As of the time I am writing this, March 2016, I have been recovered from schizophrenia and healthy for over eight years. But every night, when I look out my bedroom window, I remember what it feels like to sleep outside on the ground in a dirty sleeping bag, homeless, and affected by untreated schizophrenia. With the passing years, I have found the memory never fades.

When I recovered from mental illness and graduated from college, I wanted to meet other people who sleep outside or have slept outside, like I did. Today, I volunteer with a downtown Cincinnati day program that serves food, provides clothing, and occasionally offers shelter to the homeless on the coldest nights of winter. Many of these homeless people almost always sleep outside, even in rain. Most of them appear to have low IQ’s and are dirty. Some may be developmentally disabled. Others seem out of touch and aloof, like I did years back.

Last week, I met with a day program staff member to discuss how to help these homeless people. I began to share my own experience, including what I wanted most while I was homeless myself.

When I was homeless, I usually slept behind some bushes on church property, but when it rained, my only choice was to move to the front of a church building, with its narrow overhang. It barely sheltered me while the cold, damp wind broke through. Other homeless people (all of them men) took shelter in front of the church building in rainy weather, which made me feel afraid. Fortunately, we never spoke, and these homeless men ignored me completely.

Every morning, I would wrap up my sleeping bag in a thick black garbage bag and hide it behind some bushes, hoping and praying that no one would take it during the day. When it rained, I hoped the bag wouldn’t leak. When it was not there, I would sleep on the concrete, using my shoulder bag as a pillow. I badly wished I had a place to store my things, such as a locker.

One night, my sleeping bag was gone, and it was cold out. I was miserable, and I could not sleep. After perhaps an hour lying on the concrete, a woman approached me, told me I would be okay, and left me a thick blanket. I was more grateful for her act of kindness than I could express. I doubt I will ever forget that night.

Every night when I slept outside, my biggest dream was always the same. I wanted a well-meaning stranger (aka, not a police officer, since I associated police with being taken to jail) to approach me and explain that he or she had a place for me to stay, with no strings attached. When I interact with the homeless today, I find that almost all of they share this same dream—the dream of being offered free housing, immediately, and without strings attached.

Really, what I wanted was to be treated the same way a child would be treated if he or she were found sleeping outside. If a ten-year-old is sleeping outside, we can call the police with confidence that the child will be provided with shelter, food, clothing, and education– not taken to a filthy orphanage or incarcerated. (A program providing adults shelter immediately and without strings attached does exist in America, Canada, and other countries, and is called “Housing First.” Recently, it has been particularly effective recently in Salt Lake City, virtually eliminating the homeless crisis by providing cheap housing.)

Last week, as I shared my experiences homeless with the day program’s staff member, I told him how much I used to wish I had a place to store my things, and asked about providing the homeless lockers. The staff member shared his frustration in trying to provide lockers for the homeless, as they would quickly become infested with bedbugs and lice.

As I continued to share my experiences homeless, he became a little skeptical. He kindly told me that I was intelligent, pretty, and had it together. He remarked that my homelessness was a “case study.” I think he saw me as an anomaly, an exception to the rule.

But when I was mentally ill and homeless, strangers did not see me as an exception. What they saw was a dirty young woman, wearing the same clothes every day, sifting through the trash. I sat in a local park for hours everyday, mumbling and screaming back at the voices in my head. For a year, I slept outside.

Perhaps some people today may have trouble imagining me as dirty, homeless stranger, and a “nuisance person” as I was once called, entirely rejected by society. But when I was homeless, I looked about as out of touch and hopeless as anyone. I needed medicine. Many of the homeless people I meet today also badly need medicine and treatment.

It was fortunate that my parents were my advocates, and my psychiatrist was excellent. He did not give up on me. But had it not been for my parents and my doctor, sometimes, I wonder if I would still be homeless today.

I want to do whatever it takes to make the homeless dream come true. I see these people as a part of our community and our society. Many deal with severe, untreated mental illness. I believe that these people are worthy of our compassion. I hope that, someday, no one in America will have to sleep outside in the cold rain, like I did.

 

Image taken from pixabay.com.