Schizophrenia and utter chaos

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Everything looks a little more faded in the winter. The sun appears a little whiter as opposed to yellow or orange. Leaves from trees are almost a shade of gray painted with touches of brown.

Some think only third world countries live in total filth on mounds of trash… but. that would be a mistake to believe such. In fact, most third world countries are far cleaner than this homeless camp located in Nashville, Tennessee.

“Clean up your camp or leave,” the government authorities say without understanding. Who would not give such orders after seeing such a mess? Living in such scattered throw-outs does not make sense. Of course it fails to meet any logical explanation – only because there is not one.

Those with non-imaginable mental illnesses find themselves unable to muster the energy, the know how to search for a place to dump trash, so some live among the debris, the clutter and even the human waste.

"That is what madness is, isn’t it? All the wheels fly off the bus and things don’t make sense any more. Or rather, they do, but it’s not a kind of sense anyone else can understand." 
—Audrey Niffenegger, Columbia College, writer

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Living on the dirty streets of Memphis, Tennessee

“My grandfather was born in 1902, I was born in 1963,” he told me while gazing into the distance. His eyes were fogged over as if he had cataracts. “You’re good with dates,” I told him. “Yea, my mom was born in 1932… My dad was 1922,” he continued as if he wanted to show me he remembered more dates that were floating through his head.

I handed him a new coat as the nights had been dropping into the sixties and he quickly placed it under his legs as if to hide it from passerby’s. “Thank you, thank you sir,” he responded.

The coat, along with his new pants and shirts, were given to me by a friend named Amy Morris. I always love handing out items like that, which are new, as I know most never give those who live on the streets brand new clothes. They always cherish them knowing that the coat, pants or whatever it maybe are theirs from the start - it was meant for them. 

I asked, “What were your best times growing up in Memphis?” He sat quietly and then said, “Best times were 18, 18 and younger when with mom.” I asked if his mother was still alive and he said, “Think so, think so – I not seen her.” His mother is Ms. Remell Williams and he knew her exact age, “She 85.”

Darrell was on medication for Schizophrenia, but he ran out. He has been off the medication for a number of days if not weeks. “I’m gonna meet Mr. (mumbled name) at the mission. He’s a good man. He's off today, he is with his family on Saturday and Sunday – he gonna help me,” suggesting that Monday he would see this helper at the mission.

“I went to 12th grade, I was in high school,” he proudly stated. I asked if he graduated high school and he said, “Yea, I done 12th grade.”

Darrell attended Central High School in Midtown. The school was built in 1911 and he attended the school from 1977 to 1981. It is the same school that was once attended by the late Kemmons Wilson who founded the Holiday Inn in 1952. Mr. Kemmons built the first hotel at 4925 Summer Avenue in Memphis and now a plaque remains in its location as it was torn down in the late 1990s. The chain now has 1,145 locations.

“My own success was attended by quite a few failures along the way. But, I refused to make the biggest mistake of all: worrying too much about making mistakes.” - Kemmons Wilson (1913-2003)

Schizophrenia and Dispair

Schizophrenic and mad at the wind inside New York's Grand Central Station. I was able to speak with him through rants that meant nothing to me, but I am quite certain he thought he knew what or who he was mad at.

"Schizophrenia cannot be understood without understanding despair." - R. D. Laing

Despair: The complete loss or absence of hope.

He was battling the air and the air was winning

As he walked he kicked and punched at the cool air before him, yelling at someone who was not present. The yells grew louder as he came closer. He seemed so angry, but there was no one to be angry with. While I saw no one for him to hit or scream at, he did.

I started to walk towards him and slowly extended my hand, “Hey brother, I’m Scott. How are you?” He quieted his temper and quit throwing punches. When he shook my hand his palms were rougher than sandpaper. “How old are you,” I inquired. He looked to the side, “29… 29 going on 30.” I don’t know that he even knows his true age, but I would guess it was not 29.

“Would you like a blanket and some food,” I asked him. He responded, “You got a blanket?” I then asked him to follow me to my truck. He stood as I searched out a new blanket that he could carry with him. I then handed him a bag of food.

Philip K. Dick (1928-1982), a writer who often wrote about his own battles with schizophrenia, once wrote “What about the world of a schizophrenic? Maybe it's as real as our world. Maybe we cannot say that we are in touch with reality and he is not, but should instead say, His reality is so different from ours that he can't explain his to us, and we can't explain ours to him. The problem, then, is that if subjective worlds are experienced too differently, there occurs a breakdown in communication ... and there is the real illness.”