A Food Bank Feeds My Soul by c.smith
Feb 7th, 2010 | By Cheryl Smith | Category: Health, Housing, Written WordA Food Bank Feeds My Soul
by c.smith
There comes a time in every month when one has to consider where will the food come from, one of “us” that is. But there are some months that are worse than others. Such was the case just recently when I found myself at my wits end and falling into another’s arm from the weight of responsibility suddenly being placed upon me.
I live on a disability pension. I am a cancer patient (2 yrs) with the chronic type of PTSD (a diagnosis which describes certain experiences of the survivor of various types of abuse; in my case, all of them). I treat “diagnosis”- the many I have had- spiritually, physically, emotionally and with a minimum amount of medication.
I have been institutionalized most of my life before this beginning with the C.A.S. and connecting the many dots of dependency the present system breeds: repetition of cycles of abuse and poverty, addiction and mental health histories (leading to shelters, hospitals, rooming houses, supportive housing, housing ghettos…)
I live in market housing. I choose to live outside rooming houses, ghettos, social housing, and supportive housing because that is where I have spent most of my life and life is short. I thrive in my present community. I am free. It has been ten years.
There is no affordable and adequate housing, there is only either/or.
Though not in my best interests (physical, mental, emotional or spiritual), in order to afford my home, I must share my home with strangers. Sometimes, from desperation, we make bad choices that only cost us more in the end.
While I believe in service and generosity, I would not have rented the room had I known. I needed money. He arrived with a small knapsack and twenty dollars.
For some reason, I was shocked when I first saw him ( the difference between reality and the internet). I was confused and taken aback by his appearance. I didn’t feel safe.
It was at this point that my own survival instinct went missing in the name of “service”, despite what my gut was telling me. I allowed him to stay, thereby “taking him on”.
I wasn’t operating with a full deck.
The food problem had not been solved after all, and so I found myself at the food bank in an “emergency”; I live outside the “catchment area” of this particular food bank but needed help right away.
As soon as I walked in, I felt better; somehow safe. Everybody greeted me and looked into my eyes. They saw my distress. They touched me as they guided me. They asked me questions about my situation. I cried again. The kind woman I was talking to was also a nurse. She was very concerned for my safety. They advised me and gave me other resources which were also very helpful.
The staff was bright and cheerful and delivered the food with connection, a word at least and a smile. They had a very cool “delivery” system. The food rolled out to you on a roller all nicely packed in a brightly coloured little cart. Good food. You felt like you were at a shopping store. No shame.
A couple bags of real milk; when I saw that I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I remember powdered milk and puffed wheat from my child hood and I can’t drink it now. (If I forgot to make the milk the night before, it was warm and lumpy over our cereal the next morning)
When I left that food bank, not only did I have some real food, but my soul had been fed as well.
People are hungry for more than food; their needs greater than a box of KD. This food bank gets it. Wish we all did too.
It’s Feb 5th. The roommate is gone and so is the money. Another lesson learned and back to the drawing board. That I have the resources of food banks, along with “community meals” and such, means that I need not leave my stomach empty, nor on this occasion, my soul.
