Of No Fixed Address: A Story of Vancouver Housing

Breakups, evictions, substandard housing, and the subsequent effects on mental health.

Photo by Michal B on Unsplash

The cockroach was long dead by the time I noticed its desiccated remains. It had been dead for days. I brushed it aside with little regard as I reached for my French press. The kitchen cupboard where the roach lay would make just as good a final resting place as the compost bin. I didn’t care anymore. Groggy from the night before, a sleepless night of relentless noise from 12th Ave’s endless traffic, coffee was my only concern. At least that night I was spared the sounds of late-night video games played by careless roommates or the early morning meows of the two often neglected house cats. I hated where I lived, and it weighed on me. This, though, is a happy story.

It was fall when I found the cockroach in the house’s shared kitchen. I had survived the summer in the bedroom I rented thanks solely to a window air conditioner I hastily purchased and installed. My one window, though south-facing, let in little light but much heat, a quirk of the house’s odd construction and layout. The room reached 40℃ during a short preview of the summer’s coming heat waves. That cheap air condition provided not just a refuge from heat but also from the constant barrage of cars speeding past on the busy street my window faced. I ran that air condition well into October, solely for the white noise, until it got too cold.

Post-breakup desperation and Vancouver’s inhumane housing market pushed me straight into the arms of that $700/month room in that house on 12th Ave, one of Vancouver’s busiest. I would later learn that two people before me had moved into the same room, only to run screaming from it a few short months later. Understandably so, it wasn’t fit for human habitation, but I was that desperate. I was one of four housemates and two cats subletting from a fifth housemate, The Leaseholder. While the house was structurally sound the household was as far from functional. Chores were seldom assigned much less done, the filth had begun to accumulate its own layer of filth, nobody seemed to care. As for the environment, inter-housemate conflicts assured it was nothing short of hostile most days. Still, it was affordable shelter in the middle of Vancouver’s worsening housing crisis. We would lose it two weeks later.

A few short days after finding the cockroach, The Leaseholder broke the news: Sick of the house he spent a decade in, he was leaving. As a result, though, the property manager was forcing the rest of us to leave too. It was mid-late November. In less than two weeks, the four subletters, myself included, would all be homeless. As we gathered in the living room for a house meeting, I sat in the adjacent dining space to avoid the couches, infested with fleas courtesy of the cats. I stared at the painted plywood subfloor, vacant of any overlay, questioning the life choices that brought me here. Examining the lease for any potential saving grace, we discovered The Leaseholder was essentially operating a boarding house, turning a profit (albeit small) from our room rents while enjoying the master bedroom, private balcony, and private art studio out back rent-free. It wasn’t enough to keep him there, the house was that awful. 

That night I began packing, a straightforward process for someone already living out of boxes. Having already moved six times (four home, two studio) in two years it made sense. Once again transferring my life from box to box, it was comforting, at least, to be reminded that I once had a life. With much of the packing done in short order, I took a hot shower, distractedly stared at the black mold in the bathroom for a time, and subsequently self-medicated my way to sleep.

Tonight, though, is different. Tonight the 80-pack of disposable earplugs, once a fixture at my bedside, now sits neglected in the closet. Tonight I once again contemplate my relationship with the medications I rely on for sleep. Tonight I can cook without having to pre-clean each surface, plate, or utensil in the kitchen. Tonight, lacking the stress of an outright miserable life in a miserable house, I feel a little more human. In the needle-eyed gap between then and now life has proven to be an unrelenting mix of ups and downs; a car collision and concussion, a wonderful trip to Mexico, an unfortunate bout of traveler's diarrhea, the shit doesn’t stop. Yup, poop jokes. But tonight, being comfortable, and dare I say, happy with my living space, and able to afford it, I feel capable of handling what comes. 

Here, in a less developed part of Burnaby, I’ve found the quiet and calm I desperately need. Here, in my cozy rented room, I don't feel trapped within its confines and comfortable in the rest of the house. My roommates, though an unconventional match, have taken me in like family. My 45-minute commute by bicycle is the exercise I need to tire myself out. Here, my housing isn't a barrier to my mental health. And given housing’s immeasurably huge effect on mental health, let’s talk about housing standards in Vancouver.

My soft landing in Vancouver came via lease transfer, a studio apartment in one of the West End’s classic three-storey walk-ups. The studio was reasonably bright for only having one window, North-facing. I lived just above street level facing a four-storey building across the alleyway which at times felt like an audience. My next-door neighbor was fond of midnight jam sessions and my above neighbor was an elephant in stilettos. The lack of air circulation made for hot summers, and limited radiator control made for hot winters too, even if hot water was hard to come by. I never closed the window, the downtown soundtrack echoed on repeat. But it was a place of my own, and it was only $1,050/month. I was living the good life by Vancouver standards. But I gave it all up, for love, and a dog, only to lose both in short order. Less than a year after moving in with my partner, a year in which we had to move twice more in short order due to a flood, I had to move again. Desperate, I took the room in the aforementioned house on 12th Ave, but not before applying for similar studios in the West End now renting for up to $1,900/month after the drastic post-pandemic price increases.

Housing is a tough game in Vancouver, and there’s plenty of blame to go around, though I prefer it be put on greed. It may be no more than a Vancouver urban legend, but I was told the house on 12th Ave was one of many nearby owned by the same investor and overseen by a property management company. The land will be worth significantly more in a few short years thanks to the expansion of the SkyTrain, and inevitable rezoning will allow for highrise development, sure to skyrocket the value further. In the meantime, a Leaseholder of 10 years giving notice and a total lack of laws protecting subtenants in Vancouver makes for the perfect opportunity to vacate the house and immediately double the rent. This type of profiteering is a common occurrence, and I’m a long way from the start of its victims’ lineup. I don’t know where the other three housemates are now living.

Two weeks’ notice isn’t enough time to move in the best of circumstances, much less amid an affordable housing crisis. Were it not for the kind offer of the folks I now live with, I’d be couch surfing. Not everyone has my support network, though, some in similar situations find themselves in cramped sharing situations, single-room occupancy motels costing up to $1,000/month, emergency shelters, or a tent pitched anywhere they can find enough space. Mine is a happy story, so many more are not, we must include housing in the mental health conversation. Secure housing has done more for my mental health than any of my prescribed medications ever could.

This has been a mild divergence from my usual Adventures in Antidepressants, but the topic is no less linked to mental health. If you’re enjoying these stories and would like to read more, please share this or any other post, comment to help game the algorithm, and please subscribe (it’s free unless you feel like kicking a few bucks my way.) Every interaction makes me feel seen, validated, and encouraged, and hopefully helps break the stigma surrounding mental health. Thank you, each and every one of you, for all the support and encouragement so far.