For the love of Dog
I volunteered to help out at the local Homeless Day Centre. I wasn’t prepared for the experience. Not really. I have seen the groups of people hanging around outside, I knew what the place looked like, I understood from a bystander point of view what goes on in a homeless centre. Or so I thought.
4 hours I was there. It felt like a lifetime. Standing behind a hatch wielding power over the tea-making machine and the sugar looking into a sea of faces whose expectancy levels were less than a dog in a pound. The common denominator for the people who spoke up when it was their turn, who stood patiently in the queue and who said thank you as they turned away from me carrying their REALLY hot tea or coffee, was the look in their eyes. They had given up expecting anything good to happen to them. They didn’t have the look of people in a queue I have ever stood in. How must it feel to not have an expectation of deserving a cup of tea?
I stood my ground for 4 hours, emptying tea bags into the bin, clearing plates, washing dishes, drying plates, restocking cutlery for the chef as waves of people came through the ‘kitchen’, ie the square 10feet and 6 tabled, non-windowed room with grey lino and a weary feel to it that would really make sure no-one stayed any longer than absolutely necessary.
What to say to a young girl of no more than 16 or 17 who tells you over a plate of mashed potato that she is coughing up blood? Have you seen a doctor? sorry, no, haven’t got a doctor. uh huh. I even sound like a doctor. Inadequate does not even desribe the feeling of helplessness that washed over me as I had to explain to a 7 month pregnant girl that the fresh orange has to go with the night packs for people on the street. (Luckily the chef had a carton of orange in the back of the fridge and I poured her a giant mug full).
All the people with a story. The pregnant girl has a name picked out for her baby. The guy who asks me for a vegetarian option when there is only mash and sausage. There are no vegetables apart from the mash. He takes the mash and I apologise.
Everyone keeps asking me for plastic bags. I am unsure what this sudden interest in polythene is until the chef says they take the bread to eat later. oh.bread in a bag. ok.
4 hours later, the place looks like it did before we began. The floor is swept, the brush and broom have nearly been put away. The search for the keys for a door that needs to be opened takes a good 10 minutes in the chaos between roaming homeless people waiting for their night packs and workers sorting out spare clothes for an unexpected need.
I shrug my waterproof coat on, zip up, mohair scarf nicely wrapped under my chin, ipod with my favourite Dusty Springfield track. In the Middle of Nowhere, I head off into the fresh air and a 10 minute walk. My head is full of the experiences I have just been bombarded with that weren’t there 4 hours ago. The sight of finger nails that haven’t seen a bath for weeks, the colour of yellowing skin from god only knows what, waxen unsmiling, lonely people queuing for some light relief in their daily grind.
I can only imagine this is what really was influencing me as I approached the pet shop on the way home. I saw two people, wearing, lets see, in normal circumstances I would have measured them as poor but clean, jogging bottoms, trainers, denim jackets. One male,one female. They were petting a Stafford Bull Terrier (a typical homeless persons friend) and then, as I started paying attention to what they were doing, they started walking away, really quickly from this dog that was loosely tied up with a rope, as I kept watching, they started running. Running away from a dog. Wearing clothes similar to the ones handed out at the homeless centre. Was it my state of mind still ravaged from the exposure of humanity at its lowest ebb that made me jump to the conclusion that these people had clearly abandoned this dog?
For the love of dog, it was just as well that the owner strolled out of the pet shop and happened upon me talking to the dog before I could try and rescue it!
Note to Self; when faced with traumatic experience, try not to project same onto any scenario you then look at.
Love and light to all of you who need it.
Tamasin x
Tamasin,
I thank God I never experienced homelessness. I've been dirt poor, living on disability, falling into bankruptcy–but I always had a roof over my head and food to eat. It's intolerable that in nations with so much that this must go on.
I remember once pulling into a package store looking forward to buying my Friday night beer. There was an old woman trailing a cart, digging in the garbage to find cans and bottles to refund. She must have been 70. I had seen her around town many times digging in various trash cans. I looked in my wallet; I had one twenty-dollar bill and no money after that until my disability check came in the next day. I mused; I considered–I desperately wanted some Bass Ale for the evening. I know a truly good man would not have hesitated. Finally my outrage overrode my ego and I walked up to her and handed her the twenty. "But you must take the rest of the day off. That's the deal." As I drove off I saw her with her head in one of the trash cans. No days off.
Bob
Ouch. Well done Bob for doing the best thing you could have done. No days off though. How true is that. And everyday the same.
Thanks for your comment
Tamasin
*Tamasin*Bob*…wow…beautiful stories. thank you for sharing and living by example. humbled, beachgirl
Beachgirl,
The sad truth is many homeless people have mental illnesses that go untreated. The stories about people developing schizophrenia are legion: Good jobs, good families, then everything falls apart and it's a quick tumble onto the street. No insurance. No job. What to do? Self-medicate with alcohol and drugs.
I am manic depressive, bipolar II. But I have always had good insurance thanks to my days in the corporate world. Without it, I'd probably be on the street digging in cans.
Bob
Thank you.
Exactly Bob, there but for the grace of.. in your case Insurance, in my case a social welfare programme that provides homes for women with children, but in the next life? I thank God in this life it isn't me. x
Bob…yes…so true…what is bipolar I and III…levels or types? and i wonder why the only people who have said they were bipolar were americans…is it a common situation? i am sincere; i wish to learn: you have such a warm heart.
aloha
beachgirl
Beachgirl,
Apparently what I have is not as 'disruptive' as the Bipolar I–if that's the right term. The lows are low and long and can last for weeks; but the highs manifest themselves in a less manic way. People with classic manic depression can be awake for weeks–Handel, who wrote the "Messiah' in a little over a week. Hemingway. I would just be up for a night or two a week–sleep was impossible. Oddly, this fall I was 'up' for almost a month–sleeping a couple hours a night, having so much energy to write that I couldn't stand it. Finished my book and many stories. I felt like I was on speed and was incredibly happy. Then I came back to reality. Medication has balanced me out with side effects that are corrosive.
When I experienced the psychic phenomena I outlined in the ghost stories you read, I was afraid I was drifting into schizophrenia. I went to a psychiatrist and he assured me I wasn't. God knows what those chemo drugs did to my brain. Collateral damage. But it could be worse: I could've entered The Big Sleep at thirty and left a good-looking corpse.
Then who would declare that "The Emperor Has No Clothes?"
Aloha,
Bob
Aloha Beachgirl, bi-polar British people get put on intense medication that usually renders them incapable of mentioning their condition again! not to be spoken about and certainly not to be complained of
Stephen Fry currently being the most famous bi-polar sufferer in the UK and intelligent enough not to be afraid of the fall-out from 'coming out' about his mental health.
Fortunately, I have no problem pissing and moaning!
ha ha
*Bob*…enlightening!…Tamasin…yes…`don`t complain; don`t explain`…understood with gratitude…there but for the grace of……….., go i. thank you both, truly.
*stephen fry*…Oh!..he`s brilliantly intelligent, witty and … what an outstanding example of talent…like Bob!…and this other american who called herself bi polar. i just never knew what it really meant except she had a sort of lopsided intensity and great vocabulary and used it to write and compose music etc. thank you
Lincoln was bipolar, and of course Hemingway–who drank so much to self-medicate that it destroyed his liver and kidneys. It also caused him to put a shotgun in his mouth–his father's shotgun, who also committed suicide. Manic depression runs in families.
I have two manic depressive friends, both who tried to commit suicide several times. I felt the same way for a while, feeling an oppressive sense of disappointment when I awoke in the morning. Again? Another day of this? I thought about buying a .38 and putting a round in my temple–but what example would that be for my sons? As always, my sons gave me courage.
I know I'm probably foolish admitting all this. But what the hell? Some people will respect it, and some won't.
Bob
Foolish Bob? on the contrary, it takes a great intelligence to recognise themselves and for knowing their own behaviour. well done for carrying on and I am sure your sons appreciate you. I respect your honesty. x
*Bob*…i cherish you…the other bipolar girl also tried to commit suicide much to her daughter`s horror…it took alot to put her back together again and all is still not right…understandably.
i am grateful for all i am learning; compassion grows and we learn more about ourselves through the stories of others.
(_*_)….(_?_)…( ! )….in gratitude…beachgirl
Beachgirl,
When I think about the times I've cheated death: encephalitis, that almost killed me as a child; four bouts of terminal cancer; a couple of 'street' situations that could have ended me beaten to death; bouts with chemical 'additives' that could've destroyed me. Most of my nine lives are used up. I had everything materially; now I have nothing. But I have the love and respect of my sons and my friends. Which is everything.
'Confacimus.' A Latin term that is going on the scroll of the tattoo my sons and I will get: A Beowulf war mask, modeled on the helmet found in the Sutton Hoo dig. With a sword pointing downward behind it. The term means 'fuck it.' My sons understand.
Aloha,
Bob
Confacimus say Bob.
Tamasin,
Perhaps I'll start a movement. I sense there's money in it!
I respect it Bob. Your sons are fortunate to have such a father.
And I am fortunate to be a part of your newly christened "Confacimus" movement.
Love, Greg
Greg,
If you join the movement you'll give it spiritual legitimacy. But who will I get as a stand-in to do the close-ups of me?
Bob
Bob: Sorry but I can't help with you the Latin. Liturgy had gone to the vernacular by my time, Personally, I don't think you need a stand in, only you could put a face on such an authentic movement. By the way, I understand Churchill was bipolar. It would explain the bourbon and scotch. I'm off with my son Tony to Krogers to grocery shop. I'll pick up some Red Stripe and salute you and the new movement later. I'm not bipolar, merely Irish, although the symptoms sometimes mirror one another.
Love, Greg
Dear Tamasin;
Please forgive my poor manners. Its great to see you here (and on facebook). As always, I enjoyed your post. Much love and light to you and your son.
Love, Greg
Hello Greg, there is nothing to forgive, it must be the Irish in us both, my Dad was the 13th child in a family of Roman Catholics originally from Ireland but bought up in England. Thank you for commenting. Loving prayers back at you and your family.
Tamasin x