The Trailer – Part 3

Previously on The Trailer

The Why

The Ego


I’m embarrassed for my kids to have friends over. I don’t want to host things like play dates or parties. I drop my kids off in nice, middle class neighborhoods to hang out with their friends and am horrified when those parents drop their kids off at my house, afraid of what they’ll think. (Hi my name is Jessica and I’m a people-pleaser with low self-esteem.)


Quality of life

Sure, part of it is vanity but part of it is the toll it takes on you to live in shitty conditions. When you’re constantly battling things like roaches and mice. And don’t get me started on how we can’t keep squirrels out of our ceiling and how they almost drove us INSANE last winter. No hyperbole. And then. AND THEN. As if them eating parts of your house DIRECTLY ABOVE YOUR BED WHILE YOU’RE TRYING TO SLEEP isn’t bad enough, one of those little fuckers dies up there and your son’s room smells like rotting squirrel carcass for weeks.

When yet another thing breaks and it’s the last straw and you find yourself saying too often, “so I guess we live like this now”. Maybe later I’ll tell you the story about the shower knob breaking off in my hand and the ensuing emotional crisis.



I’m ashamed of my house and often times it feels like living in a third world country (actually, our quality of life was way better when we lived in a third world country). But also I have so much mom guilt over the whole sitch.

This is my daughter’s high school experience. Sharing a tiny, shitty room with her teenage brother. Said brother waking up every morning and getting dressed in the bathroom because of the awkward shared space. If my daughter wants to have a friend sleep over, my teenage son has to sleep in the floor of his little brothers’ equally tiny room.

My daughter has had multiple friends tell her that they think our house is gross. I know I’m not the best housekeeper but you can’t polish a turd. You can’t – polish – a turd. All the elbow grease in the world doesn’t change the fact that we live in a glorified cardboard box (that, by the way, we’re constantly worried will burn down).

Comparison is the thief of yadda yadda

It’s just damn near impossible to not be jealous or feel bad about your situation when you hop on social media and see all the normals in their insta-worthy “real” houses. I know just because you have drywall doesn’t mean you don’t have real problems. I know that! Still. If I had a choice, I’d like to have my marital issues and mounting debt in a spacious 4 bedroom with a nice, deep tub and maybe a den for the kids.

By the way, there are certain TV shows that give me LIFE on this issue. Like Speechless. Oh my gosh. It’s a good show anyway but HELLO they’re living in a shitty rental for their son to go to a certain school and their teenage son and daughter share a room. I spend more time looking at the background than at the characters. These are my fictional people.

Honorable mention: Roseanne, Shameless, My Name is Earl.

Maybe I’ll shut up now

Please, for the love of all that is good and HGTVy, don’t respond with any Christian platitudes to my griping and complaining. I am well aware that like, young children are victims of sex trafficking in lots of somewheres and millions of people have it worse than I do.

But those people don’t own this blog. Hi my name is Jessica, and I these are my feelings.

Frank Shameless gif


The Trailer – Part Two – The Ego

Previously on The Trailer

*insert shitty recap montage here*

So we know the facts of why I live here. Turns out, living off of student loans and an entrepreneurial spirit doesn’t pay much.

Now on to all the feelings.

Fine Print

Also, I wish I didn’t have to give this disclaimer but – I’m not trying to offend you. Believe it or not, this blog that I write about myself on the domain that I pay for is in fact about … me. My feelings about my living situation are, crazy as it may seem, not about you or your living situation.

I’m using this space as therapy to process my feelings.


Let’s cut to the chase. I have deep embarrassment over living in a crappy old mobile home. To the bone, shame.

Hey Jessica, tell me about your childhood. Mkay!

I grew up poor. Not poverty stricken – just good old fashioned, God Bless America, clawing-to-be-lower-middle-class-but-at-the-end-of-the-day-still-white-trash, poor.

I spent part of my childhood living in a trailer. Several of my good friends growing up lived in trailers. I spent many happy hours in crappy old trailers not once realizing they were crappy old trailers.

I remember being jealous of my friends that lived in trailers because for some reason all of them were only children of single mothers and I thought that was the BEST THING EVER. I wish I were an only child of a single mom! You get to eat macaroni for dinner and do whatever the hell you want! 

Plus, in my experience single moms of only children were like, the coolest. Think trailer park Lorelai.

Lorelai and Rory

But I digress.

*dream sequence flash forward*

I moved out the day after I turned 17 and never looked back. Never went back, I should add. I severed my relationship so cleanly with the first 17 years of my life, that it might as well have been someone else’s childhood.

Not only did I move out (let’s be honest – sneak out in the middle of the night), I skipped town soon after. BY-EEEEEEE.

I got married, had some babies, and moved around the world a time or three.

Danger, Will Robinson

When you chop off your childhood and cauterize the wound you hobble through life with phantom family pain. Something hurts but it couldn’t be my past because – look! – I don’t have one!

tis but a scratch

I am deeply ashamed to live in an old trailer, to raise my children in an old trailer, because it means that I’m no better than where I came from.

Or it feels that way, at least.

There’s more to say. But I think I need to leave it there today. Sit in it for awhile. Listen to this song by John Paul White on repeat.


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no chill

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