Help Matt and Owen Avoid Eviction

This is certainly the most embarrassing back-to-the-wall situation I've experienced in my life.  I'm not good at asking for help, but there are moments when ego and pride are set aside, when reality is staring you in the face.  So here I am. 

We moved into our house four years ago, with a lot of hope.  It was Owen, me, and his mother.  We had moved to this area so his mother could attend nursing school while I worked.  I was fortunate at the time, able to work remotely a few days a week, and travel two hours to the office, and two hours back on the other days. Our goal was to get across the graduation finish line.  I would work, and his mother would attend nursing school.  We knew that it would be tight, but we planned to scrape by, and knew we'd be ok once she graduated and we both could contribute financially.  The house was supposed to be a stepping stone, a place of stability while we worked to improve our lives. 



In mid 2018, my job asked that I start working in the office five days a week.  It was a 2-3 hour drive there and back, and Owen's mother was still finishing school- so I declined and left a six figure job, so we could stay where we were and his mom could finish school. 

It was seven months before I would find another job.  We live in a rural area, and jobs are sparse.  I applied to hundreds of jobs.  I went through dozens of interviews with call backs and second call backs but no offers. It was, without a doubt, the darkest period of my life.  Over seven months, we slowly spent my savings- paying for nursing school, rent, utilities, food, etc- until there was no money left. 

When the money ran out, I started doing odd jobs, picking up used furniture, rehabbing it, and selling it.  I was spending nights in a truck, traveling up to 2 hours each way to pick up a couch so I could clean it, fix it, and sell it for $300 so I could afford to feed my family.  Going from a six figure job to being completely broke, and broken, sleeping in the bed of a truck in the middle of winter, selling used couches in the dark, was an experience that I am sure will haunt me most likely until the day I die.  



I fell behind on rent, and bills- setting up payment plans with everyone who would allow me, in an effort to buy time.  And then, in late January of 2019, after 7 months, I was able to secure a job.  It was half the salary I had been making previously, but it was income and was enough to scrape by- pay the bills, and rent, without catching up on any past due amounts that had accumulated over the past 7 months of unemployment.  The priority was always on getting through nursing school.  It was the light at the end of the tunnel.

And then, in December of 2019, Owen's mother graduated.  Unfortunately, by that point, we had drifted so far, we couldn't see one another from opposite sides of the sofa.  I'll spare the details, because the story does not belong entirely to me- but ultimately, Owen's mother chose to move out.  And then it was just Owen and me, scraping by. 



2020 came and COVID hit hard, but we made the best of it.  There wasn't much money, but there was more than enough love.  Jobs were nonexistent, finding a higher paying opportunity would have to wait through a pandemic.  The debt that had accumulated over a year before continued to hang over me like a cloud.  I continued to pay the current bills, and rent, but had no money left to pay down past debt.  Or anything.  When the car stopped working, I got an old  mint green VW bug with 350,000 miles on it.  When the ac stopped working, we put the windows down. When the heat stopped working, we used blankets.  Owen started kindergarten, and I spent the vast majority of 2020 in a house, alone. Waking, pacing, trying to sleep, repeat. The anxiety was overwhelming.  I couldn't sleep.  I lost interest in poetry.  I started taking anxiety medication for the first time in my life.  

And for any amount I couldn't pay, the penalties continued to grow.  As snowballs tend to do. 

Two days ago, I received a letter notifying me that I have ten days to pay the past due amount of $4,600- a figure that came from past due rent from over two years prior, and the accumulated late/penalty fees.  If I sold everything I own, which is very little at this point, I couldn't come up with half of that money in ten days.  It has been a long, hard six years since my son was born. And this is where I've landed- a pending eviction on my 37th birthday.  I honestly can't recognize my own life at this point.


When Owen was born, he was rushed to the NICU for a few days.  He had fluid in his lungs, and needed a little help breathing.  I spent the first day he was alive sitting in a room with him hooked to tubes and machines, with his tiny fingers squeezing my shaking index finger; and I promised him I wouldn't ever let him down.  I promised him I would do anything I had to, to keep him safe. 

If I tried to tell the entirety of the last six years, it would take six lifetimes I'm sure.  It's been a long, hard road.  I don't know anything about being a good man, or a good person- but I know that I love my son. And this is his home. It's the only home he knows.  He learned to walk and speak here. He started daycare and kindergarten here.  He learned to ride a bike, to dance, to sing, here.  He learned how to find monarch caterpillars and release them as butterflies.  He learned to count.  To say the alphabet.  He is the love of my life, my best friend, and this is his home, and I'm failing him. I'm letting him down, and I'm breaking the promise I made to him on the day he came into this world.  So I'm here. Doing what I would never do for myself.  Being vulnerable. Asking for help.  

I know my story isn't unique, and I know there are others who deserve your help more than Owen and me and I know not everyone is able to help even if they felt inclined.  But if I didn't at least try, if I didn't at least ask, I wouldn't forgive myself.  


So this is a last ditch effort to catch up on a debt that has been weighing me down for over two years and is now threatening to take away my son's home. Our home. If you can help, in any way, I would appreciate it.  And if you can't, or would rather not, I understand.  I expect nothing, truly.  But I had to try.