Blinds up, guard down: Mental health and unexpected vulnerability

By Andy Pope | FāVS News Columnist

A month or so ago, I awoke in the middle of a hot night and decided to open the window for air.

As I did so, the blinds got in the way as usual. So I lifted them out of the way, then proceeded to get the window open. Once I was done, I attempted to lower the blinds.

Note the keyword: “attempted.”

This is where my lifelong clumsiness came into play. Try as I might, I could not for the life of me get the blinds to move any lower. No matter what I did, they kept getting higher, until they were stuck in place — at the very top of the window.

And the window was open wide.

Anyone outside the tavern less than a block from my house could see me completely. No way was I getting back to bed. I felt visible, conspicuous, vulnerable.

Running outside, I first thought to abscond some of the well-lit gentlemen on the corner and see if sufficient brute force might jostle the blinds out of their complacency. Then I glanced up into the window to see just how bad it was. 

“You know,” I thought, “I could just stay out of the sight lines and work at my desk till dawn. My desk isn’t even visible from outside. Then once daylight comes, maybe things will look different.”

At that, I began to calm down. I stopped ruminating, went upstairs and started working on my music. When morning came, the task of lowering the blinds seemed significantly less involved. I had ceased to panic. Never called the crisis line. Did not turn it into a major freakout. Dealt with it just the way I would have when … when … when …

… when we were homeless

In the first place, whenever I was staying outside, this would never have happened. There would never have been a solid enclosure in which I dwelled. Therefore there would never have been a window, nor would there have been a curtain or blinds.

When we were homeless, the idea of a wide open window exposing me to the sordid elements of the night was inapplicable. I was exposed on all sides anyway, even without a window.

So if I didn’t get bent out of shape about it all back then, why would I now?

The simple answer is this: I was accustomed to it back then. I spent every night outside in a vigilant state, of necessity. But now I am no longer accustomed to those circumstances. I’m accustomed to being enclosed.

I’ve gotten used to being contained in a solid physical structure such as a room, house or apartment. These dwelling places separate me physically as well as psychologically from whatever is going on outside their borders.

But when we were homeless, there were no borders. 

And we could engage philosophically about this as well. We often referred to physical homes as “enclosures.” Sometimes we even scoffed at the notion that someone would actually pay money — rent or mortgage, for example — to live in one of these highly restricting, confining enclosures. Was not freedom found rather in the open air?

Made sense to us anyway, at the time. In fact, it was not uncommon for someone to approach me saying: “Hey Andy! How do you like not having to pay any rent?”

Ah. Those were the days, when we were homeless.

Or were they?

A deeper answer 

Earlier I gave the simple answer to the question as to why I was getting so bent out of shape over something that was daily business-as-usual 10 years ago. Now I’ll provide the more detailed, deeper answer.

There’s a condition of Complex PTSD that covers such concerns, as one gradually realizes they had been settling for a life that most dignified, self-respecting people would never have settled for.

A life full of danger disguised as adventure. A life full of fear disguised as vigilance. A life no one would intentionally choose — unless they had imagined all alternatives to be even worse.

Or — unless they were too lazy, or indifferent. Or, given a work ethic and sufficient concern for self and others, maybe they only lacked confidence. It was common for me to hear someone say: “If I ever manage to hang onto a living situation, here’s what I’m going to do.” 

The not-so-hidden subtext is that the speaker does not believe they will ever succeed in hanging onto a living situation. They lack that basic confidence.

Most of us lacked that confidence. I myself lacked it. The life outside may have begun as a dazzling thriller, but in the end it left us terrified. With C-PTSD, sometimes one can be thrown off track for hours at the slightest bit of treatment that resembles what happened routinely on the streets. 

I’ve talked about PTSD in a presentation recently posted on my channel. I’ve discussed how common it was for us to feel infantilized, criminalized, objectified or dehumanized. How often does someone treat me like that up here in a far more courteous, compassionate culture? 

Not often.

Still, there are exceptions. When it does happen, it makes me feel like I did when I was homeless. I suddenly feel vulnerable. I feel conspicuous — like an “easy mark” — a likely target for strong-armed robbery or some other form of violation. 

When my PTSD is triggered, I am transformed into a person who believes himself to be unworthy of dignified human respect. As a result, I expect the opposite. 

I expect disrespect.

Mindfulness

Once the PTSD strikes, I become entrenched in a feeling I am little more than a conspicuous pariah.

While I am often seen walking (since walking is my current mode of transportation), I am suddenly no longer able to keep my course fixed. I begin to wander back and forth, mumbling and sometimes screaming at myself. What do I do to bring myself back into balance? 

Before the Spring of 2024, I didn’t do anything about it. I let myself be non-functional until I felt I could function well enough to call the local crisis line. But after a particularly bad episode in April of that year — one that kept me up till six in the morning — I approached my doctor, told him my story, and beseeched him for the medication of my choice. 

Since that time, I have also found a weekly therapist who is versed in cognitive processing therapy. Through the combination of medication and therapy, these episodes have been farther and fewer between, as well as less severe. 

The key is mindfulness. It’s training myself to become aware of my surroundings — and not just of what’s going on inside my own head.

The walker

Often, when I run into someone whom I know only vaguely from around town, the first thing they say is: “I saw you walking the other day.” 

So I reply: “Was I talking to myself?” 

Usually they just chuckle. On occasion however, a particularly kind soul has replied: “Well now that you mention it, I did see you yelling when you walked past my office a while back.” 

These are the kinds of statements that feed my lifelong wanderlust. I immediately yearn for the anonymity of metropolitan life. If I lived in a big city, they wouldn’t associate the crazy guy out walking as the same guy who signed his name to the musicals he wrote. But here in Moscow, Idaho, everyone knows I wrote these two musicals, everyone knows I’m a piano player and everyone knows I’m nuts. 

On a brighter note, I just had coffee with a friend, and told him the same thing. His response was the consolation prize: “All of this is true. But it’s also true that you’re in Moscow, where no one cares.”

All eyes on Andy?

At the time of this writing, it has been nine years and three days since I have lived in Moscow. Looking back, I believe my friend was right. People don’t care. 

They notice me. They see me. They see me often enough they feel they must comment. But they’ve got plenty of other things on their minds, and my internal anguish over feeling visible and vulnerable is not on their radars.

But just as I said last time, there’s no way I’m getting out of Moscow very soon. Might as well bloom where I’m planted, despite the ongoing sense of unsettling visibility. 

In fact, why not make myself even more visible? As long as I’m visible, why not milk it? Once I get my guitar, I see myself not only busking on the sidewalk. I could be sitting on top of a table out back of the Rec Center. I could be anywhere in town with my guitar.

A local musician who is into the Beach Boys is trying to organize a Beach Boys show. He asked if I could play keyboards. I had to tell him I don’t have a keyboard either — but he said he’d provide one. 

As I think along these lines, the idea of being blatantly visible becomes less threatening.

Why? Because I’ve been a musician all my life. People are always looking at musicians — sometimes huge crowds of people. 

Before the pandemic, I participated in open mikes at the One World Cafe here. At these packed events, people would approach me: 

“I didn’t know you played the piano! I always see you walking!” 

Do ya feel me? The O.G. just doesn’t blend, unless he’s in the Big City.

Therefore, the only recourse is to forget about “blending.” 

It’s time I stood out.