As I was walking through Westboro on Sunday, someone stopped me and said “Can you help me out? It’s awful being homeless.”
It was a woman with a cart, holding out a box lined with a clean paper towel. As I reached into my pocket for some change, she said “Even $20 would help, I’m trying to get enough for a motel room but they’re $90 a night.”
I thought that was kind of nervy, asking for $20. I put $2 in her box. She didn’t say thank you.
On my way back home I saw her again, but now she was sitting on a bench, writing in a notebook. I walked past her, then stopped, turned around and looked at her again.
She was dressed in rags, but she was clean and well groomed.
I looked at her cart – everything was neatly wrapped in plastic, and there was a fly swatter, a pair of clean garden gloves, and a can of Lysol sitting on top.
“I just want to read your sign,” I said, gesturing at the plastic-wrapped cardboard sign attached to her cart. It said something about transmitters and perverts.
“Sure,” she said, “But there’s a big unexploded bomb that could go off at any time.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Inside me,” she said, “They put it in during minor surgery; my ex paid them to do it. It’s not easy living with it, knowing it could go off at any time.”
Her fingernails were clean and painted mauve.
“Transmitters too,” she said, “They put transmitters in. They can see through my eyes, and hear through my ears. They intercept my thoughts.”
“How long have you been living with these things inside you?” I asked.
“At least ten years,” she said.
“It must be hard.”
“It’s not easy being homeless,” she said, “especially for a woman. It’s not bad for men, they own the world. They can go to the bathroom anywhere they want.”
“Where do you sleep?” I asked.
“When I can, I sleep in a motel, but that’s not very often. It’s nice just to have a place to get organized and do my laundry and read the newspaper and have a little break for a night. But that’s just once in awhile. The rest of the time, I stay outdoors. I don’t really sleep. I have a chair, I just sit in there at night.”
Her chair is folded neatly in the cart, next to the laundry detergent, both neatly wrapped in plastic.
“Maybe you could stay in a shelter,” I suggested.
“No, it’s not safe,” she said, “They have cameras in all the bathrooms. I always turn the lights off when I go into a bathroom. I have to wash under my clothes. They’re all disgusting perverts in there.”
“What about a women-only shelter?”
“Lots of women are perverts too,” she said.
Her brown hair is clean and combed and lightly streaked with grey.
“If you could get a place, would it be here in Westboro?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m almost always here. I had a room once, in a lady’s house. I paid her money for it, but she’d go into my room and steal things.”
“Could you get another room?” I asked.
“No, they all steal things,” she said, “They all have cameras. It’s not safe.”
“What did you do before all this happened?” I asked.
“I worked. I had lots of different jobs. I wasn’t lazy either, I worked hard, because I never wanted to be homeless. I was afraid I’d end up homeless. And look what happened. I ended up homeless anyway.”
“How long have you been homeless?” I asked.
“Five years.”
“What about in the winter?”
“Same thing. I just wear lots of layers.”
Her legs are bare and she is wrapped in layers of rags.
“What’s the Lysol for?” I asked.
“I have a lot of allergies,” she said, “and there are a lot of germs out here. I go through about a bottle of Lysol every day.”
“That’s a lot of Lysol,” I said.
It must be awfully hard keeping herself and her possessions so clean and tidy without a home or a bathroom.
“The politicians, they’re no help, all they care about is the immigrants and trying to teach them to be human. Niggers aren’t people, you know, they’re minotaurs. Jesus Christ Almighty told me so himself.”
“What are minotaurs?”
“Half human, half goat, I think,” she said, “They’re the worst.”
A couple passes with a baby in a stroller.
“They put the transmitters in babies too,” she said, “And parents aren’t always what they appear. Lots of them are cannibals.”
There’s a flash of anger, then a sigh of resignation and a long pause.
“Do you think you can help me?” she asks sadly.
“What kind of help do you think you need?”
“Financial. And I need a person of science. To remove the things inside me, or at least deactivate them.”
“Maybe a doctor could help you,” I suggested.
“Most of them are in on it,” she said, “Sometimes they put me in the hospital. I entertain the doctors for a little while, then they let me go. They’re all in on it, they make a fortune exploiting me. I know all about their pharmaceutical pedagogy. The doctor said he wanted to help me, but he was really a vampire. Jesus Christ Almighty told me so Himself.”
“How do you know who to trust?”
“I can’t trust anybody. How could I?”
“Except God?”
“Yes, I trust God. But I don’t always trust my own interpretation of Him. I worked hard to have a good relationship with God, but they interfere with our intimacy. They intercept our communications and try to twist them. So sometimes God has to speak in ways I have to figure out, so they won’t know what He’s saying to me.”
“It sounds complicated,” I said, “but at least you’ve got God on your side.”
“Yes,” she sighed. It was a troubled sigh.
“What would you do if you were me?” she asked.
I pondered this question for quite awhile, and then answered “I don’t know.”
I honestly don’t know what I would do if I were her. When you see everything through a lens of paranoia, you can’t trust anybody enough to let them help you. I’ve had bad dreams in which I couldn’t trust anybody. It wasn’t fun. At least I got to wake up; I think she’s locked into this nightmare all the time.
I wanted to take a picture of her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even ask her her name, for fear of frightening her. And I wanted to help her, but how do you help someone like that? How can anyone help her? I suspect her life would be difficult no matter what her circumstances, but I can’t imagine a more challenging set of circumstances than being both paranoid AND homeless.
I don’t know what the answer is, but it’s just not right that a woman this vulnerable is living on the streets of our city.
UPDATE: AUGUST 30, 2007: In a strange twist of coincidence, I got an email today announcing the release of a new report from the Canadian Institute for Health Information. The report is called Improving the Health of Canadians: Mental Health and Homelessness. I’ve only had a chance to scan it so far, but I’ll read it this weekend and post the highlights.
Ugh. That makes me so mad. She’s clearly unwell and needs psychiatric help. I’m pretty sure she’s not the only one out there either. Thanks for writing about this. If more people actually stopped and listened to these peoples’ stories, things might be different.
Yeah.
I see her all the time. It’s been a challenge, trying to explain her to our children. The last time we passed her she shouted at us: “Can you spare some money? Seventy dollars would be great!”
I do feel sorry for her. It’s hard to know how to help.
Em, you’re right, she needs psychiatric help. I’m not sure how it works though if someone needs it, but refuses it – especially if they’re not a threat to anyone else. Also, if she’s got paranoid schizophrenia, it’s not very treatable. (From what I’ve read, the treatment of choice is psychotherapy, but that requires a level of trust she is incapable of. She may have to live with the mental illness for the rest of her life, but it’s up to society whether she has to live on the streets.
Andrea – how do you explain her to your children? Do you know how long she’s been living in Westboro? Do you know anything more about her?
There really isn’t anything that can be done if that’s the way she has decided to live. For her, it’s the best she can do. She certainly doesn’t seem dangerous, so forcing her into treatment, considering her reaction to doctors as you transcribed, would likely be far more detrimental to her and traumatic than the life she’s living now.
It is sad. There are avenues out there to help schizophrenics in Ottawa but to be honest they’re not fabulous. I discovered today that the Walk of Hope held by the Schizophrenia Society of Ontario doesn’t have an installment in Ottawa at the moment. I don’t know if I’m the person to start that installment, but it’s worth thinking about.
Lissa, I don’t know if it’s a decision to live that way as much as it a case of not having any choice. Paranoid schizophrenia and obsessive-compulsive disorder (I’m playing armchair psychologist here; I could be wrong) would tend to eliminate choice. Practical help might be the best society can offer her, and, in my opinion, we should be offering it.
What does the Schizophrenia Society of Ontario do? Are they a research organization, or do they do advocacy and help individuals and families cope?
Lately I’ve been wondering about the option of giving these sorts of people a room of their own, with a lock on the door. Then they wouldn’t feel vulnerable like in a shelter and they’d have their own place. It might be wise not to have cooking facilities in the room but just have a bathroom, like she was saying about a motel room. I read something really recently about someone who is experimenting with this option – probably in the U.S. but I can’t remember. It’s a fine line between helping people and wanting to interfere with how they live so they live “better”. I mean, what do you do about people who might live in such a place but who then bring infestations of bugs into the place or set fire accidently by cooking in their room? I do think one can’t generalize but instead, one must treat each person as an individual, as they should be treated in any event. It’s not very efficient (much easier to lump all sorts together) but it seems it’s the only way.
This lady is a retard…. by giving homeless, deranged, racist, drug addicted people money we are encouraging them to do more drugs and get more screwed up views on society. Instead of giving them money give them food or a drink. By doing so they won’t be able to buy drugs and get more messed up. Clearly this lady needs to be institutionalized and studied. This crack head thinks that black people are half human and half goats and babies have transmitters in them she is one fucked up bitch! I say pin the bitch down medicate her and tell her she lives on earth and never let her out of the Royal Ottawa Hospital.
Julia, I’ve been thinking along the same lines – I think I’ve heard it referred to as a Housing First approach. This woman will have a hard time feeling safe anywhere, but if she could have a simple room with a lock on the door, I think her quality of life would be dramatically better.
Brown: why would you come to the conclusion that she’s ‘retarded’ and a crackhead? She seemed quite intelligent and articulate to me, and I’d bet money she doesn’t do drugs of any kind.
Her intolerance towards black people (and health providers, parents, politicians, clergy, etc) come from her fear of them, which is caused by her mental illness.
You yourself seem to fear people with mental illnesses, which might similarly explain your intolerance of them.
Zoom, just checking in to see your reply to my comment.
“Decided” is a strong word, I agree. While others might argue she has a choice, in her mind, she does not.
The Schizophrenia Society of Ontario doesn’t seem to do much, to be honest. They try to raise awareness and yes, organize support groups and the like. They put out a quarterly magazine and are mostly advocacy-based. They’re pretty quiet unless you’re looking for them, though, and NAMI is a more recognizable organization to be sure.
Since my last comment, my husband-to-be, who has learned to live with schizophrenia, and I have decided to look into trying to get a Walk of Hope going in Ottawa in 2008 or 2009. He has in the past done talks at schools in the Brockville/Kingston area and would like to continue this sort of work in Ottawa. He feels, and I agree, that someone who has learned to live with schizophrenia should be doing some kind of outreach.
As for commenter Brown – yes, it is scary. Patience, an open mind and an examination of one’s own prejudices are great first steps. For instance, transmitters are a common concern. They are a ‘rational’ way to explain why other people you can’t see might be talking to you. Brown should put him- or herself in someone else’s shoes and take a look around.
(Sorry for the soapboxing.)
Lissa, that’s great that your fiance does this kind of outreach work. A lot of the stigma against people living with mental illness seems to come from our ignorance of it. (And really, unless we know someone who is mentally ill and open about it, most of our information comes from seeing people who *aren’t* coping very well.)
I’ll take part in your Walk of Hope. How far are we walking?
Hi Zoom – I’m just returning to this thread to read the follow-up comments.
I’m not sure how long I’ve known about the Lysol lady. She’s been around these parts for (maybe?) a year or so. I’ve seen her at various points along Richmond Rd., near and far. I don’t know anything about her. You asked how we explained her to our children.
This is a difficult thing, because our kids are at an age where they think practically everyone is a happy normal person, just like their friends and family.
So here’s the Lysol lady. She’s pushing a giant shopping cart with all of her belongings. She’s wearing a cape over countless layers of clothing, and a bonnet on her head.
The kids asked what her sign says (something about terrorism), and why she’s pushing her things around. I explained that she’s homeless, and add there are places in Ottawa for homeless people to go where they can get help and shelter. I explain that we give to the Salvation Army, and the United Way and that they are two large organizations who help people like this.
Why doesn’t the lady go there – this is the next question. I had to explain craziness (sorry – this is not a PC word I know) to two kids who can’t really fathom what it is that I’m telling them. I say that our actions and our feelings are largely controlled by our brains, and that the “juices” flowing inside our brains is held in delicate balance, and if this balance is upset it affects our personalities, our perspective and our beliefs. The Lysol Lady has some kind of illness that is causing her to act the way she does, and we have to help people like that, because if WE’re ever in trouble we would certainly want someone to help us.
I don’t know how else to explain it all.
She seemed MIA for a bit (or maybe just my schedule) but the Lysol Lady is almost always on Richmond in the early evening. She seems just the same as last year and the year before.
Honestly as much as it makes me sad to see her i have a hard time giving her money. I have lived, worked and gone to school in wetboro and you always see her when its nice out but the second it starts to rain or horrible weather shes gone. Her nails and hair are always perfectly done. Shes not a very nice woman either its kind of understandable why she wouldn’t be but when you say no to giveing her money or a ciggarette she yells and sometimes makes a scene. I have also seen her spray lysol at a teen that said no. I don’t know how i feel about her.