Why I ended up broke, homeless and fighting for survival

This First Person column is the experience of Lisa Wiebe, a rural Manitoba mother who took photos to document her journey into homelessness. This is Part 1 in her First Person series about her experience. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

When I tell people I was once homeless, the question that I get asked most often is why. Why was I homeless? 

As if the answer is black and white and easily understandable. 

The answer is not understandable, but it's true. 

I put my faith and trust in a system that is so broken, it failed me, even though it was designed to help low-income and poverty-stricken individuals and families. 

It felt like the government supports that should have aided me in finding solutions to my poverty instead waged a battle to keep my benefits from me — all while directing me to go to any faith-based or not-for-profit organization and receive help there instead.

I do not come from a low income background. 

My parents stayed together until they passed away, and our household was always secure. My childhood had no fear of poverty. In fact, I was Daddy's little princess and I was extremely spoiled. 

Homelessness was never a thought and I spent a good portion of my adult life living with my domestic partner and our blended family in a big house we rented just outside of Steinbach, Man.

I worked part time at a job I loved, my partner worked full time.

All appeared well on the outside, but on the inside it was a chaotic, abusive nightmare. My partner was physically and mentally abusive toward my oldest son and I, and it took the better part of seven years to actually leave the situation. (It didn't help that nobody really believed my partner was the abusive type.)

When I did finally manage to end the abusive relationship, I was able to get onto employment income assistance (EIA)  and start life fresh for my children and me. 

But in the midst of this, my oldest son was struck by a car in a hit and run. Luckily, he only had a broken collarbone and some bruising. Paramedics administered two shots of fentanyl in the ambulance, and warned me as I arrived at the ER that he may end up addicted to hard drugs. 

They were right. Not even six months later, I found myself begging his school teachers and counsellors to help my son get help for addiction. He had just started Grade 9 and was only 14 years old.