Courage of Fear Quotes of the Day discussion
Greatest riddle of all...
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Ah I commend you for taking that poor man home. I have a daughter (now 49) who was homeless for years due to mental illness. I fought to get care for her but it took a long time. She would go on the run, no meds,and many bad things happened to her. Thankfully she is now stable on meds and OK. I only wish she had had someone like you to help her occassionally but she didn't. Thank you for sharing.
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He came to my house several more times after the first. My room mate (me telling her finally after weeks is a truly funny story.) even made a big pot of home made stew for when he would come over and went out to target and purchased him several under clothes. I kept them in my trunk, so when I saw Chris I would give him some fresh undies and tees.
I did try to think of Chris' folks. He was schizoid (I fear to admit, sometimes I found myself a bit jealous of Chris' relationship with his voices. His conversations with his "friend" seemed to be so much more enjoyable at times then mine with my real friends.) Each time we got together I would get him to open up a bit more about where he was from... when I suggested we phone his parents (who supposedly lived in Jersey) he got very hostile. He just couldn't bare the thought of being back in an institution and having to take the meds. Finally, after some time, I coaxed him into checking out this facility I found. Yet when we got there, after speaking to someone alone on intake, he bolted like a wild stallion.
Months past and he had disappeared. When visiting a friend about 20 miles south, there he was on a street corner. I said to my friend from there, "omg, there is Chris. The homeless man I told you about." She said, "where?" I said right there on the corner. She said, "Barbara, that's not Chris. That's Gregg. We have thrown him out of the rec center on many occasions. He comes in late at night and tries to crash on the couch." I said "as sure as I am sitting in front of you, he was Chris when he lived up north!"
Prayers to you. Thanks again for sharing.
hi, my husband is what they call schizoid-effective, a form of schizophrenia of course. My daughter was from my first marriage and probably did inherit from her father. Go figure I would marry two of them, lol. But my first husband never got help for his problems. My second husband has always stayed on his meds. I'm sorry to hear about your daughter. One of the things that did help eventually was getting my daughter on social security disability so she had health coverage from medicare and an income as she can't hold down a regular job. As for Chris, I am sure many like him go by various names. And yes they hate being in locked-up rooms in a hospital. Part of the problem is society as a whole does not try to help but just wants them to go away and not bother them. Good luck on helping your girl get sorted out.
I spent many hours (as depicted by Angela in Courage, "minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, days turned to nights and nights to day to begin again") in verbal debates with my Creator. I wanted to be the guy in the Scriptures who duked it out with Him one-on-one... you know the guy who got his shoulder dislocated in the battle?... Unlike him, there was no way I was going down. I was mad as hell and I knew if I could focus that energy to the One who deserved it the most, I was bound to triumph. If nothing else I could at least exhaust all the rage going on inside me (again, like Angela, "dancing demon fairies screaming victory.")
It was those things, the life stuff, too many deaths, the chosen homeless, the history of misery in so many lives, that fueled the rage. It all seemed too cruel. Everywhere I turned there was more hardship, more devastation... I wanted to just SHAKE Someone. Make Someone pay. Force Someone to make it stop, make it better.
Granted, many things were of my own making; working disparately to make things happen with my writing, being a stranger in a strange land, believing that the new business I started should have taken off quicker than humanly possible, and losing him. To divert from shrinking like the bad witch in Oz from self-obsession; I did what I was taught to do early in my spiritual journey. I helped others.
Then finally on this day our battle resolved. At one of my fellowship meetings a homeless man walked in. Literally, many brought their shirts to their noses the smell was so bad. His smell. He grabbed some coffee and some food and sat among us. Like he had been one of us forever (which, when you think about it, he actually had).
After, one of the deacons approached me and advised me this man, Chris, had been doing this quite often lately. Chris was asked several times not to attend, but he came anyway. Talks of police and restraining orders. I was asked to offer an opinion. My mouth started to open... my head was about to flatten this man through diatribe... I closed my mouth... inside I thought, this is supposed to be a Spiritual Group. How could we be so nonspiritual? If his smell offended so many, why didn't that man take the man home and let him take a bath instead of bringing about discussions of police and restraining orders? The man lived in a dumpster, for christ sake-- My mouth opened again and these words passed my lips, "What would the Master do?"
As the words left my lips I realized how much of a hypocrite I was being. Why would I think that man should bring him home? I don't have a right to tell other people what they should or should not do. I should bring him home. After all, wasn't the mere thought of thinking what that man should be doing, doing completely the opposite of what I thought should be done (I realize that is a tongue twister, so take a moment and read it again)?
What would the Master do?
I went outside, asked Chris if he wanted a hot meal and a bath then welcomed his smelly ass into my car while quickly rolling down all my windows. I swung by the second hand store, purchased him some cloths and then took him to my home on the LaCosta Golf course. I paused at my door and I advised him, before letting him enter, if by chance he got any wild notion to steal anything, because most of it belonged to my roommate, it would be a very long time coming before they found his body under our roses.
While he was bathing I washed his cloths and made him a hot meal. While he was soaking (and I knew he was because his cloths were already drying and food simmering) I asked my Creator why would He allow folks to go through this life so diseased they pick at their own skin till they bleed?.. they desire to live on the streets than be on medication forced on them? And for what? If Heaven is real, why suffer through life? And if it is not real, why suffer at all? Is it just one great big hoax?.. a beginning, middle, then The End, like one of my scripts? Is it truly what it is or what we perceive it to be?
All that came to me was today's quote. Sometimes, there are no answers, only riddles... sometimes it just pays to be curious.
Have a grand day all.