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This small chapter is entitled, “Guns, Felons, and Suicide.” Yes, one of Sarah’s residents kept a hunting rifle. He owned a car and would go duck hunting. Of course, he took psychiatric medications. Sarah was delighted with how well he functioned with them. Many of us were not too happy about the whole situation, but we feared saying anything. Right before the houses closed down, Sarah wanted a gun to keep in her purse. Residents who had been asked to leave sometimes came bac

I lived at Sarah’s for 13 years. She had a little mental health colony going with six condominiums, a house, and a duplex across the street. Two more houses were on the other side of town. All in all, she had 60 people under her care. Again, there were all sorts of people I hadn’t encountered before. Three or four drove cars. Some went to school, a few had jobs, or did volunteer work. Many went to psychiatric day treatment. A lot of them did nothing all day, maybe because the

An unlikely but familiar source bailed me out of the board & care. The wife of my friend from the soup kitchen just happened to know a couple who rented rooms to college students. They were located one town over and in a posh neighborhood. My first night there, the landlords hosted a dinner party. The next morning when I went downstairs, an empty bottle of wine appeared at each place setting. All of this being a far cry from where I had come from, I experienced immediate cult

A new psychiatrist showed up at the clinic and suggested I move from the hotel. He also stated that I should work with the homeless. He couldn’t tell me where to go, so I had no resources. A big strike against him. My counselor, though, told me he had opened up a board and care home. I decided to give it a try. A rambling old nursing home had been rented to the counselor. He really didn’t know what he was doing. Many of the people came from the hotel, and unfortunately, the c

I shared a bath with the person next door.   One afternoon, while taking a nap, the smoke alarm went off in the adjoining room. Needless to say, the firemen fought the fire through my room. I lost everything due to smoke damage. The manager gave me another room, which I actually liked better.  I didn’t care about my things; they weren’t all that valuable. My friend Paul liked to play pool in the hotel’s recreation room. In his early twenties, he had been at the first 3/4 way

For years, I used to walk by an old residential hotel. It had tall windows, and I would always see elderly men sitting in the lobby smoking. I decided to give it a chance. I still wanted to live around people. After filling out an application, I got a room right away with a shared bath. Breakfast and dinner were served six days a week. During my five years there, I learned to like baked chicken, the best item on the menu. Ironically, while there, I felt like I had my psycholo

The commute by bus from where I lived to my “life” downtown took an hour and a half one way. My housemate had brought home a brochure about a new facility closer in. A newly refurbished hotel had opened up for the mentally ill. Checking it out, I immediately fell in love with it! Each tenant had his own room. A cafeteria in the basement served three good meals a day. Peer counselors were on duty 24/7. In the course of seeing social workers and doctors, the mental health clini

Finally, after another year, I actually contacted the counselor of the three-quarter-way house. Maybe things would be better this time around. He returned my call and said a different house had a vacancy. Located in a blighted neighborhood, I didn’t care. I felt like I had experienced the worst already. Also, a new counselor had been put in charge.  After a few adjustments with some of my housemates, this community turned out to be more congenial than the last. My social work

Some antipsychotic medications cause weight gain. I had a female friend from the halfway house with whom I used to go on outings. Being intelligent, bipolar, overweight, and divorced, her sister had custody of her two small girls. Her father had lawyers and court dates, trying to get the children back to her. She would go off her medications, ending up in the hospital sometimes for six months at a time. I met her again during a party at the halfway house. Even there she went

While living at the three-quarter way house, I had a Section 8 voucher. Good for anywhere in the city, I chose a street close to a park and an apartment in an old 12-story building. My social worker had procrastinated when I told him of my planned move. He said he would “ask around” for a place to stay. Telling him about the apartment, he became upset. It turned out to be the worst crack house in town. On top of that, the night before I moved in, someone had dropped a baby 12