Rosey's Diary: Lessons From (Temporary & Planned) Displacement

Displacement sucks. I am going to start this post with many caveats: I am in no way suggesting I understand the experiences of the unhoused or of people displaced by flooding, fire, or other natural disasters. My property manager gave us ample warning that our apartment needed to be inspected, that the stairs subsequently failed that inspection and they would need to be rebuilt. When he let us know we would have to have the stairs completely rebuilt, I asked if at the very least it would be possible to schedule while Toby is in Finland on a foreign-exchange program, which he was able to accommodate. So I knew construction was coming, my house is still my home, and eventually I will get to be back home and everything will be better and back to normal. Fingers crossed. Or better than normal as I will no longer have death-trap stairs that I tripped on somewhat regularly and were at risk of steps corroding at any moment. But still, I've learned some lessons and I wanted to share. Or vent. Or whine. Or whatever. After the jump. 

Having a place to call home matters. Knowing you have a safe and comfortable place to sleep, to eat, to store food in a refrigerator, to cook, to live peacefully...it matters. When any of these things are absent, it is hard not to feel completely upended. 

Some people choose #vanlife. I am not one of them. I love that we are fortunate to have a van. But maintenance of a 20+ year old van is expensive and continuous. There is always something wrong. Something shimmying or shaking or cracking or leaking. This year has been a year of big maintenance...a new transmission, a new blower for the air conditioner. Now my van is back in the shop after overheating this week...now it's in the shop for at least two more days to get a new water pump, some new hoses and belts and a few other things. Ugh. Car repairs are a nightmare. I'll be working my ass off as frequently as I can to pay for all of this.  

So last week was hard. And seeing that we were told the project would last 5 days, maybe 1 or 2 extra days, is frustrating when we've seen the work so far: Day 1 was just 2 guys who showed up after 11am and basically removed some basic stucco.  Day 2 was more significant demolition of the stairs, but the workday was done by 2:30 pm. Presumably the rest of that day was taking the stuff to the dump. Day 3 was more debris removal and bringing supplies: bags of concrete and lumber. Day 4 was laying two small slabs of concrete, presumably the base supports for the new stairs. Day 5 was ...I dunno. Your guess is as good as mine. Letting the concrete dry? Worrying about if it was going to rain? Trying to get ahold of the property manager, who is on vacation until Wednesday...to let him know there's obvious termite damage and how to proceed? Who knows. But they were gone early Friday and did not attempt work at all on the weekend. So we're at 7 days of displacement with no stairs even begun to be built. In the midst of all that, we had to have a plumber check on the studio and the P-trap is corroded, making the shower not really usable. Darren is making due with the slow drain, but it's definitely not okay. And now the clock is ticking. Toby is back in a week and needs to be close to school with a safe home and shower and his things. To say the whole thing is frustrating is an understatement. (Update: as of this writing, we may be able to get in starting Wednesday, though the project won't be complete, there may at the very least be usable stairs.)

Again, I know there are people way worse off. The people whose homes were flooded in January are still dealing with insurance and hotels and vouchers and trying to get help and lawsuits and lost all of their worldly possessions. So this isn't comparing my shit to their shit or anyone else's shit. It's just explaining what I am going through at the moment. 

I've been trying to keep it positive and still get my zoo days in and whatnot, but now I'm commuting from Chula Vista. I'm sleeping on a couch because every room in my mom's house is 98 degrees. I miss my bed. I miss my air conditioner. I miss my pets. I've been visiting them in the studio, and attempted to have Ficus stay with me at my mom's, but she's older now, and she can no longer walk on Pergo flooring without having trouble getting traction, sometimes just slipping and laying where she lands until she motivated enough to get up and try again. It was pretty bad. Back to the studio for her. It's small but she's doing better there. 

I never really thought about my wardrobe so much. I packed about 10 days of zoo clothes (leggings and t-shirts) and pajamas and a couple pairs of jeans for nights when I have to work, but everyday I think about the things I don't have...I wish I'd brought a pair of sweatpants or sports bras or more socks. I wish I had a few more shirts. Why do I have a drawer full of bras and only wear my favorites? I have done laundry but when you're on the go, you don't want to leave things in other peoples' spaces. Like even though I grew up in my parents' house, it isn't mine and hasn't been for almost 30 years. I stashed all my stuff in a corner and feel like it's really just in the way. It was even worse in LA when I stayed with my cousin. Occupying someone else's space is so uncomfortable, even when they're family. 

The zoo was getting crazy because of the big Panda debut to the public. I was there for Thursday but by the afternoon left to drive up to Los Angeles to take advantage of a couple days with my cousin and to spend time at the LA Zoo. And that's exactly how it felt. Like taking advantage. In my twenties, she had a job that had her staying at my house every weekend to go to her corporate office in San Diego on Mondays and then back to LA for the week. But we're 25 years on now. We have our spaces. Our lives. Our comfort zones. She couldn't have been more accommodating, but it still is her space. I spent a lot of time and energy trying to keep my things confined to a corner, to keep it organized and in a bag, to bring my own towels, to keep my toiletries from taking up space in her shower. To be as quiet as I can when I'm up late, and then again when I wake up earlier than wherever I am. I don't want to be in anyone's hair. I was lucky she invited me to stay longer, that even on Saturday when I was supposed to be well on my way home, I could drop in and take a shower and fill up my cup with ice and water, to take a short nap before driving. And once I was driving, it was a long meandering drive...get gas at the cheap spot across the freeway, stop at an auto-parts store to get coolant in case the van couldn't handle the drive, to use my McDonald's app to get Unsweetened Iced Tea and free fries to go with it. I was in no rush home because I didn't have a home to rush to. I did eventually get back to San Diego and floated the idea of staying in the studio with Darren to which he was quick to bring me back to reality and that there isn't enough room for both of us and the pets. 

So I'm back at my mom's. Sunday was the first time I've slept over 6 hours in one night and yet I'm still so, so tired. I still have to work. I still have to handle my shit. And now, my van is in the shop, so I am in Chula Vista with no personal transportation, so now I'm even an inconvenience to Darren who begrudgingly picked me up from the zoo and drove me to my mom's. I have to work a merch gig on Wednesday night, whether we can get back in the apartment hinges on how much they get done on Wednesday, and will we even get an update on progress? To say I'm over it is an understatement. I cannot wait to be back in my own bed. With my own things. Taking a shower and having the time to properly dry off instead of trying to put on clothes while I'm still damp. Able to stay up as late as as I want. To watch what I want. To sleep in when I need to. 

I can't wait.