If after a lifetime of having my belly full I one day find myself hungry—with the prospect of being hungry every day for the rest of my life—I suffer from the sense of loss. Meanwhile, there’s a man who has been hungry his entire life, the same age as I am. When my belly was full, I may have looked at the man with pity, sympathizing with his plight but unable to understand it.

I am wondering, “How in the hell am I supposed to get by?” Now I look at the hungry man I once pitied, and I see he has knowledge, experience, and wisdom that I do not. I’m experiencing hunger as an infant whereas he’s experiencing it as a way of life. I grab on to the hope that if all goes well, he’ll take me under his wing and teach me how to survive.

It’s that way for the newly houseless. The long-time houseless person has experience, knowledge, and wisdom. Will the experienced houseless people guide the “child of houselessness”? Maybe. Being a babe in the woods without being able to tell the difference between a shepherd and a wolf is harrowing.

At first, observe while following at a distance. You may find yourself at a church, following other people through the door. Grab a tray, watch the others as they go through the line, listen to the servers ask what you want, and you’ve got a plate of food. You sit down and eat. It tastes better than anything you’ve ever eaten. The warmth of the church basement feels like a gift from God.

When you’re done, you walk outside and follow someone else at a distance. You’re now in an area of downtown you used to avoid. That’s where you see people from the church gathering here and there, some going inside buildings. You realize some of these rundown places are apartments for the poor or drop-in centers for the houseless.

Still, you keep your distance. How do you know who you can trust? At four o’clock, you notice people are starting to walk to the west. You turn around a corner and see a group of people lined up. You go to them, ask what the line is for, and a man in line finally tells you, “They serve food at five o’clock.”

You go to the end of the line and wait. And wait. And wait. You’re cold and it’s getting dark. You feel better once you get inside and feel the warmth. When you get your food, you feel better still. You sit at a table that has a couple seats available and immediately the filthiest old man you’ve ever smelled sits next to you. His hands are grimier than a dirt farmer from the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. His presence is hindering your enjoyment of eating—but not so much that you get up and leave.

Others at the table are talking, including two men who are arguing. You can’t understand the older guy as he has no teeth whereas the other guy is accusing him of stealing his dinner roll. Before things get completely out of hand, a woman—a server—comes over with a dinner roll and gives it to the younger fellow. He thanks her, calls her “Betty,” but insists that that doesn’t make up for the fact that the other guy stole his roll. She nods and says she knows, but says that if he wants another one, he can go back through the line to see if there’s any left. “I shouldn’t have to do that,” says the young man. He continues grumbling. You think, “No one at this table is going to be able to help me.”

But as you leave, you notice the younger guy and the other fellow who were arguing are now walking together laughing. You follow them as they walk to a different area of downtown. You see that they’re walking toward an old brick building where people are lined up on the street, many of them with shopping carts, some lying on the pavement with blankets, each person with some type of pack or bag.

You see the sign in front of the building, and you recognize that it’s a shelter. The line is long, backed up to the bridge that crosses the nearby river. You walk up the sidewalk and get in line. You stand for a while, maybe ten minutes, then you sit when you realize the line isn’t going to move. You ask a woman for the time. She points to the downtown bank clock. You see it’s a little after seven. “What time does the shelter open?” She says, “The doors open at nine,” then she huddles down under her blankets.

You have a small bag, a change of clothes, but nothing else. It’s getting cold. You have a jacket you’re wearing, but that’s not enough. You realize you need to find a blanket tomorrow. And a hell of a lot of other stuff.

Where do you go? You don’t know anyone any longer, not here. You don’t know any phone numbers, you have no cell phone, and there aren’t any public pay phones. Where is the Social Security office? Could they help? How about the Department of Human Services? Do they have an office somewhere? You realize you’re going to have to break out of your shell and start asking some real questions. This is going to be hard. Really hard. And you’re going to make mistakes. A lot of mistakes.

You think there’s not much further you can fall, but before you even get to the front of the shelter, they’re closing the doors. They are filled up. Now what? Some people are bitching, some are crying, and some are walking away in different directions. You look at the bridge where you were waiting. You think, “They always talk about people sleeping under bridges.”

When you get there, though, you see that it’s essentially a campground and there isn’t any room left. You walk around trying to find a place to stay, but there are none. You hear a voice cry out, “Go away! This place is ours!” Other voices, less shrill, say similar things. A helpful voice suggests a park, and another says there’s an area of abandoned buildings further down the river, but someone yells out, “Nah, don’t go down river. You’ll get yourself jacked there. If you’re strung out, though, that’s your best bet.”

You’re outside the outsiders. You realize now, “Damn, these people aren’t lazy at all. They’ve been working for a long time to find their places, get their communities together, learn who they can trust, figure out where to stay, where to go for the things they need, and what places to avoid.” You are now truly alone. You are cold and if the temperature drops enough you could die of exposure. It’s not supposed to fall below freezing on this night, though. Still, you don’t know anything about how to survive in the city without money, cars, houses, jobs, friends, family, and basic essentials like blankets. You need to find a damned shopping cart if you want to get around with more than just a bag of clothing. And where are you going to shower? Are you going to shower? What if it rains or snows?

…

When I worked as a peer support specialist for a community mental health organization, I had to learn how to help people who had difficulty with basic essentials like keeping housing, finding food, Social Security paperwork, DHS services, and more. I also had to help some who were dealing with emotional problems, harassment, violence, addictions, and so on.

I learned about how the houseless survive. I assisted individuals who couldn’t do certain things on their own, but I also learned a ton about how people navigate life on the streets. I learned a lot from a man, Aaron, who had been diagnosed with catatonic schizophrenia. One day I was supposed to lead him and three other people to a church food service. We arrived late, and I didn’t know what to do.

I asked Aaron, who had been houseless on and off for fifteen years, if he had any ideas. He started rattling off the times that different churches in the area served food, provided clothing and blankets, and supplied toiletries. I was trying to get him to stop because I just needed to know which was closest for lunch before noon, but then I just listened. He rattled off a dozen places, times, and days where and when you could get “free stuff.” He was a master.

I discovered that the people I worked with were not on the bottom of society. They were receiving services. I encountered people who weren’t receiving services, though. That’s a different level. Humbling, but also disturbing and scary. It’s shocking what human beings can endure. It was also evident that some people encounter “too much” and need a team of people to help them. Their plight is difficult to witness without great sadness.

…

I include this writing on my blog because it’s part of my life. So far, I’ve written mostly about my experiences in Amsterdam, but I’ve also worked for two community mental health organizations. My missions at each CMHO were different. One was about helping people experiencing first episode psychosis whereas the other involved helping people navigate transitional housing, integrative care management, and self-directed services.

What I experienced in Amsterdam was hedonistic excess, creative flourishing, communal engagement, Buddhist mindfulness, and shamanistic mysticism. In community mental health? I’m still exploring what I learned through those experiences. I’ve integrated much of my Amsterdam experiences into my life, but my CMHO experiences are more recent so they’re less integrated into the whole of my being. This writing is part of that process.