For the people who have been so supportive, thank you. I haven't posted because I've imposed a blackout on my own communication. There is a good reason for this, but I won't go into it. I want those who are interested to know that we are safe, secure and that we are going to be alright. I am writing still, although it isn't for public consumption, and hope that those who care will understand. At times, there are people who will twist anything said to their own agendas. I only seek to avoid any chance of this happening right now.
Soon, I'll be back. For now, please know that your prayers and good wishes have kept us afloat.
Hell No, We Won't Go
My son told me he would come to the shelter with me. But something still bothered me. He'd never objected. I was the one who'd objected to putting him through that.
My son told me he would come to the shelter with me. But something still bothered me. He'd never objected. I was the one who'd objected to putting him through that.
So my friend, Julie, helped me break down the logic in a conversation we had this weekend about values. Do we live according to the values that we hold? Or do we change our values to suit the occasion? We weren't talking about this situation, but one that still had to do with parenting.
I said, I am a terrible disciplinarian, and I gave the example of finally giving in to my daughter's teenaged aversion to doing the dishes. Julie said,
What's the value you hold by asking her to do the dishes?
Well, I said, that we all share a portion of the work so no one is unfairly overloaded.
OK, said Julie, and what happened?
What happened was that she put me off by saying, I'll do it in a minute...in an hour...
Okay. What did you do?
Okay. What did you do?
Well, I used to get upset and yell at her but that got old fast. This happened so often that I would become a total idiot over it. She simply refused, passively, by putting me off. I got sick of yelling, cajoling, insisting... I even stopped making dinner for her as a consequence, but she didn't notice. Eventually, it became a matter of choosing my own sanity and peace of mind over nagging her to no effect.Julie thought about it, and said, But did you change your value that work should be shared fairly?
No. I just chose my battles. For my own sanity, I chose not to fight with her because it got me nowhere. Most of the time, I made dinner for both of the kids, and I always asked her to do the dishes. She never turned me down flat. She just put me off, and that was so infuriating that I reconfigured her response to mean, "No" in my own head. I wanted her to have better nutrition than she chose for herself, so I cooked. That seemed more important than anything. Eventually, I simply gave up on her.
But did you change your value?
Nope. Not one iota. Now, she's a mother herself, with a toddler who rearranges everything before she can finish cleaning. Now, she understands the value of sharing the work...
So what is this thing about you being a terrible disciplinarian?
Well, I feel as if I should have forced her to do the dishes.
Why didn't you?
What was I going to do, beat her? From the time she was able to tell me yes or no, she's shown me she has a formidable will of her own. If anyone tries to force her to do something, she will dig in her heels deeper and outlast the best adversary! I tried all sorts of approaches until I wore myself out. Eventually, it came down to choosing my own peace of mind over anguish.
Exactly, said Julie. She knew exactly what she was doing. How she was manipulating you. You were simply choosing, like all mothers do, to pick your battles. You were doing what all mothers must do--be flexible.
I said, tongue in cheek,
Well, I threatened her the way my own mother threatened me: I hope that someday, YOU have a daughter exactly like YOU. Julie laughed. There are some things that are true and have been true since time immemorial. The curse of the mother is one.
So I thought some more about my values. With my children, the first value has always been to protect them from danger. Not necessarily from discomfort, but from suffering for something that was not theirs to suffer.
And I concluded that I would NOT subject my son to the shelter.
Period.
If it cuts me off from their resources, so be it. I will think outside of their box.
I make no judgments on the women who bring their kids to the shelter. Most have no other alternative. Most are probably making the right decision. Most of them, I really admire. And, I might still have to change my mind and give in. But as long as I have the ability to think creatively, I'll follow that first.
Hell, NO! If the only way to get help is to make him sleep on the floor of a different church every night, then I'll just have to beg, borrow or take a job teaching English in Ethiopia.
Copyright 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved.
4 comments:
Julie Weathers said...
- Good for you. It will work out. There is something for you. I don't know the plan, but God does.
Stephanie Ericsson said...
- Julie, Thank you for the vote of confidence. I hope you're right--I'm calling a pure bluff, holding a garbage hand and God's not tipping his hand in the least! Steph
- August 7, 2009 12:13 AM
- I am living proof that it is possible to lose everything and eventually find that there is still more to live for. As long as you are breathing there is hope.
- September 7, 2009 1:20 AM
Stephanie Ericsson said... - Elizabeth, Thank you. It is very important to me to hear from women like you. I never forget that however bad it seems, there are people who have it worse. I rarely forget to be grateful for what I have. In some deep, fundamental way, I feel more centered, more free than I've ever felt before. Not to be flip and use an old cliche, but when you've lost everything, when there's nothing left to lose, there's a kind of freedom that moves in to take over and installs itself inside of us. I am not my house, or my things, or my work, or even the roles that I play as a mother, a wife, a writer, a friend, a lover--none of these things will ever fully define me. They may point others toward a direction that helps them know me better. But, they are not me. I am--we all are--MORE than the sum of any of these things, more, even, than the culmination of life's experiences. Yet, when I add up all the columns, I come up with a simple total: I am nothing without you--nothing without relationships--nothing without the people who love me and whom I love.
- September 22, 2009 11:45 PM
I Make It To The Shelter
If I keep circling this block, they're going to report me for stalking. If I keep sitting in my car for hours on the street, feeding the meters, some cop is going to take an interest in me. No matter how much I try, I cannot seem to get out of this car by myself and go open that door. Finally, I accepted my friend George's offer to go to the shelter with me. Just to get me through that front door.
I met him on the street, and we walked around the corner to the two unmarked double doors. There was no sign on the doors—just some numbers on the wall—244—those reflective numbers with sticky backs that you get at hardware stores. Some women who were out for a smoke and a flock of kids playing tag were just a few yards away. I reached for the door and pulled but it was solidly closed. Locked.
I turned and saw all the women looking at me. Everyone stopped talking for a moment and then started again. They ignored me without taking their eyes off of me. No one looked unfriendly, but no one looked friendly, either. There was something here that they were protecting. I realized it was the Entrance. A moment later, one of the woman startled me from behind and with an official voice asked, "May I help you?"
Here was a Gatekeeper that I had to get past.
Was I supposed to state my business right here out in the open with everyone listening? Checking me out? Eyeing me from head to toe—taking my measure? The first principle of survival was in play—be observant—watch everyone and everything that is nearby. What were they seeing anyhow? A woman in her fifties, overweight, graying, clean, well-groomed. I'd be dammed if they'd see me any other way. Wearing a long skirt (because I always wear long skirts), a clean blouse, a cotton sweater, a decent but not flashy purse and flip-flops. I had on lipstick and held a thick file of papers in my arms. Did they know I was there because I'm homeless? How would they? How do they tell this? Did they think I was an official from the state? Don't count on it, Steph—the flip-flops give you away...
I need help, I said.
I'm homeless.
Well, this place is for families... she said.
I have a son.
So, you need shelter today for you and your son...she said, matter-of-factly, as she took out her keys and unlocked the door.
I hesitated and looked over at George. He pointed his walking stick at the open door and I obeyed.
The door opened into a cement staircase of the institutional variety. It went up and down and the echo of our footsteps rang out. Just to the right of the door was a small waiting room with an office beyond that I could see behind a large window. The door to it was locked too. With the jangling of her keys echoing, she unlocked that door too and held it open for me.
Can we just talk first? I asked. George has settled himself in a corner of the waiting room, looking calm and managerial—both hands balanced on the top of his walking stick.
Can you tell me how this works? I asked, not sitting down. So she outlined the program.
You stay here during the day and then at 5:30 pm, we bus you over to a church where you sleep on mats on the floor for the night. We don't allow anyone to drive their own cars to the churches. You get a locker where you can lock your belongings at night and we open them when you get back to the church in the morning. There are showers... We take your money and hold it for you...
All I hear, prison, prison, prison. Can't drive yourself. Sleep on mats on the floor. Other people sleeping right next to you who you don't know. When was the last time I slept with anyone else but my kids or grandson in the room? I couldn't remember... Apparently, I said this thought out loud because she said,
Well, there are screens set up...
Sleeping on the floor... she might as well have said I will be sleeping on a bed of nails for my chronic pain syndrome. What are we supposed to do between 6 pm and when we fall asleep? When was the last time I went to sleep before midnight? I'm a night person... They lock up our things and we don't get the key—they do. They open the lockers when they want, and if I need something in them—too bad. They take my money... (What money? I laughed out loud) what is that all about? I have to ask them for my own money? Isn't it humiliating enough? As if I couldn't be trusted with my own money. Well, maybe that's true for a lot of these folks, but if I wasn't frugal and good at squeezing ten dollars out of a five dollar bill, I'd have been down here years ago... I have clothes older than my children... If I had any money, I would make sure they didn't know it. Does being homeless constitute being treated like a prisoner? Or a child? You do what we tell you...Holy Mother of God, I hate this... She kept talking,
Then, when there is a spot at the shelter, you go there. You get your own room and the curfew (yes, she used the word, 'curfew'), is better—you have to be in by nine pm... You can only stay there for 30 days in a 3 month period... They have housing counselors there...
And if they don't find me and my son housing within that time, what happens?
You come back here...
Does my son have to be here with me?
If you want to use this shelter. If it's just you, you have to go to the women's shelter. That's on the 2nd floor of the Dorothy Day Center, but it's locked.
Everyone in Saint Paul knows where the Dorothy Day Center is because it's right across from the Xcel Center—the huge sports arena that sits at the entrance to our tiny downtown—which one could navigate within five minutes from end to end. Garrison Keillor on his show, The Prairie Home Companion on National Public Radio talks about Saint Paul as a quaint little town—where you can stand on the corner of 6th Street and 7th Street at the very same time... Well, on that particular corner, all the homeless congregate, sprawled out on the grassy knolls with their backpacks or their shopping carts, bumming cigarettes and cat-calling any girl that walks by. My kids' friends go over there to bum smokes from the homeless... Yes, that's exactly where I aspire to hang out... I'm thinking as I hear the last part of her description,
...but they don't have any housing counselors there.
Where?
At the women's shelter...
Of course not, why would women need a housing counselor...?! I think to myself.
So, I say, there's only one way to get to the shelter and the housing counselors, and that's through you?
Pretty much, she says.
And the only way I can come here is if I bring my son with me, (I didn't say what my first choice of phrasing was—that the only way I could get help was if I subject my son, who is now safe, cared for, and relatively content where he is for the time being, to being a homeless prisoner here at the shelter... As if I am not a mother unless I'm actually accompanied by my child—(What? Am I going to fake being a mother? Isn't THAT on file, somewhere?) ...and protecting my child from this whole mess is exactly what disqualifies me from getting the help we need.
None of it makes any sense in my line of logic. Since I started looking for help with social service agencies, I've run into this conundrum so often that I've begun to wonder if my logic isn't faulty. It seems that theirs is the only logic exists. After all, they're the government. They have all kinds of paperwork, red tape and research to back up their reasoning.
I'm sure there are plenty of reasons for all these rules, but their effect, not only on the self-image of their clients—but on their very lives, doesn't seem to be a factor. It would be like living in a world where people say, Well, sure, we can help you!—but only if you've given birth to a dwarf with size twelve shoes. Size eleven and a half won't do... Or—Sure we can help you, if you are five foot seven, have green eyes, a limp on the left side—left side only!—and you talk with a lisp. Yessiree! There's ALL kinds of help out here for those unfortunates who've fallen on hard times...Or—the best one of all—and this one is REAL—Sure! We can help you! As long as we know that this will solve your problem and it won't be a REOCCURRING problem... Otherwise, if it IS a reoccurring problem, (as if anyone could promise that they could find work right now!) then, I'm sorry—we can't help...
Does THAT make any sense? Like the Urban League telling me that because I didn't have a job, they couldn't help me with my energy bill... (...if I had a job, why would need to ask you for help??)
Every month, I get at least five pieces of mail from the county with gobbley-gookey verbiage and tables of numbers that make no sense to me and are completely unnecessary. Every month I get at least one letter that threatens to stop my benefits because I didn't get my household report in on time, (which I always DO, by the way) and which my financial worker tells me to ignore...
I decided to do some math on those letters—let's say TWO of the letters are important. That means that THREE aren't. At 44 cents per letter, times 3=$1.32. Now there are 327,357 people in Minnesota on food stamps alone—so let's just use them for a theoretical number.
327,357 people
X $1.32
____________________
$432,111.24 monthly
$432,111.24 monthly
$432,111.24 every month is being wasted on mailing unnecessary letters. What does this add up to per year?
$432,111.24
X 12 months
____________________
$5,185,334.88
Five million dollars a year is eaten up by sending out mail that no one understands, needs or that's actually wrong. .How many houses, apartments, even these rare birds called 'housing counselors' could be bought, rented or hired for five million dollars?
And this is the government that is bailing us out of our recession? Or would somebody please correct my math?
Copyright©2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved
2 comments
Julie Weathers said... - Oh, honey. I am so sorry for what you are going through. I wish I knew what to do to make it better.
- August 1, 2009 4:32 PM
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Stephanie Ericsson said... - Julie, I know it doesn't seem like it's enough, but your friendship, keeping track of me and my son, your prayers...all these things are more valuable than anything else you could give. This is a journey. The only thing that I couldn't survive on this journey is going it alone. Thanks to you and the other incredible women who are supporting me (#cowboyupgurlz!) are my lifeline. Much love, Steph
- August 2, 2009 1:12 AM
Lost My Voice
Now I understand why we don't hear too much from the homeless, themselves.
I can't find my voice. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to write. I can't find my voice. Every time I start, I choke up.
I never realized how much energy it takes to have no ground. No corner where you belong. It absorbs all my energy. There is no place where I can just BE. Nowhere where I'm not imposing on someone, or doing something illegal. I'm not sure, but I think that sleeping in your car is illegal. I'm terrified that if I sleep in my car, in the middle of the night I'll get a flashlight in my face and a cop who's got nothing else to do that night but harass me. Be arrested for public loitering. I'm scared all the time that I'm infringing on someone's space, or that someone is going to hurt me. If I sleep in my car, will some thugs looking for cheap entertainment find me? I don't sleep well at all because I have no bed. Right now, I'm staying at my daughter's on her couch and it's awful. I wake up with my chronic pain throbbing in all the old familiar places.
There's nowhere to go where I can have any privacy. Everything you do when you're homeless is done in public. I'm living out of my car, obsessed with staying clean, but my 'stuff' is scattered all over the place—packed in this box, or that suitcase. I go to the garage where all my 'stuff' is boxed up, and it's even more depressing. What a bunch of crap I've held on to...Only I know that it used to be nice stuff.
I keep putting off going to the shelter. I'm really scared to do it. Somehow, going there makes being homeless too REAL. But nothing is going to happen for my son and me until I do. I keep driving by the place, meaning to stop and go in but then I keep driving.
This is as much as I can write today. At least it's something.
Copyright©2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved
1 comments:
- Remember there is no such thing as homelessness as long as you are on this planet. That's right, the planet is your real home, so relax a bit. Now find yourself a shelter until you can get an apartment or house( your secondary home which is never permanent- think Haiti, New Orleans, etc.) Also, remember we are all in the precarious situation of maintaining shelter however permanent or temporary as it may seem. My point here is to encourage you to see your situation as something less threatening as it may seem ,and, inspire you to not give up. In the face of adversity do not give up your humanity. Continue to reach out to others like yourself so that you can share your sense of dignity and compassion through difficuly times. You will be amazed how your honestly shared reality will be a benefit for yourself and others. Lastly, don't forget that "HOUSElessness" is just around the corner for anybody living in our world today. YOU ARE NEVER ALONE UNLESS YOU CHOOSE TO FEEL THAT WAY!
- January 30, 2010 11:53 AM
There are these women, see? Women who've sent me direct messages on Twitter or emailed me, or posted to my blog. These women, who saw me floundering, make it a point to support me almost every day. You can do it... each of them says, each in their own way. Some send prayers. Some send money. Some send me their stories. Some even send me 'virtual' flowers! Little by little we learn one another's stories... All of them give me strength that I would not have had without them.
One of these women, givelovecoffee, a coffee micro-roaster with her own company, Moon Monkey Coffee, sent me this message one day, after she'd had a particularly hard day herself "...time to live our new mantra, 'cowboy up, girls'... with Tylenol everything will be OK." From there, one of us came up with the Twitter toy #cowboyupgurlz and since then, we've been using it to alert all the other women, living in a man's world, picking ourselves up by our bootstraps and trudging forward in spite of all. Later, she wrote,
"No more apologies take captives under your influence & make a difference in spite of your circumstances. #cowboyupgurlz It's a new day! Your tweet was divine—instead of feeling sorry for myself I felt humbled but not powerless...The act of one-anothering in online spaces, gives a connection to not just pixels but people to share in your circumstances, to offer a kind word, a 140 characters of encouragement to be excellent!
All the best today! Leaning in looking up & whispering our names...
I think that's a great definition of #cowboyupgurlz. "The act of one-anothering..." is apt.
Today, I sit in my old apartment, alone...trying to get the loose ends wrapped up. Trouble is—I get confused when I'm overwhelmed and my attention-deficit takes over and leads me by my nose in circles. Added to this is my pain-level today, which is greater than it's been in months. Ugh. I've worn out my son and his friend, Cain—they have worked really hard for the past week, so I sent them off to their respective dwelling spots to recuperate. Now I have to get the rest of the stuff packed and ready for moving. I am praying someone will be able to help. Can only do what I can.
I sat down and had a good cry. Then I checked my email, and there were notes and tweets of encouragement. Suddenly, what just seemed impossible—seems possible. It will be ok. All of it.
So, to all these women, members of the #cowboyupgurlz club, Yahoo...! I'm going to get it done. I'm going to make a difference, in spite of my circumstances—maybe even because of them...
The angels just told me a secret:
Within the difficulties, the suffering, the hopelessness, there is hidden opportunities for redemption, for connection, for love. If I tackle the problems, I'll find miracles hiding there.
I once painted this little painting for one of the quotes I love, by Saint Exupéry:
Copyright ©2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved.
What Does One Pack for the Homeless Shelter?
We're packing and packing and packing...
My son and his friends... Cain... and Skye... George... Melinda... such good friends... (Funny, how many people disappear when you're moving!! LOL!—I've been guilty of it too!)
Found a cheap, dry, 24-7 place to store our things...
But really—we have to be smart about this. Put the things we won't have a need for until we find a new place all in the back. Books, knickknacks, etc. Furniture and stuff like that. Stuff we might have a need for should go closer to the front... Ugh....
What about things that we'll need in the interim? Like the scanner? Or the hard drive and the disks for recovery... files that I may need for documentation...
Do I dare bring my laptop to the shelter?? If not, where do I keep it so I can get at it when I need to and not impose on anyone else?? In my car??? What if it gets towed or stolen? Do I back everything up on the hard drive? On line?
Do I bring my own pillow? What about laundry detergent, shampoo, office supplies... Stuff that if I have to buy again will cost more than we can afford out of pocket?
And our clothes—what should we do with the stuff that is better hung up? Create a pole in the storage and then keep stuff on hangers but covered with plastic bags?
Hmmmm....
I have no idea what to expect... I've just written to a woman who specializes in these kinds of things...The Survival Mom –Lisa Bedford. What an amazing website she's built! Got to go now, and see if she's got some tips for us!
For those amazing people who are keeping track of us, we are very thankful.
Copyright ©2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved
Found this a while ago on Blogger--and it had really interesting things to explore
Survival Guide to Homelessness
This post was both terrifying and informative... Shelters are for someone else - part 2I am willful, arrogant and full of pride.
There is no room at the shelter, they tell me.
At the Family Place, it's first come—first serve, they tell me. If you're there first you get shelter for the night. You can stay there at the center during the day, where you'll get meals, and access to phones, computers, etc. Every night, you will go sleep in a different church. Volunteers from that parish will be there to assist you and stay the night with you.
Why does the thought of that make me angry? Why is the first thought that comes into my head about this (knowing absolutely nothing, btw, about it, since I have never been one of these volunteers...) "Oh, so we're like zoo animals, on display"...?
Because I'm willful, arrogant and full of pride.
A part of me says, "No way. No friggin' way am I going to do that! I'd rather sleep in my car..."
So, I'm a hypocrite. It's all well and good for me when I'm the one who is giving. Hell, I'm in control then. But to be the one in need? This is going to test my humility.
Yet, what about the people who are actually doing this? Are they less than me? Isn't that what I'm really saying by trying to hang on to my pride? Humility does not mean, humiliation, unless I allow it to mean that.
It doesn't mean degradation.
It means: to remain teachable.
Can I find my way to really living this meaning? We shall see.
But I know one thing about life, from years of learning the same damned lesson over and over, being thick-headed... There are times in our lives when the very thing that we least want to do is the very thing that we most need to do.
Dammit...Copyright © 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Right
I have not posted for the past couple of days because I've been processing...adjusting to what reality keeps insisting I accept. When my feelings are overwhelming me, it's best that I be alone with them until I can find some balanced perspective.
All Roads Lead To...
All roads lead to the same answer...that we must enter the homeless shelter... I have gone down every path that I could find, and the answer I continue to get is—if we are to receive any assistance, we must be homeless.
Many people warned me that this was most likely to be the case.
From there, I am told, the social workers can help us. From there, we will have access to housing assistance. From there, the influence that I have not been able to exert on the agencies that are moving at a snail's pace will be exercised for me. I suppose it puts us in a different category which has access to resources that we cannot get unless we're desperate. But it seems so illogical and I am trying to fight off a prideful inner voice that can be so depressing—one that wants to convince me that 'they'—(whoever 'they' are)—want us to be reduced to total humiliation. I reserve judgment, for the time-being.
My son is more cynical than I am. He doesn't trust 'the system'... and behind his anger, I can see the fear that he's feeling. He claims to have talked with 'lots of homeless people' who were promised things by the system that never materialized. "And five years later, they're still hanging around the Dorothy Day Center, picking cigarettes up off the sidewalk to smoke..."
I shudder. I realize that I still believe in some greater form of fairness and justice. Some would call that delusion.
I have to do my best to help him process all these changes. We've argued recently—something we never do. But, both of us are reminded that WE are not the enemy. WE must stick together, support each other, cut each other some slack for a time— ergo: forgive those outbreaks of overflowing emotions that don't have anywhere to go.
A job for me would solve nearly everything right now. Yet, that has to be put on the back burner until we're packed up, our stuff moved into storage, and we've landed somewhere.
I'll try to post daily, but if I don't post for a day or so, it's only for the reason I mentioned above.
I feel such gratitude to those of you who've been so compassionate and who have, and continue to follow us in this journey. You are beacons of light in an otherwise dark landscape.Copyright © 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved
2 comments:
- Hi Stephanie, I read your last blog post. I know it's a thing that hurts your pride. I can't say I've been utterly homeless, but have faced it. If you're like me, you also hurt for the many people in our country who are forced to be completely devastated before help is available. There should be help available before anyone is about to have utilities shut off or face eviction. What I have been told is what you said in your blog. Until you show up homeless at a shelter, help is elusive. Public or private sources wait until your pride takes a beating to offer solutions. Don't let it get to you. Get the housing, get the assistance, thank them all (even the ones who aren't much help at all) and look at it as a starting point for the rest of your future. Don't look at the people who never find their way back from that. In my experience, there will always be a percentage of those people in our communities. You are not one of those people. You have some fight still left in you. Don't let these circumstances define who you are. Your situation is temporary. Our government leaders, the corporate policymakers, and many others who influence our economy have created a big part of the domino chain that you describe. I feel like I was set up before I ever purchased a home or received my first credit card. After 9/11 it was the middle class that felt the greatest impact. Fewer jobs, low paying jobs, inflated gasoline prices, higher insurances, higher interest rates, fees on top of fees. Here we were with loan agreements and other contracts we wanted to make good on, and the world is making that harder and harder to do. Tuesday morning I will be driving to Detroit to apply for food stamps. I receive unemployment (the rate is 15% in Metro Detroit), but it's not enough. I live very modestly, but unemployment wages for me is $225 every 2 weeks. It would be $150 more than that, but my jackal of an ex-husband gets child support for our teenage son. The ex is a grand poobah of aircraft maintenance for a cargo airline. He probably makes $60k+ a year. He knows I'm struggling and have a 10-year-old son at home. He also receives checks for $4k each month as a settlement for an injury in a car accident. He is an unrelenting a-hole. I can't afford an attorney to request a change in support. Yes, there are jackals. I look forward to your next blog or message. I would have posted this on your blog, but for some reason I'm not able to do that. I've tried a couple of times in the past. My thoughts and prayers are with you as you navigate The System. Take care Friend, Lisa
- July 7, 2009 2:16 AM
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Stephanie Ericsson said... - I posted the above comment for Lisa due to a glitch that would not let her post it. Part of my reply is below, (part was private), and if anyone wants the links that can't be posted here *(YOU HEAR THAT BLOGGER???), please let me know. Lisa, OMG, you can't imagine how much your letter means to me. Today, I called the woman at the Family Day Center (I think it's the Dorothy Day Center) who I was told to call. The main shelter is outside St. Paul in Maplewood, and everyone that gets placed there must go through the DD Center. She told me that the Maplewood shelter was full and 9 families were waiting to get in right now. There at the DD Center, it's first come, first serve. Every day they take in people and every night they take them to a different church to sleep on cots. If I want to get the help I need, I have to go through this system. My son can stay with his girlfriend but that's 30 mins from the cities. I can stay with my daughter for a night or two, but we've got a really complicated relationship and it's better for ME if I don't...I need to simplify everything. When I checked mail and found your letter, I'd been surfing the net for Tent Cities. Got your DM about that--but it led me to another this article (it's for MN, but it refers back to the Lisa Ling segment she did on Oprah.) One of the networks it covered was this one called: NSHRC- National Shared Housing Resource Center, and you click on the link for your state. Minnesota led me to this link: homeshare st croix . Both are resources for elderly who need help sharing their house & those who need rental help in exchange for rent or a portion of the rent. It looked really interesting. Wandering around St Paul, with those HUGE houses, I've wondered how people keep them up when they're older if they're not wealthy. Well, I guess someone else thought the same thing! Back to your letter...Don't let the circumstances define you... hmmm. I really need to hear that. Strange how many 'friends' and even 'family' have been conspicuously silent... I'm not someone who intrudes at all on people, in fact, most of all my troubles have been tackled in the privacy of my own tiny circle of my best friend and me for all these years. So for me to go public with it is really hard! Soooo, that is why your letter means so much to me. That is why saying, "Don't let this define you" means so much to me!!
- July 7, 2009 2:23 AM
The Countdown has now expired, but we are not homeless, yet. When there is anything definitive to report, I will shout it out. Meanwhile, the feedback I've listened to has made it evident that the greatest misconceptions today, (held about nearly everything), are 'assumptions'. In particular, assumptions that over-simplify very complex issues like: what things lead to homelessness; where is the line between a person's own responsibility and the responsibility of the community he or she lives in; etc. A person does not become homeless suddenly. It is a gradual fall of one domino upon another, each feeding to the velocity of the decline.
So, I'm starting a new series and calling it, It's Time You Knew... to discuss individual aspects of the domino effect that so many have in common and, hopefully, to inform people on things that are widely misunderstood. As in most of my writing, I begin with my own personal experience of things that many people share in common with me.
It is time to raise this conversation above the level of the merely "personal", out of the genre of 'sob-blog' and relate it to a larger scope where it can do some good. So, welcome to the first installment of—It's Time You Knew...
In Praise of Mules I have a disability which seriously limits the kinds of work I can do that is called chronic neuropathic pain, or chronic pain syndrome. About 40% of all Americans suffer from chronic pain at some point in their lives, but not all chronic pain develops into the syndrome. A syndrome is a collection of clinical signs and symptoms that reoccur together. But, what makes all syndromes difficult to treat is that different people have different combinations of these signs and symptoms.
It's not well understood medically because it can appear to be many different things—therefore is it difficult—nearly impossible—to treat. Many things can increase the severity of the pain—stress, lack of quality sleep, barometric pressure, humidity, depression, certain foods, etc. –and often bring on more severe pain or other symptoms.
I have not yet found an effective treatment that didn't have worse side-effects than the pain itself. I do not take pain medications anymore. I would rather be in pain and alert than not in pain and stupefied. Besides, pain medication seemed to destroy my connection to others, to myself and to my spiritual life. I learned how to manage my pain with rest, pacing and light exercise—but 'manage' is a misnomer—since it implies that I make the pain go away. I don't. I can't. I can only make it less severe or do things that will keep it from getting worse.
That's the compromise. I can live with that. But it means that I live with some level of pain 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It means that I cannot always predict how much I will be able to do in a day. Some days I am at least as productive as anyone else, but more often, I live with the disappointment of an unfinished To-Do List which rides rough on the self-esteem.
I rarely mention this disability because part of my pain management is that I pretend it isn't there. Until they invent a device that can objectively measure pain, this syndrome and others like it are often hailed as 'all in the head' –implying that the pain is imaginary. But anyone who has ever had chronic pain knows it's very real.
The subsequent fall-out from it run the gamut—lost jobs, damaged relationships, financial ruin, depression and, a very high rate of suicide. It invades every part of a person's life and takes a devastating toll. Considering all this, I feel grateful to be able to show up, everyday, alive.
So, I do. I show up. I do what I can. I have learned not to allow jackals much air-time in my head. I've even learned not to let them have the satisfaction of getting me angry. On the occasions that they turn out to be someone close to me, I get wounded, like anyone. However, my bounce-back-ability gets stronger with every encounter. If I hold on to resentments towards them, it only causes the pain to increase, so I've woven a line of logic that says, "You canNOT have a piece of me!" I have had to learn compassion and forgiveness, not because I'm some sort of saint, but out of self-defense.
Many people who are homeless today began their slide into homelessness with some kind of medical problem or serious injury. The lion-share of bankruptcies in our country is a direct result of massive medical expenses that devastate a person or a family and threaten their hard-earned security. Many of these victims are left in chronic pain, unable to assume the level of performance that once kept them in their jobs. Often the chronic pain leads to a pattern of physical addiction, where the body's tolerance of medication increases as the pain increases too.
Doctors don't like to treat chronic pain, not because they're bastards, but because it makes them subject to medical boards that see it as their mission to stop drug abuse. These medical boards target doctors who write prescriptions for narcotics and threaten their licenses to practice medicine, sometimes for the smallest infraction. And, by the way, it has yet to be proven that these dope-dealing-doctors contribute one iota to our country's problem with drugs. The real victim in this political battle, however, is the person already suffering from chronic pain. Domino number 3 or 4 begins to tip toward the next one... Now, in terrible pain, left without the benefit of a withdrawal program, he searches desperately for some relief and finds it in street drugs...and so the next domino falls, and the next, and it isn't far to go to that state that everyone finds repulsive: Homelessness.
I was lucky that my chronic pain did not lead me to look for relief out on the streets. My doctor got me into a pain clinic just before his battle with the medical board began and I responded well to the alternative treatments for pain. But I could have gone that direction; there is no doubt in my mind. But that was only one of the potholes I avoided in the decline that chronic pain caused in my life and is still causing.
I don't want to give the impression that I've got this all under control. The only way that I gain any kind of skill is by falling down and getting up again. It's a constant cycle of trying, failing, getting back up and trying again. My grandmother used to brag that I was the most stubborn child she'd ever known. It's a character defect, I know. But, without it, I'd probably be in worse shape or dead. Maybe I was made that way to prepare me for this battle that I've been fighting for over 16 years. If I every write a book about chronic pain, I shall call it, In Praise of Mules.
Copyright © 2009 Stephanie Ericsson
The Wind Has Shifted
I made all of the hard calls early in the morning. Most of them turned out to be better than I had expected. My brother said he'd send help. My landlord said we could stay another week. I finally exhaled.
I keep feeling as if I should be doing more-more-more! Yet twice I heard compliments on how much I was doing and it made the calls that ended in a dead-end much less painful. When my ex-fiancé called out of the blue, I was strong enough not to pretend I was glad to hear from him. I won't need to block his number anymore. I doubt he'll risk frost-bite again.
There is a shift happening inside of me...Call it trust. I'm trusting that we'll be OK. My son does not appear to be anxious. I'm not sure if he's just trying not to pressure me, or if he is confident enough in me that he's not losing sleep and doesn't know that I am.
When I checked email, there was a note from an old acquaintance that I'd just reconnected with on Facebook. His son just died, but I didn't know the circumstances until today, when I read the pages that he'd taken over for his son. It was a sudden, tragic and senseless death. Every parents nightmare. The kind that is nearly NOT survivable...and I couldn't hold back my tears.
Yet, in the midst of this avalanche of grief, he made a point to get me a message: he was aware of our circumstances. Call me, he said.
So, I did, prepared to offer my condolences and to listen to him. Instead, he offered us room in his home. We agreed to meet tomorrow to discuss it before he leaves town for two weeks.
It stuns me. I know something of the power of that avalanche from my own experience. It changes you so profoundly that you almost don't recognize you're own reflection in the mirror. So, for him to be able to gaze beyond his own circumstances and notice anyone else's problems is amazing. Then to find the generosity to open his home to two virtual strangers leaves me speechless. Of all the friends and acquaintances who know what is happening in our lives, he has been the only one to offer us shelter.
If I had tried to predict who would have offered help, he would never have entered my mind.
There is a shift in the wind that blows inside of me telling me how little I know.
Angels: 14--Jackals: 5...
Wow.
Copyright 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved
4 comments:
Anonymous said...
- I stumbled across your blog and have been watching your journey with interest and hope. Finally... the blessed Angels came to your rescue! Just like you, I've found that the Angels will always come to the rescue - it often takes an emergency, but they come through. That's why they are Angels - they support you. The Jackels, they are the devil! I can't believe the nerve of those damn Jackels to suggest that you look for a job. The nerve, the Gall! Do they realize how hard it is to find a job?! Have they read the newpapers! I have experienced it - I looked for a job last year, filling out two to three applications every week for several months. Then I got an offer - what an insult! The damn Jackel-boss wanted me to work from 7AM to 3PM, Monday through Friday. On the first day of work, I told boss-Jackel that I needed to have the freedom to come and go on my schedule, and work when I wanted to work. He got all pissy and said if I didn't like the schedule I should go elsewhere. What a prick! Not willing to give an inch! I stayed on and mostly kept to the dictated schedule because I needed money. They still fired me after three weeks, accusing me of ruining the products I was assembling. The Jackels had no real proof that I did it either!!! I won't ever go through "the job thing" again and you shouldn't either. I am now living with my sister, she pays for the food, and my other relatives and friends send me money when I bug them enough (guilt works wonders!). My family and friends will always bail me out! Stephanie, I wish you the very best and remember, have faith, the angels will always hear your call; I'll never work again!!!
- July 1, 2009 2:06 PM
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Stephanie Ericsson said... - Dear Anonymous, Ahem... I publish your comment for the world to see the lengths that some jackals—(not jackels)—will go to in their pursuit of harassing those already harassed. Your dissembling isn't quite as opaque as you obviously believe. You might have heard of a little thing called a 'cookie'? An ‘IP address’? But I am delighted that you wrote because you illustrate the misconception that those who are "homelessness" deserve what they get because they are "indolent" (or “lazy” for those who are too indolent to consult their Webster’s) when nothing could be farther than the truth. The other fallacy that you illustrate so beautifully is that "being dependent on others is a dream-come-true"--when in fact, it is a life that is riddled with the mine-fields of degradation, humiliation and loss of autonomy or privacy. It takes enormous humility to accept help with any grace. It takes a strong spirit and spirituality to remember one's own worth is not measured by circumstances, which change with the wind, but by honesty, integrity and humility in the face of adversity. I am so glad that you wrote, so all the world can witness a jackal in action.... Stephanie
- July 1, 2009 5:28 PM
norasweet said...
- Hope things work out for you and the thousands in similar situation.. If it were not for the good graces of my sister, I would be homeless now (in addition to being jobless.) Can you baby sit children in your place-- now or in the next few weeks? It's steady work, and while I know you are qualified to do more (career wise) it seems like a reliable way to make steady, dignified money.. Garage sale?
- July 2, 2009 12:28 AM
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Stephanie Ericsson said...
- norasweet when things settle down again, I'll resume taking care of my grandson for my daughter who canonot afford daycare and who works fulltime. It is a joy. Now, it's impossible with this move to ...who knows? You are so sweet to offer solutions--practical ones too. Read today's new blog post, In Praise of Mules. Thank you for the care and your time. Stephanie
- July 2, 2009 6:42 AM
BREATHE, dummy!Still in the limbo period of nothing to report. Can't spend too much time on the computer since the real world is having temper tantrums outside and I've got to go give it a spanking. But I will take a moment...breathe...exhale... Exhale....that's one of the things I forget to do. I learned in the pain clinic that the universal reaction to any kind of pain is to hold your breath. It's also the worst thing you can do... (Duh...any woman who's ever been through labor knows that... but it's the first thing I forget!) So! Note to self: Shift down to sloooo ...remember... Mañana ... EEKS! Mañana?!! OMG! Tomorrow is...!! OK, forget Mañana...picture a tropic island and you're floating on the gentle waves... Now, you're talking... BREATHE, dummy! Oh yea... Just thought I'd give you a glimpse at my inner dialogue. I have received some emails from the friends and family list, trickling in and I'm beginning to understand why I haven't heard from people... Everyone one is hurting. People who I've always assumed are stable and immune to these kinds of things...are struggling. Or if not themselves, they are trying to keep their own family afloat... But it means so much to hear that. I know they don't want to burden me now with their problems, but silence is the one thing that hurts the most—it leaves too much room for my devils... Last summer, when I was losing my house (—it's a long drawn out process) I really wanted to talk to my little brother. I called and called and he never returned my calls. I felt so abandoned. Then—this winter, he finally sent me an email...and in a few words told me he'd lost everything (including, he said, my family's respect...) and I suddenly realized why he hadn't returned my calls. Like me, he assumed that I was doing all right and he was ashamed to say that he wasn't. We were both so relieved to know that we weren't the only ones. (Does it sound weird? That we felt relief in the knowledge that the other was also suffering? If it does, than you are a robot!) Shame can be so isolating... Got to go. The day is screeching for me and I better go tell it to BREATHE, dummy! Copyright ©2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved.
2 comments:
- thanks for sharing your hardship with those who choose to follow your journey! You are an amazing writer! Dealing with my own hardships here...but today I will try and lift my own self out of the ditch of despair with this phrase At the moment, the score is: Angels: 10—Jackals: 4— S
- June 30, 2009 5:58 AM
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Stephanie Ericsson said... - Dear Anonymous, Thank you so much for your post--it offsets the stinging "Get-a-job-you -bum!" messages. They don't all come in the Comments postings, but the ones that do, I figure should have their say too. We help each other out of the despair that would like us to give up. So now the score is: Angels: 11--Jackals: 4...!! And todays theme is:"Don't let the bastards see you sweat!" Prayers to you! Steph
- June 30, 2009 11:05 AM
I got people...
I don't know what it says about me when I don't realize that it's not Saturday until 2 in the afternoon on Friday—that I was getting ahead of myself? It's one of the things that happen to me with my ADHD—my kids will vouch for it: my internal clock ticks to the sound of a different time warp.
For those who want to know, progress is happening, but it's the twilight time of waiting that falls in-between intent and action. I just don't know which way to go until I have more information and that is on its way.
The good news is that I'm not engaged in my terror right now. This may change upon awakening tomorrow but for now, I'm living one moment-at-a-time and trying not to think any further so I don't scare the b'jesus out of myself. The downside of this approach is that it makes me thoroughly bad at planning what to do next. To imagine all possible scenarios and prepare for them means leaving the 'living one-day-at-a-time' post and scouting the landscape of worst-case possibilities—the very ones that paralyzed me. It's my own personal catch-22.
I will say that my email box has been remarkably clean of email after sending out my SOS to my personal list of friends and family. I don't want to jump to any conclusions about what that means. However, it hasn't been entirely silent, and a miracle happened when an old and beloved friend responded.
We've known each other too many years to admit in public—and we laughed about that. We've both been so wrapped up in our own lives to be able to really pay much attention to others for quite a while. I spent an hour and a half on the phone with her today and we talked about everything, interrupting each other with a fast switch to another topic. Mostly stuff that we'd tucked away to someday mention to the other. There were tears and admissions, recollections and the filling of long gaps, our shifts in philosophy and lots and lots of laughs.
At the end of the conversation, I didn't want to let go because I realized how much I'd missed her over the years. It's not anything we could have avoided—everyone has their own world that sweeps them away and tends to make us myopic if it doesn't directly affect us.
But in our case, we've had so much to give each other. It was a revelation to me how much I'd longed for her wacky point of view, her examples of cowboying up in really bad times, her love for me and her delight in the love I've always felt for her.
There are private wars being fought in silence, in lonely bedrooms at 3 a.m. when sleep has deserted its post and not even the shopping channel can bore us back to sleep. These battles are invisible: the hand-to-hand combat with the relentlessness of chronic pain; the assaults of aging on the body that leave you continually surprised every time you pass a mirror; the losses that come naturally with growing older—the people we've lost, the eras, the passions—each took a piece out of us. Perhaps that accounts for the very human tendency to pull in a little bit at a time until we're isolated and nearly invisible.
But I don't know if we ever grow old enough to not need an old, dear, trusted friend. Today, my friend gave me the gift of believing in me. That meant something because she's known me when I'm at the top of my game, in the losers'-circle and every place in-between. Like two conspirators, we began laying the plans for the next phase of our lives and this time, with one another in attendance! After I hung up, I cried at the feeling of being full again—I had not realized how empty I'd let myself become. By opening up and re-embracing me I felt as if she'd just given me a brand-new bullet-proof vest.
So---World?—Bring it on. Do your worst! I'm not afraid of you.
I got people.
Copyright ©2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved
The forgotten victims of the subprime crisis--Foreclosure to Homelessness 2009
"Getting back on your feet’ is next to impossible in today’s society. The public needs to be made aware of who is becoming homeless... and that they could be next - just like any average family,”from the National Coalition for the Homeless
You see...it's REAL.
Is that a light at the end of the tunnel?
I don't have the time to post much right now, but I just wanted to say that a few good things are in the works. I have to use the day to take care of all the priorities, but I promise to let you know what's happening.There's a saying that I put into a little unpublished journal I called The Jitters Journal, Collections of Dipsomaniacal Wisdom, I did years ago for a group of people who helped me survive another hard time in the past.
A Day that Starts in Terror, Ends in Triumph
(a partial account of my day yesterday...)
A couple of people wanted to know if I'd gotten help at United Way.
United Way? Nothing new, but I'm not done pushing those buttons yet. I find you get different information from different operators -- maybe some of them have more experience, just like anywhere else. I think that, like me, people think that the United Way is a place you can go to, but it's just a big switchboard with some people who know a lot and some who don't yet.
But the real low-down came from the Family Place, whom a friend and reporter emailed me this morning.... As it happens, I accidentally emailed the program developer, (but you know there are no accidents!) and she emailed me back right away. "Call me." She'd read my blog by the time I called.
We spoke for about 40 minutes. First of all, she immediately calmed me with her warmth. She was patient and kind but also really honest. She walked me though the whole process of how things work. She told me to that the new breed of clients they were seeing were 'the you's and the me's" and that, yes, it would be hard on my son.
Then she told me that one of their counselors had been homeless for years with 8 children. After that, I actually WANTED to go there, if nothing else but to meet these amazing women.... And I know that if the program director and I got together, we could really make some waves for change.
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