When It Rains, It Pours
I don’t even know where to start.
Maybe with the house.
It wasn’t really a house anymore. It was one of those small rooms where you can touch almost everything without getting out of bed. The window didn’t close properly, and when it rained, we’d put a basin underneath it because water would come in.
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
We had lived for years in an area surrounded by small industries. Nobody thought much about it at first. The smoke was just something you got used to. The dust was everywhere. We cooked, slept, went to school, came home. Life continued.
Then my younger brother Joachim started complaining about headaches.
At first, my mother thought he was just tired.
Then he started getting stomach pains. He stopped eating properly. Sometimes he’d wake up complaining that his head was hurting so badly that he couldn’t sleep.
My sister Chantal started having problems too. She became unusually tired, struggled to concentrate at school and was constantly complaining about feeling sick.
Eventually, we were told that the environment we had been living in could have exposed us to lead contamination.
I remember sitting there thinking, How does something like this even happen to a family?
We didn’t have money to move.
We didn’t have money for all the tests.
We didn’t have money for the treatment.
And the worst part was knowing that the people who could afford to leave had already left.
So we stayed.
I kept telling myself that education would be my way out.
I studied whenever I could. Sometimes I studied hungry. Sometimes I went to class wondering how I was going to get home. But I finished school.
And for a little while, I thought, Okay. Maybe this is where my story changes.
I got a job.
It wasn’t some amazing job. But it was a job.
I could finally contribute something at home. I bought a few things for myself. I remember the first time I bought something without having to calculate whether I could afford it three times before paying.
I thought I was finally getting somewhere.
Then I lost the job.
The company was going through problems. There were arguments about salaries, people leaving, management changing. Eventually, my position disappeared.
Just like that.
No dramatic goodbye.
No warning that made sense.
One month I had a salary. The next month I didn’t.
I tried finding somewhere else.
Nothing.
The money disappeared quickly. Rent. Food. Transport. The medical bills that had never really gone away.
Eventually, I had to leave the room I was staying in.
I wasn’t thrown out.
That’s almost what makes it worse.
I packed my things myself.
There wasn’t much to pack anyway.
I sold my phone.
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Then some clothes.
Then a few other things I had bought when I thought my life was finally becoming normal.
And eventually, I found myself sleeping outside.
I remember lying there the first night and being too embarrassed to cry.
There were other people sleeping there too. People who had been there much longer than me. People who knew which places were safe and which ones weren’t.
I didn’t.
I just remember holding my bag against my chest because there was nowhere else to put it.
The next morning, I got up and went looking for work.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually, someone gave me a chance at a small clothing shop.
I started selling clothes.
I was good at it.
For the first time in a long time, I started feeling useful again. I learned the customers. I learned what sold. I learned how to convince someone to buy something without making them feel pressured.
I started saving whatever little I could.
Then the owner got sick.
The shop closed.
And somehow I was back at the beginning again.
Sometimes I wonder whether I’m actually unlucky or whether life just has a really strange sense of humour.
Every time I think I’ve finally reached solid ground, something disappears underneath my feet.
I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep fixes.
I’m tired of starting over.
I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay because I don’t know what else to say.
I’m tired of looking at Joachim and Chantal and wondering whether things would have been different if we’d had money when all of this started.
I don’t want luxury.
I don’t want a big car.
I don’t want some perfect life.
Honestly?
I want somewhere to live.
A small place with a door that closes.
A bed.
A kitchen.
A place where when it rains, I don’t have to move my mattress away from the window.
I want to buy a few basic things, get myself stable again, and have enough breathing room to start working toward something.
Maybe that’s all I’m asking for from life.
Just a little room to start again.
Because right now, it feels like every time I manage to stand up, life finds another reason to knock me back down.
And when it rains, it really does pour.
