Kindness and Light

June 23, 2015 ~ Night before last I pulled up at a stop light and there, on the corner, was a woman who appeared to be in her thirties. She was sitting on the sidewalk, surrounded by a coat, some blankets, a water bottle, and a big bag of popcorn. She looked to be Native American and she had the most beautiful long, black hair.

And she was clearly psychotic.

Frequently she'd turn her head and yell at something she could see that no one else could. She made wild gestures with her arm, as if she was trying to push something out of the way. Her face was angry, her demeanor agitated and upset.

I watched her, my heart breaking for her. Where is her family? Where are her friends? Doesn't ANYBODY care about this person?

And then I noticed the people around her. It was a warm evening in downtown Salt Lake City, so people were out and about, heading to restaurants or just strolling around enjoying themselves. One man stood with his back to her, talking on his phone while waiting for the light to turn. It's as if she didn't even exist in his world. A family with young children made a wide berth around her. And of course, there were a whole bunch of people like me sitting in our cars, all of us watching her.

I wanted to do something. But I didn't know what it should be.

Soon, the light turned green and we all drove away from her, leaving her there, alone, with her psychosis.

I can't stop thinking about her.

Without my help, my son would likely be in the same position (or, equally as tragic, in prison). And it reminded me of something I read recently: "If you love someone with a mental illness, you may be the only person standing in the gap between them and homelessness, jail, abuse, or suicide. At times, you may need to be their voice when they cannot speak for themselves or no one listens. Or, you may need to do the leg work involved in locating mental health services and building a support network. At others, you may need to make tough, difficult decisions that break your heart. But if not you, who?"

Given that so many of the homeless have mental illnesses, I have recently grown an empathy toward people like the woman I saw on the street corner. I carry "homeless bags" with me in my car - little bags my daughters and I made filled with snacks, personal care items, and some change - that I can easily hand to people standing on corners.

I don't know what they'll do with it; that's not my problem. My responsibility is to be a human. To be compassionate. To give them what might be the only smile they get that day.

And I'm not the only one who has changed in this way. My oldest son, on his way home from teaching a guitar lesson, drove past a homeless man whose appearance, in some way, touched my son's heart. He turned around, drove back to him, and parked his car. By the time he got back into his car to drive home, he'd spent 1/2 an hour sitting on the curb talking with him. The homeless man told him, "You must be a musician", which my son saw as an opportunity for a little impromptu guitar concert for him on the curb, while the rest of the world flew past.

When I heard this story, I was so proud of him but also warned him about safety and exercising caution. He said, "I know Mom, but I couldn't help it. What if that was (my brother)? I could have just given him some money, but I realized he probably needed more than that. He needed someone to talk to."

Schizophrenia makes the world dark - for the person who has it, especially, but also for the people who love that person. I've never experienced as much darkness as I have over the last three years. However, while I'm not always successful, I've learned that when I try to be compassionate, kind, and empathetic to others who are less fortunate than me, a little light can come in.

And on this journey we need all the light we can get. Because the alternative - allowing the darkness of the illness to take over - is unthinkable.