For the second time in the span of two years, I have been rendered officially homeless. The first time was for the span of a month back in 2019, and this time is from now, until god-knows-when. I say homeless as well in the sense of lacking a permanent address. The first time I was staying in a shelter for that month, and with friends—back when I was in high-school, and freshly a legal adult. This second time is now that I’ve been kicked out of college on the account of being unable to pay for it.

This second time I’m currently staying with friends for the foreseeable future. The arrangement is currently unknown at this time, seeing as this has occurred in the span of 24 hours, but I will push to make actual, formal arrangements with them in the near future. This post isn’t about this though—that will be a future post without a doubt. I’m going to document all of this, this time. Now that I’ve been through it once, I can hopefully give some insight on the entire ordeal, along with documenting my entire journey through life.

I have always seen these major events—having to move somewhere else entirely—as a new chapter in my life. A chance to start over. To keep the good from the past, and leave the bad behind. Considering this has only happened now three times before over the course of two years as an adult, I’d like to think I’m doing something right, regardless of statistics saying otherwise.

The first time this ever happened, I was originally kicked out of my house. That’s what really ignited my passion for writing. I know I don’t post a lot, but I do tend to write a lot of things—most of it never is published because I really don’t like it. The few posts I do really enjoy tend to get published. This is one of those things I do publish. Not so much I enjoy what I’ve written, but mostly because I feel I have to. I have to get this story correct. I have to post this. (As a quick side-note as well, since I’m currently writing this: have is a really weird word, and I’ve said it so many times recently that it doesn’t feel like a word.)

So, for this post, I’d like to reflect a little bit on these changes I’ve noticed between all three times I’ve moved since turning eighteen.

To begin, the first real change I ever noticed after being kicked out was that I was actually much happier than when I was living with my parents. Yes, I was always very uncertain about what tomorrow would bring. Yes, I was always uncertain about where my next meal would come from. Yes, I was always uncertain if I would even have shelter for the next day—but I was happier. This comes from the semi-abusive relationship my parents had with me when I grew up, but that’s for another day. While this happiness wasn’t perfect either, it genuinely was a starting point. This happiness—this excitement to start over again—hasn’t ever died off any of the times I’ve moved places. Even now, as I write this, I’m still incredibly happy with the freedom I have. I’m not worried about what tomorrow brings for the most part.

The second major thing I’ve noticed with each of these moves is that I’ve been forced to act more and more professional. Each move has forced me to interact with a myriad of different people. The first time was with my high school, the second time was with my college, and this time is now with businesses, as I try to find a job. Each move has forced me to try to change something about myself. The first move was me going by William, instead of Billy. The second was a cementing of my identity. And the third is now (presumably) me trying to get by without my ADHD medication, which has been a pain. This post is the byproduct of me trying to force myself to sit down and write some stuff. Tomorrow, after I’ve had more time to reflect, I’ll be able to update you guys on how I’m doing. For now, I think reflecting on these two changes after sweeping the apartment I’ve been staying in is good enough.

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