My wife and I spent our anniversary in a local hotel this past March. It was a simple and modest getaway, planned to fit our budget. We traveled all of twenty minutes away from home to take a short break from our normal surroundings and not have to worry about all the little day-to-day chores that make up life. We cruised a bargain store for fun. We stopped at a shoe store, or two, and Laura found some well-needed shoes. We ordered a pizza and relaxed in a spa tub that was less than adequate. It wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton, but we had a good time. Even some high winds and a thunderstorm that made our ill-fitting hotel door rattle didn’t dampen our enjoyment of the evening. We celebrated our eleventh wedding anniversary with a mutual appreciation of each other, without breaking the bank. It was nice to spend time together without letting the dogs out to pee every fifteen minutes, if nothing else. We are not complicated people.
In the morning we packed up our stuff and decided to eat some breakfast before heading home. A very convenient waffle house was less than 100 feet from the hotel, and we do love a good waffle house breakfast. It’s good, simple food. Right up our alley.
She sat on a chair, next to the door. She had a big bag at her feet, possibly a gym bag. She was wearing plenty of clothes, but it was still cool out, especially after the storm last night. I thought she might have been waiting, either on a table, or her party to join her before she got a table. Her arms were crossed, resting on her chest, and her head was down, and eyes closed. We grabbed a booth and asked for menus. It was Saturday morning, and fairly busy, so the waitress took a bit before coming back for our order. After deciding on our choices, we chatted about this and that. I was sitting where I could see the girl by the door. She hadn’t moved. No one had joined her. It slowly began to dawn on me that she was alone. She wasn’t really a customer. She was a person of the street. My wife and I talked about the sadness of it all, and both inwardly wondered what brings a person to this point. In our hearts, we prayed for her.
We ordered and received our breakfasts, which were good. Not perfect, but definitely good. We critiqued the food, as we all do, but we pretty much devoured it. Didn’t have to do the dishes, either. I love that about eating out. As enjoyable as our meal was, I couldn’t help but watch the woman sit there. I wondered where she must’ve slept last night, in the thunderstorm. It had to be tough, living on the streets. When the waitress came to pick up my payment for the meal, I couldn’t contain my curiosity. I asked her if “the woman over there” was okay. She explained that, yes, she was fine. She was a regular here. She wasn’t here every day, but at least several times a week. She knew her well. The waitress went on to say that they called her “Cookie”. She used to be a schoolteacher, once upon a time. She had kids. She had a good family. She also had a myriad of mental health issues. She went on to explain that “Cookie” wouldn’t let her family, or kids, take her into their homes. She wouldn’t take medicine for her illness. She didn’t say that the woman preferred to be homeless, she just inferred that she wouldn’t impose her problem on the family that loved her. It was truly sad. I asked the waitress if she would give her some money for me. My hope was that she would be more comfortable taking it from someone she knew. She said yes, so I gave her a small amount of cash (above the tip for the waitress, of course) and thanked her. It was enough for a good meal. As we left the little diner, the waitress was waking Cookie up. “C’mon, sugar, wake up. Are you hungry, honey?”
As I started our car, I felt a swell of emotion. I didn’t come to tears, but it was close. Part of it was shame. I was ashamed of myself for not doing more. Another part of it was knowing that there was only a tiny amount I could realistically do for Cookie. She’s an adult with a mental issue. She has every right to refuse to take her meds, or to choose not to live with her family. If she’s not a danger to herself, or to others, the law makes it hard to force her to get help. I know, from personal experience.
My first wife passed away in 2004. Sam was an intelligent person, a fantastic mother, and my first love. Ten years into our marriage, she was diagnosed as bipolar. This was long before it was common to speak of mental illness, much less advertise medications and treatments on television, as they do today. There was a heavy stigma that hung around it, making dealing with it even worse. We had good years, then we had bad years. She voluntarily got help at first. She tired of medications, side effects and doctors, eventually. There were commitments to facilities, some voluntarily, some not. Our marriage suffered, our kids suffered, and our lives were whittled down to the bare nerves. I turned to alcohol. I was not the picture-perfect, suffering spouse. I added fuel to the bipolar fire by trying to escape our daily predicaments. There was a time, towards the end, when Sam was homeless, too. I could look at Cookie and see Sam sitting there. It made my heart ache, and my eyes red. Sam took her life in 2004. She went home. She’ll never be hungry, or homeless, again.
May is Mental Health Awareness Month. There isn’t a month, or day, that goes by that I am not fully aware that there are people like Cookie out there. Not all mental illness is to her extreme, but depression and anxiety are things that affect everyone. Light wards off the darkness. Conversations about our problems put them into the light. We don’t need to wait for the right month to arrive to talk about the problem. Maybe we can’t make it disappear, but we can try. We can normalize the discussion and not be afraid to speak about it. Every family has someone with a form of mental illness. Not every family will talk about it. We need to hear from those who know what doesn’t work, as well as those with the right answers. There are people trapped inside their own minds out there. They are running a maze, trying desperately to find the door out. Families and communities need to find ways to hold those doors open for them, and to break down the walls that block them from getting out of the maze. We need to have more sympathy, less judgment, and, most of all, love for them. Every little act of kindness helps. Even if it’s just one good meal.
Rolling Stones 