Hitting Home...

In our country overall, the state of mental health care is abysmal. It absolutely sickens me that it is easier and cheaper for an American citizen to obtain a gun and do the unthinkable, than it is to seek treatment substance abuse or mental illness. It saddens and frustrates me that gun ownership is a "right," while healthcare is a "privilege."

When I was twenty-one, I saw a movie that made me flat-out ugly-cry. Not the sweet sort of ET-grade sentimental tears. I mean, full-on, entire-box-of-Kleenex, eyes-bloodshot-for-days bawling.

It was called "The Saint of Fort Washington," and it was a fictional account of homelessness in New York City. Let me tell you, it was nothing short of life-altering. Even longtime film critic Roger Ebert was moved by this film and its depiction of the homeless. If you haven't seen it, here's what he had to say:

"Walking next to some thick shrubbery recently, I saw a foot moving behind the bushes, and became aware of a warren of cardboard and old blankets in the shadows: There was a person living there. I felt embarrassed, as if I'd walked in on somebody using the toilet. And I understood something about how we respond to the homeless. We have a tendency to look away, to not see these people huddled in doorways or holding crude signs on which they have written their life's tragedy. They embarrass us, standing before us naked, having been stripped of home, employment, family and proper costume. They are simply unadorned human beings, without social titles and roles, and we have no script for dealing with them. The coining of the word 'homeless' has been useful, since we are not comfortable in this society with words like beggar; at least a name has been given to their condition. Yet homelessness is the last in line of their problems, coming in many cases after mental illness, addiction, or the simple inability to find work. Since seeing this movie, I've found myself letting those guys at intersections wash my windshield. Big deal: I've changed exactly nothing about the underlying situation. But I feel like I know who they are."

In 1995, at the age of 22, I was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. Nearly twenty years later, I've been successful in treating it - taking my meds, attending counseling, and surrounding myself with loving and supportive people. I thank God that I am so fortunate. Because I am well aware that the overwhelming majority of homeless people struggle with some form of mental illness. Truth be told, if I ever lost my medical insurance, my prescription plan, I could destabilize. Which would impede my ability to earn a living. Which would in turn devastate my finances, and my family life, perhaps leaving me in the same predicament as the people Roger Ebert so accurately described.

Over the years, I'd heard stories about Tent City. I knew it existed; I also found it heartbreaking to watch politicians, police and the township of Lakewood criminalizing the plight of its most vulnerable citizens - the jobless, the addicted, the marginalized, the mentally ill. But I didn't get involved until recently, thanks to the impact of art. My significant other, Matt, had a role in "Harry," an original play about Tent City that debuted at a local community theater. Two months later, I paid TC a visit. And it was life altering. 

That, dear friends, is where my story begins...