#and witness it with understanding and empathy and slow reflection and care like my past younger self deserves

[goldkirk]

as I'm going back over my past history and items and journals and years, I come across all sorts of things, like the pencil I saved from that so-precious memory from second grade, and a pair of flip flops I've been missing for two years, and [checks notes] the modern-high-school-AU-kidnapped-by-a-serial-killer story I wrote in late high school jdfsjdfsjkjlksfd

[theprivacypolicy]

RIP, Bourdain. Good Morning, willpower.

    The first bit of information I received when I opened my eyes this morning was the news of Anthony Bourdain's death. By suicide. The second celebrity death this week. I was raised under the belief that death comes in threes. He is the third suicide I've heard of this week. A friend of mine watched a woman jump to her death on the L train platform hours after Kate Spades death was announced. He shared his experience 1 min later on Instagram stories.

    The death of Bourdain brings great sadness, as I and many others of my generation were fans of his. Details about this popularity, admiration and fandom are all probably pretty similar. He served the same to so many of us, I’d be an echo if I regaled right now. Something about a book and maybe steak and maybe an addiction. Everyone had a favorite Bourdain thing. Mine was mostly about food talk and human empathy. I’ll save that part for myself. Maybe I’ll share later. But here’s what shook me out of bed to send a text to my closest ex about the news. This depression thing. This depression thing is so real. We are watching so many things unfold in this new black mirror landscape, our ability to share information which travels great distances at great speed is something generations before us never had. Look how we are confronting it. Look at how we are using this medium.I took a screen shot of the article, shared the news on my Instagram stories with a caption “depression is serious you guys. Depression is very very real.” After witnessing the platform jumper, my friend shared his experience with a quick insta story, because I guess you get service on the Bedford platform. I probably would have done the same. My social news feed this morning is post after post of Bourdain, various homage and tribute. Earlier this week, pictures of Kate Spade bags and shoes. Who the fuck is this for? This post for you? So you feel good knowing that people know you read his book? You had a pair of her shoes?  “Check in on people”... oh word? Did you check in on anyone before you reframed that Instagram photo of your purse?

     Gross. I stay throwing shade at posts from “Friends” yet I see myself doing the same shit. If we are so quick to post and share and comment, make this connection, share an opinion, make judgement, claim a feeling, post a picture of yourself with the departed, why are we so slow to confront what we are really and truly saying? There’s always a reason behind these posts that go unshared. We are so falsely candid. Sometimes if feels like the more we post, the more transparent things become that everyone is full shit. What was I trying to say with my pre-coffee Instagram? What was so important to me that I needed to get that out in that medium at that moment? Pretty sure my post was a guise to say, “I know about depression, because I have clocked a lifetime of experience with that shit, and now you know.” So, instead of saying it in 40 characters or less, here is what I really wanted to say....

    The suicides this week are a “trigger” for me. I grew up in a house with a manic depressive bipolar single mother of 3 girls. I witnessed a lot at a young age. For 18 years, I had a front row seat to symptoms of depression I often mistook as “normal”, for lack of alternate lens. One of my earliest  memories was watching my mother try to slit her wrist AND jump off my 32nd fl terrace. At the same time. I pretended I was sleeping. I was watching through a crack in the blanket over my head while my sister calmed her down and removed the kitchen knife from her hand.  I remember that every time I use a knife that looks like the one she held. Her depression was real. Hours in bed, in a dark room with the TV flickering sitcoms, sometimes turned into days. Calls from my school checking in because I missed so many days in a row. She couldn’t muster the strength or energy to dress me and get me on the school bus. Once I understood her behavior as illness, I kept it a secret from my friends. My mother survived her depression and passed away, ultimately, from a viral illness. I don’t doubt that years of depression exhausted her immunity to fight the various illnesses and cancers she battled over her 54 years. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which came first, chicken or egg. And as frustrating and traumatic it was to be in the care of the mother who faced the challenges she faced, I found myself in awe of her willpower today. I struggle with reflecting on my relationship with my mother, but the death of Bourdain and Spade gave me some insight, and that, I am appreciative of.

This is about willpower.

    Here is the other kicker. I too have a relentless relationship with depression. Trauma is a hellofadrug, maaan. So when I’m out on these social media streets judging tweets, I’m not being a h8r. I kind of feel like I’m a part of a club today. Some of us looking at each other with a shared understanding. For pop culture sake: If you know, you know. On a text chain to a best friend on “the inside”, who truly knows me and my shit- I wrote on depression; “There’s like a clear identifiable line between the people who understand and the people who don’t and front like they understand. And then worse the ones who flap about “checking in with your friends” when you know damn well they don’t practice that shit.” I found refuge in his understanding my message. I find refuge in sharing my true feelings with him. He’s got the dark cloud sometimes, too. He gets it. He suggested I not let the social media voices get to me. Didn’t stop me from scrolling and getting fired up.

“OMG so sad! So surprising!”

Really though? Is it?

“He was so good at enjoying life”.  

No, he wasn’t. If he were, this wouldn’t have happened. Someone who is “good at enjoying life” looks at life and kills themselves in France is not good at enjoying life. Don’t put that on people. That’s a pressure. Being “good at enjoying life” is a broad fucking statement. It shouldn’t be a measure. I’m sure he wanted to be good at enjoying life, and maybe his projects were forms of therapy to get him though the days. But he wasn’t good at enjoying life. He faked it. And that’s ok, too. Coping mechanisms can really make a false impression. People are surprised? Honestly, I’m not surprised at ALL. Not one bit. Because depression is real. Being shocked that depression can bring someone to a deep dark place is a privilege I wish I had.

I’m so frustrated with the empathy struggle for those who do not experience depression. I once had a Christian friend of mine say he didn’t understand and has no sympathy for anyone who kills themselves. He shared he has never been depressed and doesn’t understand how anyone “gets that way” because he keeps life simple by not having high expectations of people. That must be nice. So many problematic things there. The good thing about not understanding anyone who kills themselves is that they dead. So they don’t care what you think and they likely didn’t want your sympathy anyway.

    This idea of expressing understanding of depression is so fragile. Either you understand from experience, and by proxy, reveal trauma. Or you don’t have an experience to borrow empathy from and are then risk alienating the effected. Or worse, you pretend to empathize because the “victim” was famous. Then, add social media to the mix (which we know is the worst already). RIP posts are a great example of toxic group think and narcissism. And I know, a lot of the RIP chatter is just personal coping. I love myself some personal public coping, clearly, this is proof. I guess my wish for us all, on any side of depression, is that we be more honest with ourselves about what we are trying to say when we post shit in times like these. What are we really trying to say? And to whom? And why?  Look friends, no tea no shade, I get it. Sometimes these purse pictures and “I own Kitchen Confidential” posts are simply, a show of respect, a modern twist on ceremony. Like wearing all black. I did my tribute part today, too. I’m wearing all white. ( I wear black all day every day). It’s for me really it’s not for anyone else.  My ceremonious acknowledgement of how valuable life is.  If social media has become a part of your ceremony, c'est la -modern- vie, I guess? I didn't sign up for this ride. But I am going to try and be gracious while on it. Consider this: the post you make about shock and sadness might alienate someone who could otherwise open up to you about their battle with depression. It is not always visible. Destigamtize it by being open to the understanding that this can happen to anyone at any time. No one is immune. Sure, post a number to a hotline, but consider that suggesting a “solution” or sharing advice on something you have zero experience with is not effective. Not for this one. We see through those. Is that post for us? Or just so people know you know how to “help” people? Have you done this? Don’t be embarrassed, I do it to. With shit like refugees and pipelines. But the refugees and Native Americans probably can’t see my armchair activism. Chances are, your depressed friend see’s these. Better thing? Answer their call. Send them a text. Don’t get upset if they don’t write back.

   On life, depressed or not, we get one. We should all check in with ourselves, at least twice a day. And check in with each other more often than we do, even the retreaters. Especially the retreaters. A classic symptom of depression is retreating. We should also be cognizant of when someone has struggled and has taken the right steps to better themselves. Support those initiatives. Be careful with the word crazy. Be careful with the word bipolar. Saying “get help” is as effective as wearing a safety pin to tell people they are “safe”.

    Les Halle's will be packed today, no doubt.  I have the urge to go there and have a martini, myself, a thing I would do there when I was 25 and feeling more optimistic about the world. Just kidding. It’s closed now. News to me. Whatever other foods and places and stops Bourdain swore by will be frequented, they’ll run out with whatever is the thing that he recommended. His favorite patisserie didn’t know this was going to happen today. The kitchen at his favorite spots didn’t expect that they’d run out (86?) the dish he insisted was a must have. The Friday rush was expected but I suspect orders in rapid excess today, because that’s how New Yorkers deal. In rapid excess. The shift will end and another will begin the next day. In the perpetual motion machine, many will be pausing in a moment for Bourdain today. Same here. RIP Bourdain. Thank you for your insight and knack for story telling. Most of all, thank you for reminding me that with struggle comes willpower. Your death pushed me to acknowledging willpower as a secret serum that kept the loved ones in the struggle around a little longer. Your death also gave me a chance to acknowledge that I have a bit of that secret serum, myself. Thank you for holding on to that serum for the time you did, and sharing your stories with us. You are appreciated.

    If you read this far and need someone to talk to, you can also google the help outlets and choose who you want to call. I’m not going to tell you what to do or how to do it. It doesn’t work like that. If you know me, you probably have my number, use that too if you want. A copy paste phone number isn’t going to convince you any more to remember willpower, which I urge you to remember. All these dead people had willpower. It’s just that they hit a real bad one. Try not to hit the bad one. Remember willpower, you’ve used it before. I have it and I know you have it too.

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But if you don't wanna google resources, here are some they sent to the entire office today. i usually align with their resources, they're decent people. 

suicidepreventionlifeline.org - Chat or call 1-800-273-8255, available 24/7

crisistextline.org - Text HOME to 741741 for 24/7 crisis support

seizetheawkward.org - Provides various resources such as tutorial videos, information on warning signs and conversation starters

[faithfulnews]

Not Welcome?

I’m staring at an old newspaper cover. 

It was delivered to our house in December, and made its rounds from the front door, to the kitchen table, to the kitchen cupboard before my wife finally stated “throw it out, I’m sick of looking at it”.

I threw most of it out. 

The front cover I laid aside, then carefully cut out the picture on the front page. A woman stands in the middle of the picture, her upper body and face obscured by the sign she is holding. On the sign are two simple words: “Not Welcome”.

The city where I live has a problem. It has a significant population of unhoused individuals, and (currently) inadequate resources to shelter them. This past fall, tents and makeshift tarps lined the city sidewalks in a central downtown location close to various shelters and services. The tent-city eventually took up an entire block. And then in late November, the city unexpectedly and suddenly moved this population and their belongings to less central, residential areas. Areas much closer to people’s homes.

I kept the picture on the front page because it disturbed me. Temperatures had dropped significantly that week, and snow had begun to cover the ground.  On the edges of the picture I can see the sign holder’s, embroidered scarf and fur-lined mittens. In contrast to their seemingly put together appearance, the signboard appears hastily written, blotches of paint visible within the letters. Their face was obscured, their identity and disdain protected. They could have been anyone. For a while, they seemed to be everyone. 

That story captured a moment of collective anger, fear and judgement. For days people called in to the local radio or wrote into the paper expressing their frustration over scores of unhoused individuals being unceremoniously moved near their homes and parks. 

At that time, a prominent pastor in our city was highlighted by a national news program for an editorial he had written regarding the homeless population in our city. I was hopeful that this pastor was going to comment on our common humanity, our need for empathy, and our need to stop “othering” this unhoused population. 

But this was not what was written.

Initially, I was encouraged. The editorial began with the pastor challenging each person to walk down the affected street in our city, to see the faces of those most affected. The people hunkering down under makeshift tarps, those who worked at the nearby shelter, the business owners attempting to make a living. He reflected on his own religious instruction to have compassion and care for the poor. He lamented the tragic history that many of these individuals have had that has led to their current living situation. 

And then as expected, he likened the plight of our city’s unhoused to a story in the Gospel of John. In John’s account, Jesus comes upon an encampment of people near a pool. The pool is thought to be a place of healing for those who can reach the pool while water is stirring (supposedly by a divine being). Many sick, blind, paralyzed and emaciated lived nearby. It is here that Jesus comes across a man who has had an infirmity to his legs for 38 years, and asks him if he would like to be well.

That question, “Would you like to be well?” is an interesting one, and one the aforementioned pastor focuses on. He reckons that perhaps the man did not want to be healed. That he preferred begging, that perhaps he would have to take responsibility for his life if he was healed. And then he related the story to the unhoused. Maybe some of them don’t want to be housed. Maybe some of them don’t want to “be clean and sober and work and pay [their] own way”.

Ah. There it is. So that’s the pastor’s true message. That there are deserving and undeserving. Sick or poor, 2,000 years ago or today, some people deserve our help and compassion, others do not. This pastor ends his editorial with the opinion that if an unhoused individual does not wish to become a productive member of society, that we should make our city “a very unwelcome place for them”.

There it is again. “Not Welcome”.

I cannot tell you how deflated I felt after hearing these words. I was expecting the Gospel, good news for the unhoused. I was expecting a story of compassion to yield more compassion, not justified condemnation. 

And yet, I understand the frustration that leads one to look for answers, especially from the Bible. Frustration is understandable because the problem of homelessness is not simple, and has not been easily addressed in any city I am aware of. This pastor is frustrated with “handouts”, nonprofit and municipal resources spent because they don’t “fix” the problem of homelessness in our city. 

What if it’s not about fixing? What if it’s about compassion?

I work as a nurse, and I regularly witness firsthand how important and commonly overlooked compassion is. Where we can, practitioners endeavor to heal to the best of our ability. But there are many things we cannot heal. Certain diseases, chronic conditions, even the human condition of aging and own slow decay are inescapable, unfix-able. 

In these cases, compassion and care becomes infinitely more important than outcome. In fact, compassion becomes the outcome. Reducing suffering matters, even and especially when all seems hopeless. Imagine if I refused to treat the next patient with a chronic disease, on the basis that they would never “get better”.

I make this connection with our city’s unhoused and their treatment because I think this pastor, this unknown sign holder, and many of us need to rethink what a homeless plan should look like. What our compassion and care looks like, regardless of desired outcomes. I believe this pastor wants to help, wants to heal. He looks at the homeless encampment and sees a disaster, a crisis. He’s not uncaring, he’s motivated. He’s a fixer. It’s a good impulse.

But what if we can’t fix the problem? Or what if it takes a really long time? What if, as the experts imply, this a result of lost social and institutional structures, multi-generational trauma, systemic racism, a society-wide dependence on numbing through substances? What if this isn’t a “everybody work harder!” problem? What if those with past trauma are unable to trust  institutional structures? What if someone who was part of a residential school can’t bring themselves to spend one night in a shelter with the name “Mission” on it. Or in the basement of a church? What if someone with longstanding substance use can’t simply sober up by sheer willpower alone in order to jump through the hoops of “dry housing?” What if someone can’t focus on job training before they find a reliable place to sleep that night? What then? 

What do we do when we can’t win, can’t fix?

Our compassion matters. It matters to the people around us, and it matters within us. The moment I saw the front page, and that “Not Welcome” sign, I thought of Jesus’ warning that it is possible to gain the world, and forfeit your soul. Forfeit what best and truest within you. I grieved for a soul so willing to display it’s fear and hatred, and filled with enough shame to hide its face. I think about the soul of someone who thinks that the way of Jesus includes making a city unwelcome. Who reads a story of compassion and healing and justifies that some are undeserving of help or healing. The soul of someone who sees the coming snow, and doesn’t think of those sleeping in tents as deserving of warmth. That soul is cold.

And that soul is my soul, too, of course. Who hasn’t turned away from a stranger asking for help, hiding behind judgments of deserving or undeserving? Who hasn’t hoped that the next shelter would be miles away from their house, their work, or their children’s school? It’s easy to focus on an outspoken community pastor, or an anonymous sign holder, but each time I choose judgement or dismissal over compassion, my soul is wounded too.

I wonder if our purest love is shown best in the darkest places. When a perfect outcome seems impossible, when we barely move the needle. When nothing is winnable or fixable, we have only our compassion, our desire to reduce the hurt. We touch the wound, and we are the ones who are healed. 

There is a place for a call to action. A call for businesses, communities, and organizations to partner. A call for personal responsibility, for those housed and unhoused. A place for compassionate municipal strategies. Power structures can change. Systems can ensure less people fall through the cracks. Outdated ideologies can be replaced. But our compassion is nonnegotiable. 

I know people who are sure they will see an end to homelessness. Their focus is unwavering, until they make it reality. But whether they are right or wrong, one thing I am sure of is this: they will work to that end with dedication and compassion until their dying day. With their every action, in a thousand different words, they will tell the soul in front of them: “You are welcome here”.

And they will see none of it as wasted.

(Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash)

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