I have lived in my house for almost five years now.
I love my house.
It is spacious, beautiful and has beautiful views.
I can walk up the stairs.
And yet, for some reason, my home feels like an island.
Its floors are dirty, the paint is faded, and the walls are covered in dust.
The walls are a black backdrop to the house.
The carpet is a deep brown and the flooring is yellow.
But my home is not a place of safety.
There are no curtains to ward off evil spirits.
The only sound is the clatter of metal hinges, the creaking of metal plates.
The floorboards are slippery.
As I climb the stairs to my first floor, I notice that my door doesn’t open.
My home is silent.
I have no clue what I am doing here.
A neighbor has given me a key.
On my way out the front door, I hear a woman yell, “There’s no way you’re going down here!
He doesn’t have a key!”
The door swings open and a woman in a dark suit and black tie comes into the house and knocks on my door.
She tells me that I have a problem.
“What’s going on?”
“I can’t get in.
You have to let me in.
I have to get you out of here.”
The door is slammed shut.
Then, another woman comes in.
She says, “Come on in.
We need to get out of there.”
She says, You have to go down here.
“She walks out the door.
The doors of my home are locked.
How do I open them?
How do they close?
What are the rules?
Why do people still want to live in my apartment?
I need a solution.
I need to know if I have been living in an island of darkness for years or if I am just an exception.
Because it is a big difference.
My home in the Bronx is a ghost town.
In the early days of the city’s housing crisis, the only people living there were the elderly and the homeless.
They could barely afford to pay the bills.
Most of the other people in my neighborhood lived in single-family homes, where they could afford to buy and rent a place to live.
People with disabilities were forced into substandard apartments because of a law passed in 1987 that limited the number of people who could be housed.
These laws were passed in the face of widespread homelessness, and were designed to keep the city from spiraling out of control.
So, when the city passed the Mental Health and Addiction Prevention Act, it was to address the problems caused by the old law.
Instead, the law has made homelessness more pervasive and more prevalent.
I don’t know if the city was successful in making sure people were housed and the elderly were not trapped in their homes.
But that is what I think has happened to my neighbors in my city.
I know my neighbors don’t want to go.
They don’t trust their neighbors, who don’t seem to care about them.
I think they are living in a different world than the one they were born into.
When my neighbors call, they are afraid to come home.
My neighbors in the neighborhood say the city is failing to provide adequate services.
They say that the city doesn’t do enough to help them find jobs, which are often at a disadvantage to those in the private sector.
They say that there is no real infrastructure for housing them.
After months of frustration and frustration, I finally got a hint of what is happening.
I had to make a decision.
I was told I would have to move out.
No one in my family wanted to move in with me.
I could afford a place in a city with good schools, but I didn’t want that.
So I decided to find a place that didn’t have too many challenges.
The neighborhood that I was in was full of people with disabilities.
My new home has a lot of things that make me happy.
Living in my new home was so much more like home than I thought it would be.
Now, I can live with my family, the things that made my home my home.
What does that mean for my future?
What can I do to make sure that this neighborhood is not forgotten?