In The Absence of Love

       I had another terrible night on top of an unproductive day. My neighbor, R.R., becomes daily more anxious. He is having to cram a life time of memories, and the physical makings of his home, into boxes and crates. He must figure out what to leave, give away and trash. It is affecting me daily on a subconscious level, even when I am not there to witness or help. Out of desperation he wastes time attempting to redress the wrong he has suffered. This is not the time to hold the landlord accountable; it is the eleventh hour. He must move.
      Meanwhile I pray my R.R. will focus, the move will go unexpectedly well, and the losses will not break his heart. Most people who get to tax-credit housing, have already endured considerable loss (it shows more in some than in others, but this is the last resort, before homelessness for many.) Caring in the face of what seems lifelong disappointment can be an insurmountable challenge.

      I have been where my neighbor is today. Decades ago, in the wake of a bitter divorce, in the absence of love, we sold our Boulder home. Six years into single parenthood I broke. The large house and property in Boulder, Colorado, had become a black hole into which I poured hard labor and money. In addition the property, situated at the base of the NCAR Mesa, regularly bore the brunt of catastrophic wind storms. Clinical depression took a firm hold on me. Neither crisis intervention, nor psychiatric treatment relieved a crippling emotional paralysis.
     I had put my teaching career on hold at the worst possible time. Demographics were changing everywhere in the nation, not the least in Boulder County. Public schools were closing their doors, as student populations dwindled. My eventual solution was to downsize, and return to a business-related occupation. Fortunately I was able to land a job in a downtown Denver stock brokerage, Douglas and Company.  We rented a townhouse outside of town.
     The townhouse was small, so much of our larger household had to go to storage. The couple at the mom and pop storage facility, who seemed so sweet, were elderly sharks. They immediately tasted blood in the water. They waited patiently for the inevitable. Things went well for a few months. 
The end of my dream job came with brutal certainty. One morning a line of grey-flannel cutouts presented themselves at the front desk. I peered out of the window of my office, wondering, "SEC or Feds?" In no time flat the CEO and his partner lost their licensure. The doors closed within weeks. My last paycheck went for rent, groceries and school supplies. A local French restaurant hired me to work evenings as a dinner chef.  
      While I waited for my first check from the restaurant, Mom and Pop cut the bolt on my storage unit. They auctioned the contents just as a payment deadline approached. It was total devastation. Every scrap of my parents' furniture from prewar China vanished. Gone were photographic albums, framed art works, art objects. Worse my children's clothing, furniture, books, toys and photos went with the rest.
      It was by no means over. We had to vacate the townhouse. My beloved Irish Setter went to a pair of graduate students, who lived in the mountains. We moved to the only place I could rent, a trailer in a rural town between Boulder and Denver. The day we moved the drive train of the car broke. I wondered how far we could sink, until we discovered a black rat carcass under the kitchen sink of the trailer. My Siamese cat took care of the rest of the vermin. We disinfected like mad, but an epidemic of Bubonic Plague in the trailer park made headlines throughout the Southwest.
      I eventually went to work in the Trust Department of Colorado National Bank. It proved too little, too late. Rather than see the two younger children further deprived and endangered, I relinquished primary custody to their father and his new wife. My elder daughter and I made a home together, but she began to suffer emotionally, as displaced children do. The younger children went to private schools. They had all manner of advantages, but spent years in family therapy with parents, who lacked the most basic parenting skills.
       I hope R.R., who is relatively unencumbered, and who has a loving family, will fare well. I shall miss him -- he is a bright, kind, funny, man. In the end we can counsel and care for each other, but life takes us down lonely pathways. Despite sadness and desperation this is a memorable time. We shared dinner night before last. A friend came to visit, a wonderful musician, who played his viola for us ... right in the midst of the packing boxes. Extraordinary!
      Reality checks for depressive symptoms are routine for me, even today. My solid footing will return -- it always does. Meantime I can be present for my neighbor, until he returns home to Anchorage.