from them, I received a reply to one of my letters. I wouldn’t have minded if they had chosen not to associate with me since I wouldn’t want anyone in my life who didn’t want to be there. But as long as they don’t drive me crazy, they’re welcome to stay in touch. I think we get along better by not “mixing” family members and thereby avoiding he-said/she-said conflicts. My sister and nieces nearly drove a wedge between my folks and me until my father confronted her, and she backed off the cyberbullying. I try to send my folks a letter each month and call every few months to let them know we’re alive and see how they’re doing.

Despite the economic struggles, we found ways to have fun. I started learning Italian through a language site someone recommended and even took their Portuguese and German courses. Now, I’m fluent in three languages and am slowly gaining fluency in three others.

Social sites became a major craze. Initially, I joined sites like Facebook, MySpace, and Kiwibox mainly for their occasional contests.

One day, while entering a contest on an old social network, I noticed they had a section for journals. Wow! I thought to myself. People actually shared their journals with the world?

Then again, why not? This wasn’t the 50s. It was the 2000s when most things were aired out in public, and few things remained private. Most topics were hardly unheard of. People didn’t gasp in shock anymore if a gay person walked into the room, as they might have 40 or 50 years ago. People discussed sensitive topics like sexual abuse as casually as Christmas shopping. This openness suited me, as I saw no reason why life should be kept secret. Life—everyone had one, and we all experienced ups and downs, made mistakes, celebrated achievements, and had regrets, embarrassing moments, fun times, sadness, happiness, and fear. Did we really need to be ashamed of it? To each their own, but I saw nothing wrong with public journaling, so long as no one threatened anyone or revealed private information. The idea of sharing my entries with the public amused me, though I’m not sure why—it just did. But I would write for myself, as always, and not cater to an audience. The audience would simply be an afterthought. If anything I wrote happened to enlighten, inspire, amuse, or give someone food for thought, that was fine by me.

So, I went “live,” sharing my daily life and sometimes some of my short stories. In the last couple of years, I’ve met many people online. Some have been kind and insightful, while others have been rude and obnoxious. But I understood that in a network where millions interact, there would be some bad apples along with the good, which was to be expected.

I knew there was always the chance of being contacted by someone I didn’t want to hear from on major social sites. And I was.

My Bio - Part 40

The following morning, Saturday, Tom checked the ad for the Auburn trailer and found they’d left a number to call either Maryann or Jesse. He called Maryann first and left a message. She called back shortly, and we arranged to drive out to meet her at the trailer the next day.

The online pictures weren’t that great or detailed, though Tom noted that Maryann did confirm the trailer was secluded. This made me all the more surprised when she mentioned that “the neighbor” had complained about the last tenants. We soon learned that this “neighbor” was actually the owner of the 8-acre parcel, who lived on the property. Maryann and Jesse were initially hesitant to tell us that Jesse, Maryann’s brother, lived there for fear we might be intrusive. But once we met, they sensed we’d be good tenants and let us in on “the neighbor’s” true identity.

Only Maryann greeted us on that first visit, but when we moved in a week later, we met Jesse, too. I sensed the same trust and comfort in them as they did in us, though I occasionally wondered what else they might be hiding—like the fact that they weren’t legally set up to rent the place, which was why all utilities, including phone and internet, had to be in Jesse’s name.

As we drove through the town of Auburn, I was struck by how quaint and lively it was for a small town, with more stores and restaurants than we’d seen back in K-Falls. It took some searching to find the hidden road off one of the busier streets, but eventually, we followed a narrow dirt road that wound through the woods until we reached a fork. The right path wound upwards, while the left descended. A pickup truck, with Maryann waiting for us inside, led us down to the left.

Once the driveway leveled out, we entered a small clearing. My jaw dropped.

“Omigod,” I breathed as I took in my surroundings.

Though I hadn’t expected to find all I’d ever prayed for, any lingering doubts about the power of prayer faded away, though I would later reflect on those times and consider it might have been a coincidence. As I delve further into my life, I’ll explain why.

Stepping out of the car, still in shock, I took in a sweeping view around me. The trailer looked as run-down as the land was serene and gorgeous. Its peeling paint was in sharp contrast to the natural beauty around it, but I didn’t mind. If the surroundings were as peaceful as they seemed, then I didn’t care how old, small, or ugly the trailer was. I knew that if we were accepted, and there were no problems with the owner, we’d never leave unless we won enough money to buy a place of our own. Until then, I’d had no idea such seclusion could be found so close to civilization! I thought you had to drive an hour into the wilderness to escape people and car stereos.

Around us, we could see nothing but trees and mountains. The few houses visible were in the distance, and Jesse’s place was a couple of hundred feet up a hill in front of the trailer.

The inside of the trailer was nicer than the outside. It was 50 feet long and 10 feet wide, most of it remodeled.

When Maryann brought up the dreaded question of credit, I worried we’d lost our chance, but Tom simply explained the situation: someone had stolen his identity, and he was currently disputing it. Maryann smiled sympathetically instead of turning us away, saying she’d gone through something similar, which took her a year to resolve.

Maryann, 55, has a house in nearby Newcastle and works at Safeway. Though she said she’d be managing the trailer, Jesse has done much of the upkeep so far.

Maryann told us that the previous tenants only lasted a month. The woman had let her boyfriend move in, who then attempted to steal Jesse’s motorcycle. The police were called, and they were told to leave and never return.

“Just take our deposit, Maryann,” I thought to myself, hopeful. “We’re your dream renters. Really, we’re the ones you want.”

When she did take the deposit, it was all I could do to keep from squealing, though I knew it wasn’t official until she spoke with Jesse, and they could still change their minds.

That night, just as I was drifting to sleep, I had a vision. The woods appeared around me, and a giant, radiant bouquet of flowers bursting with colors shimmered in sunlight filtering through the trees, brilliant and dazzling.

My heart sped up, and my eyes opened slightly.

I knew we’d be moving in soon.

The next day, Maryann called to tell Tom that while they worried we wouldn’t last long since we didn’t make much money, they’d decided to give us a chance. Rent would be $825, and all we’d need to pay beyond that, aside from food and gas, was for propane and internet. There was no working landline for DSL at the moment, so Jesse generously covered the initial setup costs. He and Tom dug a trench through the trees from Jesse’s pole down the hill to the trailer. Although I was a bit annoyed by the delays due to their reluctance to explain why things had to stay in Jesse’s name, we managed to check our email by cell phone.

The week after first seeing the trailer, we finally checked out for good. Just in time to avoid a third “annual” fire inspection in the eight months we’d been there!

I waited at the door for Tom to appear with the dolly. Seeing him arrive was a joyful sight, something I once thought I’d never live to see. It was emotional for both of us.

We said goodbye to Michelle, and one of the Thai housekeepers came to see us off as we loaded the car. Rosalinda, another housekeeper, waved to us from the second floor.

On April 12, 2008, we happily escaped to the Sierra Nevada foothills, where both Jesse and Maryann awaited us. I was a bit surprised that they waited until move-in day to clean the stove and check the cooler and heater, but at least they took care of it. Soon after, Jesse, who was divorced, left to take his 10-year-old son somewhere. The kid didn’t live with him full-time.

Over the next few weeks, we emptied our storage unit, reducing our monthly expenses by about $400.

Once partly settled, we bought some necessities and a few things we wanted. We redeemed items from the pawnshop and bought a futon, a small dinette, a microwave, a water dispenser, a portable washer, an iPod, some dolls, a camera, a vacuum, and two desks. Mine was small enough to fit in the bedroom. When I won $3,000 in Apple gift cards, we bought two 20” iMacs and a color laser printer.

In less than a year, we had come further than we had in the three years we’d lived in Oregon. While I still don’t know if we’ll ever own a home again, I believe anything is possible.

One day, as I was unpacking, I pulled out an old pair of binoculars and gazed out the window. I was suddenly struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu as I recalled the dream I’d had in the motel before finding this place online. The only difference was that here, the trees were too thick and tall to see any houses through them. Sometimes, I don’t realize a dream is a premonition until it comes true.

After all this time, I’m still amazed we survived that nightmare. One thing’s certain: I’m glad we didn’t end up with Satish’s house!

My Bio - Part 39

Each day Tom returned from work, stopping at the mailbox on the way to the motel to tell me the card still hadn’t arrived, was heart-wrenching. I felt increasingly doomed, out of sorts, physically weak, and emotionally drained.

By Wednesday the 10th, the card still hadn’t come, and we were facing the reality of returning to the streets. The thought of just one day back out there was terrifying—multiple days felt unbearable. If we’d had a camper or even a larger, more comfortable vehicle, it might have been different. But even if we could live forever in our truck, we’d still need money for food and gas. Plus, we needed to shower.

Wednesday was the worst. I literally felt like we were almost dead. I truly believed life as we’d known it was over and that we’d done all we could to try to save ourselves. Lying in bed, trembling and crying while he was at work, I told myself, “Face it, there’s no getting out of this one. You tried your best, but you can’t fix this. Your time’s up. It’s time to focus on the positives of dying—like how you never did want to grow old, arthritic, and get diseases.”

Through teary eyes, I wrote a note to be copied for both our families by whoever might discover us. I explained that while neither of us wanted to die, and while it angered and frustrated us to know that our lives depended on a lousy piece of plastic, people do need money to live. I urged them not to be sad or mad, and to remember that there are as many pros to not living as there are to living. I left login details for my online journals, stories, and photo albums, including information about storage and mail locations. I asked that my friends be contacted as well.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever written, fully believing we’d be gone in a matter of hours. We had agreed to take our lives that night after Tom made one final phone call to the debit card company to get access to our money. The moment he hung up, exhausted and frustrated, I felt true, heart-sinking despair.

We planned to go together just after midnight on Thursday, like a real-life Romeo and Juliet, figuring that anyone around us would likely be asleep and wouldn’t hear anything. We intended to be as quiet as possible, sealing ourselves in the bathroom with tape along the door edges and vents, hoping the room didn’t have a carbon monoxide detector.

That evening, lying in bed while Tom watched TV, I imagined our tombstones. I pictured the dates and wondered where we’d be buried—not that it mattered, but I was naturally curious. Would they separate us, sending me back east? Or would they bury us together in Arizona or California?

I missed Tinkerbell like crazy but was glad she wasn’t there to go through this with us. I also realized I was afraid to die—not so much because of a potential afterlife, but more from the fear of whatever pain I might experience on the way.

I glanced at the clock: 7:15.

Next came the guilt. I felt I wasn’t a strong enough influencer and feared I was pushing Tom into something he didn’t want. Yet, he promised me we were in this together no matter what and would not let me go alone. Neither of us wanted to live without the other, even though neither of us wanted to die.

Then, sadness and anger surfaced over all the small things we wouldn’t get to experience if I couldn’t figure something out, and quickly. I didn’t care if I never got to expand my doll collection, but I wanted to see Tom do what he loved. I wanted to live to listen to my stereo, to see my dolls if I didn’t have to sell them, to hang my wind chimes, to learn Italian, and to finish my stories.

At that moment, I realized dying was easier said than done. While I still wasn’t sure if we could make it, a stubborn urge to fight and survive came over me. I thought of what I’d do differently if I managed to escape this mess.

Desperate to survive, I knew there was one last option, though it was a long shot and slightly humiliating. Thanks to my impeccable memory, I remembered Mary’s number in Phoenix.

Surprisingly, she accepted the collect call, maybe out of concern that something had happened to Tom. Knowing she wouldn’t help us directly, I asked her to contact my parents in Florida, who didn’t accept collect calls. I explained that our phone charger had accidentally gone into storage, leaving our phone dead. While she didn’t offer any personal help, she agreed to make the call and asked what was wrong.

After hanging up, each minute felt like a dozen as I waited, hoping for the best. If no one would help, we’d have to proceed with our plan of ending our lives. I couldn’t endure this emotional rollercoaster much longer—it was too agonizing.

Then, the phone rang. Both my parents were on the line. I explained our situation as best I could, though I was shaken and they, in their mid-70s, weren’t as sharp. Initially, my mother said $100 was all she could spare due to medical expenses. I wondered if they were downplaying their finances, but I also knew how tight Social Security could be. She then told me about her own health struggles, including a recent surgery after years of smoking had cost her part of one lung, and that she’d had breast cancer surgery too. Despite her faults, it was sad to hear.

My parents did far more than just help. They saved us, covering two nights at the motel and sending $300 to get us through.

By Saturday the 13th, I saw a glimmer of hope, though we weren’t out of the woods yet. We had two chances: transferring funds to the new debit card or receiving the old one.

Since we hadn’t been able to go online due to his desktop’s lack of an antenna, Tom rigged a makeshift one. Online, he attempted to transfer half of the funds on the old card, now up to $850 with two paychecks, to the new card.

What Tom never told me, likely to keep me from panicking even more, was that the card probably wouldn’t come until Monday the 15th. Instead, he told me it could arrive any time.

The suspense was agonizing as I waited for Tom to get off work on Monday. The moment he called to tell me the new card had finally arrived, I felt the true meaning of “relief.”

I wrote a detailed letter to my parents, explaining why we left Oregon, the issues with the debit card, and our goals. I also asked them not to share our contact info with Larry or Tammy, as I didn’t wish to reconnect with them. At that time, I only provided our postal address, withholding our phone number, and skipped the email since they hadn’t had internet access for years.

In her reply, my mother promised she’d never share our address and assured me we didn’t need to repay them. She never expressed love, though, either by phone or by mail.

I was grateful for their help, but I was also faced with a tough decision. I had to ask myself if my gratitude was worth having them back in my life. After all, their help didn’t erase the past, and I knew that reconnecting would likely bring old cycles back. I reminded myself of why I’d walked away from the family drama. I’d rather be hated for what I am than loved for what I’m not, and I had no desire to engage with people who’d struggled to accept me as I was. I decided to keep things simple by sending a letter every month or so. I continued until six months went by without a reply from them.

It seemed they’d made the decision for me, and I’ll admit a part of me was relieved, suspecting they thought, “We helped her, and now she’s on her own again.”

To this day, I’m still unsure why my folks chose to help if they weren’t interested in a relationship. Perhaps they felt that, while they didn’t want to know us, they also didn’t want to see us starving on the streets.

I went to bed that night with a full stomach, knowing our room was paid for a week. I was no longer afraid to dream.

Eventually, we found ourselves out in the country, but not without another six months of struggle. Once we could finally access our money, we were briefly ahead, but it didn’t last.

My stomach took a month to recover from the poor diet we endured during the worst days. Each day, I prayed for life’s necessities and guidance toward a peaceful place to live.

Near the end of the year, a few months before we found our current rental, I noticed that my dreams never took place in apartments. Despite thinking an apartment would be our only option, I wasn’t haunted by apartment nightmares.

Toward the year’s end, things began improving. Tom transferred to the second shift, allowing us more time to search for rentals during the day. My wins started to pick up too, and I hit it big. I won a 32-inch flat-panel TV, multiple $100 gift cards, cash, shopping sprees, a $500 check for a cleaning tip selected by Clorox (plus a year’s worth of cleaning supplies), and a Yamaha Rhino ATV! We hoped to sell the ATV for a few thousand, though we doubted our chances of getting a house with our imperfect credit.

In January 2008, we learned we’d receive a cash equivalent for the ATV, which thrilled us. Plus, we expected a $1,000 IRS refund in May. For the first time, we had enough money to fulfill our goals: finding a decent rental and a reliable used car. But there was a catch: we had to wait nearly three months for both the nine grand and the $500. Once again, we nearly lost everything. The stress of waiting for them to write a lousy check was agonizing, and we had to pawn more things, including the TV. Just when I doubted we’d ever get the money, both checks arrived in late March, finally offering a glimpse of light at the end of our long tunnel.

Tired of noisy neighbors, a faulty AC, and a leaky fridge, we moved to the room next door. The new room felt like a fresh start.

Tom found a 1994 Ford Taurus wagon for $2,500 after taxes and licensing. It felt amazing to drive a fully legal car. The constant anxiety had been a huge burden for him. Whether it was prayers or just luck that kept him from getting pulled over, we were grateful.

Looking back, things could have been worse. The truck could have been impounded or broken down before the big check came. But I didn’t miss that old, uncomfortable truck, which Tom described as reliable to the end.

That night, with the new car, I realized all we had left to do was find a decent place to live.

That night, I drifted into sleep, dreaming of floating through the woods.

Since the check was so large, Tom could only cash part of it initially. It took a couple of weeks to access the full amount from his usual check-cashing place.

About a week before he withdrew the remaining funds, I dreamt of living in a house with significant space around it. I peered through binoculars at a house a few hundred feet away, its interior warmly lit but empty of people. I wrote it off as wishful thinking when I awoke.

Just after midnight on April 5th, Tom found an ad online for an old single-wide trailer in the tiny town of Auburn, 30 miles east of Sacramento. The secluded, country setting intrigued us. However, the ad lacked contact info, so Tom notified the site.

My Bio - Part 38

We spent about six hours loading the rental truck we would drive down to Sacramento, attaching a trailer to pull our own vehicle behind. By 3:00 p.m., we finally left Oregon for the last time on July 25, 2007.

Moving such a long distance without unlimited funds made me anticipate some challenges, but I didn’t expect the journey to be a near-disaster that would threaten our lives. It began as nothing like I’d envisioned; my expectations had never included poverty, hunger, homelessness, or sheer chaos. Had I known what lay ahead, I’d have felt sick to my stomach on the spot. The hardships we endured would make my previous challenges seem minor. It would end up being the third most scariest moment of my life.

Though the drive felt endless, I was excited to see the first palm trees as we approached Sacramento. We stopped to eat in Redding and didn’t reach the Clarion Hotel until 10:00 p.m. There, a group of youths played loud music in the adjacent room and practically took over the hallway.

Exhausted, we moved to an Econo Lodge. The room was spacious but pricey for a place with no amenities. After two nights, we transferred to a different Econo Lodge downtown, storing our belongings in a 10x10 storage unit. This motel had internet, but it was unreliable, making it a struggle for Tom to apply for unemployment online.

Our worst decision was spending a week at the Motel 6. The noise level was unbearable, reminiscent of a past experience I’d had in the projects 15 years earlier. The flimsy floorboards trembled whenever someone walked by, waking me up constantly. Someone seemed to be dealing drugs nearby, adding to the chaos. The frustration reached a boiling point, so we relocated to Best Western in Roseville. Though expensive, this hotel offered a spacious room with a mini-refrigerator, microwave, and coffeemaker.

Amid this chaos, two bits of unfortunate news surfaced. First, our property management withheld our $450 deposit, citing bogus repair charges. We had left the house spotless aside from a few minor issues, so I was disappointed that my instinct to leave the place “as is” was overruled by Tom’s wish to leave it clean. Second, Tom’s unemployment claim was denied. He had left his job to find work in a city with better access to doctors for my medical needs, but they didn’t give a shit.

With no deposit refund, no unemployment, and Tom still jobless, my stress turned into fear.

On August 12, Tom found a temp job at a warehouse in Rocklin. Although the pay was only $10 an hour and his coworkers were unpleasant, his boss was supportive. Two days later, we settled in the best extended-stay motel we could afford, though it wasn’t in the best part of Sacramento. The room, on the top of three floors, had a full-size bed, recliner, dresser, small table, and kitchen. While the space was cozy and functional, the decor was drab, and the walls were thin. The air conditioner malfunctioned, the microwave carousel didn’t work, and the refrigerator leaked. Noise from slamming doors and blaring TVs was an ongoing nuisance, along with frequent disturbances from the friendly but overly active staff performing maintenance and inspections.

Had we been in an end room, things might have been quieter, but that larger room was more expensive. I had no idea we’d end up living there for over eight months. Although we could come and go, it felt little more than a glorified jail cell.

Our expenses were astronomical. Gas prices had skyrocketed, the room cost $320 per week even at a discounted rate, and our storage unit was $87 monthly. While I enjoyed the warmer climate and proximity to stores and restaurants, I disliked the crowds.

Shortly after settling at the motel, we lost our beloved Tinkerbell to a tumor, which only deepened my despair and anger. I loved that rat dearly.

Over time, we became familiar with the motel staff, though a few, like one office worker and a housekeeper named Prasaad from Fiji, weren’t our favorites. Prasaad, originally friendly, became a bit cold, making me wonder if something had happened. Seeing someone immigrate here only to treat the natives poorly just wasn’t right.

Nonetheless, two of the people we met there became my favorites: Michelle and Kissum.

Michelle worked days in the office. She was a year younger than me. Although it was dyed, like my own long black hair that reached past my waist, I admired her fiery red hair and friendly eyes. Michelle was a bit heavy, but overall, she was good-looking. She was always quick to help us in any way she could, and I looked forward to seeing her whenever I went to the office, whether to drop off mail or for anything else.

Then there was Kissum, my favorite housekeeper, who was also from Fiji. I never would’ve guessed she’d become one of my favorites since she was so quiet the first few times she cleaned our room. But over time, she turned out to be quite chatty, and I looked forward to her visits. Her upbeat energy and humor did wonders for my otherwise sour mood.

There were a few other housekeepers as well: two from Thailand, one from Mexico, a new one hired right before we left from India, and Josephina, who was originally from New Zealand. Josephina was young and attractive and even tried to help us when things were at their worst by attempting to get us into a rooming house. But eventually, she called to tell us she hadn’t been able to reach anyone there. She worked on rooms during our first few months but later moved to the laundry department and I never saw her again.

Satish, another one from Fiji, was the head maintenance guy and friendly, though he deflated our hopes almost as quickly as he raised them. He had offered to rent us his three-bedroom house in the city for a thousand dollars a month. But when housing prices started plummeting, he backed out. At first, I felt hurt by the letdown, but I couldn’t really blame him—I would have waited, too. Still, it was tough to feel like we were finally close to finding a home, only to be left once again wondering where we could go, who would take us without perfect credit, and how we could escape constant noise, barking dogs, and loud stereos.

Mike, the manager, was also kind and offered us a slight discount on the grand-a-month monthly rate they started offering right before we left. But by then, we were too close to moving on to take him up on it, though the discount would have helped tremendously if it had been available earlier.

As the weather cooled, things worsened.

Our truck was broken into, and Tom’s birth certificate, some tools, a laser printer, and a few other items were stolen.

I started gaining weight and feeling stiffer from spending so much time cooped up in the room, struggling to work on the computer amid the constant noise. I wasn’t winning many sweepstakes, which I blamed partly on the unreliable internet we had for the first couple of months.

Eventually, the DMV stopped giving us temporary permits after our ’79 Dodge failed emissions, and Tom had to drive with expired plates. Later, the truck’s insurance expired, and we couldn’t afford to renew it, which only added to his stress on the road.

Then came October, and with it, a nightmare. To say I felt like we were being taunted is an understatement. Imagine a deranged person holding a gun to your head, saying, “Maybe I’ll pull the trigger, maybe I won’t.” The terror of that uncertainty was exactly what we felt daily, especially between October 4 and October 15—an 11-day stretch that was unrelentingly stressful as hell. Our survival was on the line, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. We felt trapped between the streets and despair.

On Thursday night, October 4, I had a dream that we had no money for food or rent. The next morning, October 5, Tom left early for work. When I woke up, I texted him about the dream, saying it had left me with one of my bad feelings, the kind we’d both come to recognize as forewarnings of trouble.

That afternoon, Tom came back to the room earlier than usual, carrying no groceries and looking grim. “Bad dream premonition,” he said, confirming the uneasy feeling in my gut. He explained that his paycheck had been directly deposited as usual, but we couldn’t access our account. Our debit card had expired while we were still in Oregon, and the bank had sent a new one to our old address. When it was returned, they hadn’t bothered to call or email us.

The next day, with no other options, we loaded up the truck in search of a campground. But we couldn’t find any; the directions people gave us were vague and led us in circles.

In desperation, we considered ending it all in the back of the truck by lighting charcoal to produce carbon monoxide. We wanted a quiet, secluded place with no chance of intervention. But even that seemed beyond our reach.

After wandering aimlessly and wasting gas, we began pulling items from storage to sell or pawn: Tom’s Xbox, the GPS, a couple of electric guitars I’d won, DVDs, CDs, and more. I was sick of the humiliation of being reduced to struggling, starving, pawning this, selling that—just to survive. While some items were things we had planned to part with, we wanted to do it our way, not forced in a rush, taking whatever we could get.

The money we raised bought us gas and a little food. Surprisingly, those “little wins” I used to complain about helped save the day. Without anywhere to go, we ended up at a rest stop heading towards Reno, but it was cold, so we turned back and parked in the Thunder Valley Casino lot. Making as much space as we could in the back of our beat-up truck, we spent part of Saturday night there. I climbed in first, and Tom, after making sure no one was watching, followed, pulling the hatch shut behind him. We lay huddled together, shivering, trying to stay quiet. People couldn’t see in well, but we could see them. Did any of them know what it was like to be broke and homeless? Did they take their homes and food for granted? Did they think only the lazy, the alcoholics, and the addicts ended up like us? Did they think their worst fears could never come true? What made them more deserving? We worked as hard as anyone, maybe harder.

Tom was afraid to sleep, worried his snoring might draw attention, and I was too cold, uncomfortable, scared, and angry to sleep myself. When he went to use the restroom in the casino, I lay there shivering, mentally cursing a God I wasn’t sure existed.

Eventually, I couldn’t take the cold and had to pee, so I went inside, used the restroom, and had Tom paged. Without money to gamble, we tried to blend in at the restaurant; he got a soda, and I ordered coffee. God only knew how much longer I needed to be awake. Our waitress, Dee, noticed our situation and told us about Kampgrounds of America, even offering soup on her tab. We declined the soup but thanked her for the KOA information. Unfortunately, it wasn’t free as she’d said, and going to a campground just wasn’t an option without a tent or money. Everywhere we turned, we seemed trapped in a real Catch-22.

By 4:00 AM, knowing we wouldn’t get any real sleep, we left the casino and headed for Walmart, where Tom browsed the store while I mostly stayed in the truck, lying down to calm my nerves. Around 7:00, we returned to storage to pull more things to pawn—the digital camera, a diamond I’d won, and finally, our laptop. While Tom was inside, I managed a 45-minute nap in the truck’s front seat.

The pawnshop didn’t open until 11:00, and as we waited, exhausted, I couldn’t shake the feeling of doom. The thought of not getting enough money to survive until our new debit card arrived was overwhelming.

Finally, when the shop opened, Tom went in first to see if they’d accept what we had. A moment later, Tom returned with good news—the pawnshop would give $65 for the diamond. I used my ID to complete the sale since Tom had left his at the casino the previous day. We’d laugh later about how he didn’t want to mention this in front of the pawnshop workers, knowing they might judge us less favorably if they heard the word “casino.”

We now had enough for one night at the motel. After pawning the laptop, camera, and diamond, we returned to the motel, where I finally met Michelle, the person I’d only spoken to over the phone thus far. Mixed feelings hit me as we re-entered that familiar room. I didn’t want to be there, but we desperately needed to shower and do laundry, even if it meant washing clothes in the tub. Also, it was more comfortable to sleep in a real bed, as opposed to the back of a pickup.

The room felt enormous compared to the cramped truck. We set up our remaining things, including a desktop computer from storage, and took showers. With only 45 minutes of sleep in over 30 hours, I ended up sleeping on and off for 14 hours, despite waking frequently from stress. The whole time, I wondered if we’d get our new debit card or if we’d be back on the street the next day. I was afraid of what I’d see in my dreams but more afraid of reality. Sleep, however fitful, was my only escape.

The next day, Monday, Tom couldn’t work because he had to figure out a way to get more money. He sold a gun sight I’d won, buying us another night’s stay but not enough for gas or food.

When Tom called the temp agency and card company, they gave conflicting answers, saying a new card could be expedited, but only if it didn’t arrive by Monday. After calling his boss Tuesday morning, she surprised us with her generosity, giving him $100 for gas. But even with the $100, we were far from stable. It bought us a room for Tuesday night, some food, and a little more gas. But after those expenses, we were back to square one—completely broke.