Joyful Sorrows, Sorrowful Joys

Guilt about fear. "Protecting my peace." Leonard Cohen? More FEAR.

by Edith Zimmerman

It’s Sunday, so this issue is for paid subscribers. The very low cost of eight bucks per month gets you access to the full archive (which will come in handy today) and commenting privileges. Plus, you’ll get a short essay, remixed old essays, and a breakdown of my weekly recovery program — what I read each day, how many meetings I went to, what I’m grateful for, afraid of, self-loathing, self-seeking, self-compassion, and all the other meds and routines that kept my train railed throughout the week. Come join us.

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A few months ago, I wrote about an unstable guy who had perched up in our backyard, who I had to ask to leave. He wasn’t too happy about that and made vague threats about returning, but he never did. We weren’t his first visit—he was lurking and harassing people in our neighborhood for months, long before we had moved there. NextDoor had all sorts of warnings about him and told anyone that if he saw him, they should call the police immediately. But there was one person who said that they knew him — his name was Brendan. He was a regular at the Sunday food drive this person volunteered at. They said he was a kind, friendly guy on most days, but he’s also schizophrenic, so that’s when he usually acts out. Nobody wanted to hear that part, though.

A couple of weeks later, he was caught and locked up. We have not seen him since.

This story about Brendan and my interaction with him was part of the reason I wanted to interview Kerry Madden-Lunsford on the recent TSB podcast. I sent Kerry an email before I wrote about my run-in with Brendan to let her know that I was doing so because I was thinking of her son, and I hoped she would not be offended by how I acted and how fearful I was.

Kerry said she supported me in writing about it and that I shouldn’t feel guilty about chasing him out of the yard. “I am so glad you chased that guy off - your kids don't need to see that and it's so scary. Hell, I've chased my son off.”

If you haven’t listened to the episode yet, spend some time with it today.

Also, this got me thinking about an essay I wrote a few years ago about David from Sesame Street. I had forgotten that I had written a section on my scary interactions with homeless people in Los Angeles.

I’ll admit this: I am always tense when I walk my children around our very family-friendly Los Angeles neighborhood. The city's homeless population is overwhelming, and we've had some incidents that have rattled me. One time while Julieanne was parked at a stoplight on the way to take our son to school, a man tried to open the backdoor of the car where my son was strapped in the baby seat. Another time there was a man walking up and down the sidewalk outside our door late at night, shouting terrifying nonsense. “I’m gonna kill all you motherfuckers!” and things of that nature.

Some of our neighbors have formed a watch group, working directly with the police, encouraging everyone to speak up about "disturbing behavior" so a report can be filed. I used to be on the email list, but it did nothing but stoke fear and made me feel like a terrible human being. No one on the list wanted to help—they just wanted certain types of people to disappear.

But a couple of weeks ago, an old woman was in the throes of distress, tearing up a book along our block. Her clothing was oversized and filthy, and after she'd shredded the book, she stopped to lie down on the grassy area between the sidewalk and the street. I walked outside and began to pick up the torn pages of the book that had floated into our flower bed, keeping a close, anxious eye on her. I didn't want to call the cops, but LA has yet to integrate its social services hotline program. Instead, I did nothing.

This woman was there for at least an hour, not moving at all, the sun beating down on her. Eventually, a firetruck arrived, pulled up alongside her, and blasted its horn until she got up. The truck followed her as she walked to another side of the street, back to someplace less visible so she didn't make anyone on our block feel uncomfortable anymore.

What would the Sesame Street lesson be about these situations? Because I don't know what to do.

I still don’t, but I’m learning. (Progress not perfection.)

Anyway, let’s get to the usual Sunday stuff.

Beyond the paywall, you’ll find out how poorly I dealt with a shitty email situation and what I read afterward to help me get over it. Race you to the bottom.