Nobody Is Coming

2026-05-20 — Oasis Inn Room 301 — Kelowna, BC

The strange thing is:
this crisis isn’t even prolonged yet.

That’s part of what’s so psychologically disorienting about it.

I went to the hospital on Tuesday.

The temporary court stay protecting my housing ended Monday.

Tuesday the eviction became enforceable.

I was discharged from hospital on Saturday and came directly to the Oasis Inn because it was one of the least expensive motel rooms I could still find available as tourism season in Kelowna starts ramping up.

That’s the actual timeline.

Not years on the street.
Not decades of chronic homelessness.

Days.

While I was in the hospital trying to stabilize medically, friends were trying to salvage whatever they could from my apartment before deadlines hit.

Boxes.
Loose belongings.
One storage run.
Last-minute triage decisions made under exhaustion and pressure.

And meanwhile I was trying to manage:
hospitalization,
mobility issues,
court fallout,
housing uncertainty,
diabetes,
financial calculations,
and figuring out where I was even sleeping next.

That kind of transition is not something human beings adapt to gracefully in a matter of days.

Especially not while simultaneously trying to preserve legal proceedings, physical health, and basic psychological stability.

The strange thing is:
I never really expected rescue.

Not realistically.

I wasn’t sitting around believing some miracle intervention was coming.
I wasn’t waiting for a viral fundraiser.
I wasn’t expecting journalists to save me.
I wasn’t expecting politicians to suddenly intervene.
I wasn’t expecting strangers to carry me through this.

And I still don’t think what I’m feeling is self-pity.

Exhaustion?
Absolutely.

Overload?
Definitely.

Fear?
Sometimes overwhelmingly.

But self-pity doesn’t feel accurate.

Because most of my thinking right now isn’t:
“Why me?”

It’s:
“How does anybody survive this once enough systems start failing simultaneously?”

That feels different.

What I think shattered emotionally wasn’t some fantasy that life would suddenly become easy.

It was the belief that systems would at least roughly correlate with human consequences.

Not perfectly.
Not magically.
Not compassionately every time.

Just proportionally.

I genuinely believed:
the evidence mattered,
the timeline mattered,
the procedural issues mattered,
the health implications mattered,
the downstream consequences mattered,
the human outcome mattered.

Not infinitely.

Just enough.

And emotionally the outcome feels wildly disproportionate to the actual situation and effort invested trying to prevent collapse.

That’s where the fracture happened.

Not:
“Nobody saved me.”

More:
“I genuinely thought the systems would care more about the human consequences than this.”

As kids we get told:

Drink your milk.
It’ll make your bones strong.

Eat your vegetables.
They’re good for you.

Tell the truth.
Trust the law.
Trust the courts.
Trust the process.

Then adulthood starts introducing caveats nobody explained properly when you were young.

Sometimes systems don’t protect you.

Sometimes they process you.

And once you’ve watched evidence, exhaustion, disability, financial collapse, procedural disputes, and obvious downstream harm still end in displacement, it becomes harder and harder to emotionally reconcile what you were taught with what you actually experience.

Earlier today I dealt with another administrative shock related to the financial realities of displacement and disability assistance.

I already wrote separately about that because it hit me harder than I expected.

What matters here is that by the time the panic settled down, I felt less emotionally devastated than mechanically depleted.

Like my nervous system had simply run out of reserve capacity.

By late morning I wasn’t in that same immediate panic anymore.

But I also wasn’t functional.

Just exhausted.

Deep exhausted.

The kind where even simple decisions start feeling mechanically impossible.

I posted the Dispatch.
Posted the open letter.
Posted the support page.

Then mostly just sat here trying to understand what happens next when the next step itself no longer feels visible.

At some point I heated up another can of Dollarama chili and another microwave basmati rice pouch.

I’m probably on my fiftieth can by now.

That’s an exaggeration.

Probably.

But emotionally it doesn’t feel far off.

The strange thing is:
the food itself isn’t even the worst part.

The room is actually fine.

The Oasis Inn staff have been decent to me.
The room is clean.
The bed works.
The bath works.

That probably sounds like a low bar, but after the last several days even basic functionality starts feeling emotionally significant.

The room itself is simple.

A bed.
A desk table.
Two lights mounted to the wall.
No lamps.
A chair that looks more like a banquet chair than actual furniture somebody planned to sit in for long periods.
A coffee maker.
Ceramic cups.
A bathroom with a tub.
Wall heater.
Wall air conditioner.
Smoke detector.

Functional temporary shelter infrastructure.

And scattered around it:
medication,
charging cables,
microwave rice pouches,
chili cans,
triaged belongings,
and me trying to figure out what still exists operationally after the last week.

I can physically stand up and slowly move around the room.

I can microwave food.
Refill water.
Manage my insulin pump.
Post updates online.

But mentally?

I feel almost completely paralyzed.

Not lazy.
Not unwilling.

Paralyzed.

Like my brain has burned through so much sustained emergency processing that it no longer knows which direction matters anymore.

Every possible next step feels:
expensive,
temporary,
fragile,
or uncertain.

And the physical exhaustion underneath it all feels unlike anything I can remember experiencing before.

Brain fog.
Body heaviness.
Emotional flattening after panic spikes.
The strange feeling of being simultaneously overstimulated and cognitively slowed down.

Last night I thought I had slept more than I actually had because my watch kept recording additional “sleep” periods that I do not think were real sleep at all.

The sleep screenshot is technically accurate to what the watch recorded.

But subjectively?
I do not think I actually slept nearly that much.

I took the watch off at one point and put it on the charger.

The watch is currently off and charging again.

Around noon I closed the curtains trying to catch a nap before friends came by with clean clothes.

At some point around then I drifted into a vivid half-awake dream state involving a doctor locking the room and trying to stop me from speaking about what I had experienced.

Even writing that sounds ridiculous.

But exhaustion does strange things once the nervous system stops being able to cleanly separate threat, stress, memory, and sleep.

The important thing is that I knew it was not real.

What felt real was the exhaustion underneath it.

The sense that my brain no longer fully trusts that the emergency is over even while my body is trying to force rest anyway.

Around 3:25 pm I laid down briefly again, but it still did not feel like real sleep.

I also pushed friends off until later because I realized I needed isolation more than conversation.

I backed off the Pantoprazole trying to avoid further magnesium depletion after the hospitalization.

And I reduced magnesium because I practically couldn’t stay away from a bathroom anymore.

Trying to balance:
medications,
food,
hydration,
blood sugar,
mobility,
sleep,
stress,
and housing instability

all at the same time.

Meanwhile I’m sitting on a motel bed eating chili and rice out of a plastic container while my insulin pump quietly pushes a bolus for nearly 100 grams of carbohydrates into my body.

And somehow this is what “stabilization” currently looks like.

At some point today I realized I’m no longer evaluating apartments as homes.

I’m evaluating them as survivability containers.

Can I physically enter?
Can I fit the wheelchair?
Can I sleep safely?
Can I survive there temporarily?
Can I bathe there?
Would I need a shower bench?

Because the reality is:
I do not shower well anymore.

Baths are easier physically right now.

That becomes the metric once displacement starts.

Not comfort.
Not future.
Not happiness.

Survivability.

I looked at one place with a strange bathroom layout and a separate shower stall that realistically probably would not have worked for me physically in my current condition.

Another landlord was reportedly holding firm around $1050.

Another building never selected me at all despite immediate contact and a referral connection.

Meanwhile I’m sitting here trying to calculate survival math using disability assistance that no longer remotely aligns with actual housing costs. Well it never did honestly.

And maybe the hardest thing emotionally is realizing how quickly the world psychologically reclassifies you once stable housing disappears.

Not officially.

Emotionally.

I am now in a different category.

I’m homeless.

And I know it probably will not take long before people start treating me differently because of that.

You stop feeling like:
resident,
tenant,
neighbor,
worker.

You start feeling transient.

Temporary.

Like society quietly moved you into a different category while your brain is still trying to preserve continuity from the previous life.

That’s the part people don’t understand about displacement.

Homelessness isn’t just loss of housing.

It’s erosion of future visibility.

And once the future becomes difficult to visualize, the nervous system starts struggling to generate momentum at all.

The irony is:
even now,
after everything,
I still feel bad that I didn’t clean the apartment better.

Not because I agreed with the standards.

I absolutely did not.

And not because the place was some kind of disaster either.

It wasn’t squalor.

But I also did not have time to properly clean.

Not really.

The reality was:
hospitalization,
emergency moving,
one storage run,
mobility problems,
court fallout,
deadlines,
physical exhaustion,
and trying to prevent complete operational collapse all at the same time.

The actual priority became getting belongings out, preserving what I could, and surviving the transition.

Not deep-cleaning an apartment under crisis conditions.

And yet some part of me still feels embarrassed by it.

Not institutional embarrassment exactly.

Personal embarrassment.

The kind where if my mother were still alive and unexpectedly came to visit, I would not have wanted her seeing the apartment in that condition.

That feeling has nothing to do with legal standards or property management expectations.

It’s just personal pride colliding with exhaustion and collapse.

CCHS maintained ongoing move-out expectations, cleaning standards, inspection coordination, key returns, and potential charge discussions while I was simultaneously dealing with hospitalization fallout, mobility limitations, exhaustion, emergency storage logistics, and housing displacement.

None of that erased the operational reality:
things still had to be emptied,
coordinated,
returned,
documented,
and triaged under pressure.

That’s probably what prolonged institutional pressure does to people.

You internalize responsibility even while collapsing operationally.

The reality is:
I was never going to perform perfection-level turnover cleaning under those circumstances.

Not physically.
Not financially.
Not realistically.

The actual operational priority became exactly what it should have been:

Asset extraction.
Reasonable preservation.
Documentation.
Survival.

Not showroom-condition turnover work while my own housing continuity was actively collapsing.

Right now I think I need to stop trying to process all of this for a while.

It’s around 3:30 in the afternoon now.

Not tonight.

Not late evening.

Just another strange suspended afternoon inside a motel room where the nervous system no longer seems to understand time properly.

I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.
Closed the curtains again.
And tried to let my nervous system shut down long enough to get actual rest.

And I think that’s where I am right now.

Not hopeless exactly.

Not expecting rescue either.

Just profoundly overloaded while trying to understand how quickly stable life can become survival logistics once continuity breaks apart.