My First Night Was The Hardest

The first night I had my own apartment, I slept on the floor.

Not because I didn't have a bed yet. I didn't have anything yet.

No couch. No table. No television. No dishes. I had a backpack, two garbage bags of clothes, a phone charger, a towel, and a set of keys I kept checking every few minutes to make sure they were still in my pocket.

I was 41 years old.

The apartment was a small studio on the second floor of an older building. The carpet had stains the landlord couldn't get out. The refrigerator made a clicking sound every few minutes, and if the guy upstairs walked across his apartment, I could hear almost every step.

I thought it was beautiful.

Sixteen months earlier, I'd been sleeping in my car.

Before that, my life had been pretty normal. I worked construction, rented a small place, paid my bills and saw my daughter every other weekend. I wasn't doing great, but I wasn't doing badly either.

Then I injured my shoulder at work. I couldn't do much for a couple of months, and the company didn't have enough light-duty work to keep me going. I fell behind on rent faster than I thought possible.

I remember thinking homelessness was something that happened slowly.

For me, it didn't.

There was no dramatic moment where I suddenly became homeless. It was a bunch of small things going wrong close together. I missed rent. Then I borrowed money. Then I couldn't pay that back. Then I got another notice on my door. Eventually, I put what I could fit into my car and left the rest behind.

The first few nights in the car almost felt temporary. I told myself I was camping. I'd shower at the gym, go to work when I could pick up small jobs, and park somewhere different every night.

I thought I'd be back in an apartment within a few weeks.

A few weeks became months.

You learn strange things when you live in a car. You learn which parking lots security checks and which ones don't. You learn that sleeping with your seat reclined sounds much more comfortable than it actually is. You learn where the clean bathrooms are. You learn how to brush your teeth without anyone noticing.

Mostly, you learn how exhausting it is to have nowhere you're allowed to simply exist.

I tried very hard not to look homeless. I kept my clothes clean. I shaved. I kept the inside of the car organized because I was terrified someone would look through the window and figure me out.

My daughter didn't know at first.

When it was supposed to be my weekend with her, I'd make excuses. Work came up. I wasn't feeling well. Something happened with the apartment.

She was thirteen.

Eventually she asked me, "Dad, do you not want me coming over anymore?"

That was probably the lowest point.

I told her the truth.

Not everything, but enough.

I told her I was having money problems and didn't have my apartment anymore. She was quiet for a few seconds and then asked where I was sleeping.

I lied and said I was staying with a friend.

I don't know why that lie still bothers me. Maybe because she believed me and sounded relieved.

Things slowly got better. My shoulder improved. A contractor I'd worked with years earlier gave me steady work. I paid off some debts and started putting money aside.

Getting an apartment turned out to be harder than saving the deposit. My credit had been destroyed. I had an eviction on my record. I filled out applications and paid fees just to get rejected.

One landlord didn't even let me finish explaining.

Then I found this studio.

The landlord was an older woman named Denise. She asked about the eviction, and for once I didn't try to make it sound better than it was. I told her what happened. I showed her my pay stubs and bank account. I offered a larger deposit even though it would leave me almost broke again.

She called me two days later.

"Come get your keys."

I still remember standing in the leasing office while she slid them across the desk.

Two little silver keys on a cheap blue plastic tag.

I had owned nicer things in my life.

Nothing ever felt more valuable.

I drove straight to the apartment. I opened the door, walked inside and locked it behind me.

Then I unlocked it.

Then I locked it again.

I don't know why.

Maybe I just wanted to hear it.

That evening, I went to a discount store and bought a pillow, a blanket, toilet paper, soap, two towels, a plastic cup and a frozen pizza. I didn't buy a mattress because I wanted to wait until my next paycheck.

I ate the pizza sitting on the kitchen floor because I didn't own a chair.

Around eleven, I turned off the lights, put the pillow against the wall and tried to sleep on the carpet.

I couldn't.

For months, I'd imagined what my first night indoors would feel like. I thought I'd sleep for twelve hours.

Instead, I just lay there staring at the ceiling.

The refrigerator clicked.

Someone upstairs dropped something.

A car alarm went off outside.

And for some reason, I started crying.

It wasn't dramatic. I didn't break down screaming or anything like that. Tears just started running down the sides of my face into my ears while I stared at the ceiling.

I think my body finally understood that I didn't have to figure out where I was sleeping tomorrow.

Nobody was going to knock on the window and tell me to move.

I didn't have to wake up before sunrise so people wouldn't see me climbing out of the back seat.

I could use the bathroom at three in the morning.

I could take my shoes off.

I could leave my phone charging while I slept.

Those were the things that made me cry.

Not having an apartment.

Being allowed to stop worrying for one night.

The next morning, sunlight came through the blinds and landed on those ugly carpet stains.

I made instant coffee in the plastic cup because I hadn't bought a mug yet. I sat against the wall drinking it and called my daughter.

"I got a place."

She screamed.

Then she immediately started asking questions. Did she have somewhere to sleep? Could she decorate? Could we get a couch? Was there Wi-Fi?

I laughed and told her we didn't even have chairs yet.

That weekend she came over.

We ate takeout on the floor.

She brought a little wooden sign she'd bought with her own money. It said HOME.

Normally I would've thought something like that was cheesy.

I still have it.

It's been three years now. I don't live in that studio anymore. I have a better apartment, a couch, a real bed and more dishes than one person needs. My daughter is older now and makes fun of me because I still keep that blue plastic key tag in a drawer.

I keep it because sometimes I need to remember what having nothing taught me.

So if you're reading this while your life is going badly, I won't tell you that everything magically works out. Sometimes it doesn't work out quickly. Sometimes you do everything you're supposed to do and still get rejected. Sometimes rebuilding your life is embarrassing, lonely and much slower than people make it sound.

But don't underestimate small victories.

A paycheck can be a victory. Paying one bill can be a victory. Asking someone for help can be a victory. A cheap frozen pizza on an empty apartment floor can be a victory.

And if you're fortunate enough tonight to have a door you can lock, a bathroom you can use whenever you want and somewhere safe to sleep, don't wait until you lose those things to understand what they're worth.

I once thought success meant having a nice house and money in the bank.

For one night, success was a stained carpet, two silver keys, and knowing nobody could tell me to leave.