Tony peered nervously from behind the plastic blinds of his one-room apartment. He could hear a police siren in the distance, then some loud shouting from the snowy street below, then silence.
"I wish I lived far, far away from this … " he paused, searching for the right word, "sewer."
Tony, who asked that his last name not be used because he's looking for work, has lived in group homes since he was 18 and found to have schizoaffective disorder.
Last winter, at 33, he got his own place for the first time — the graffiti-covered building in south Minneapolis where he stood looking out the window.
Two months had passed since he moved in. The county's promises of individual therapy and job assistance had yet to materialize. Tony had no bed, no table and no carpet. His only light came from a shadeless lamp in the corner of a darkened living room. He spent most days alone in the apartment, scribbling in a spiral notebook.
Without therapy and job counseling, Tony's solo flight would prove brief. A few months after moving into the apartment, he suffered an anxiety attack, swallowed four bottles of Tylenol, and was sent back to the sort of group home he has spent most of his adult life trying to escape.
Tony's odyssey helps explain why so many of Minnesota's disabled adults live in group homes, and why so few find a successful alternative.
Minnesota leads the nation in public spending, per capita, on private group homes for people with disabilities and mental illnesses — some $850 million annually. But families who seek to break out of the system, using state subsidies for housing, job assistance and supports, often wait months or years.
