Neighborhoods in large cities are like individual small towns, self contained with specific personalities. They are laid out in the same manner; There is the corner store that stays open late, a favorite coffee shop (or two or three), a resale shop, a sports store, a house with too many dogs or cats or kids and one that leaves Christmas lights up until July (often the same house...). When you live in a neighborhood you get to enjoy a familiarity with those who live around you, the people and their habits. Some people water their lawns every night, even in the midst of a drought. Others ignore gardening altogether, letting nature take it course; green when it rains, brown and dry most of the year. There is a couple that buys a new luxury car every year then suddenly stops, replacing shopping at Jons for Whole Foods as that last new car gets more and more beat up. Each day has a unique but predictable rhythm, punctuated by the garbage trucks, leaf blowers and kids who do or do not yet go to school.  An elderly and incredibly dapper gay couple walk their matching elderly lap dogs at the exact same time every day. Each neighborhood has a set population and among that population are  its eccentrics. Because you see them every day and you see the way that they act in these very specific circumstances, even if you never speak to them, you still get the sense that you know them. You get to decide which “crazy” person is ok and when someone should be feared, which homeless people are taken care of and which are ignored in the hope that they quickly move along…. There is the tiny toothless woman who hangs out in Starbucks all day but sleeps in doorways. People watch out for her. She always has plenty of food and blankets and builds forts that stay up through the night.  There is the guy on the corner, with the dog and the sign asking for random acts of kindness. He tends to read philosophy books.  There is the small quiet man reeking of desperation who prays all of the time. There is the one confusing person, a thin man who may be a rich man of leisure and may be homeless derelict and it is impossible to tell, without an actual conversation, which is the true story. What about the old lady who picks at a bowl of matzo ball soup at the Jewish deli every day? She appears to weigh about 70 pounds and walks the streets in gloves and a jacket even when it is ninety degrees out. What is her story?  Is she anorexic and alone and dealing with a life of sadness and self loathing or just old and happy in her routine; eating her lunch out every day surrounded by familiar faces? Is she someone to be pitied or to look up to?

I watch these people. We all do.  We go about our normal lives and watch (fear) those who we think live on the fringes. What we forget, or possibly ignore, is that we are also being watched. While I notice the psychiatrist who lives in the corner house with her perfect nuclear family of two kids, cute husband, dog and Prius parked outside and make judgments, positive or negative about her, she could be doing the same about me. This is also true of the toothless woman, the praying man, and the thin one, who asks occasionally if I am ok or need anything as I walk or run or bike by him yet again.

Am I ok? Do I need anything? Wait. What?!

Why is a homeless person asking me if I am ok? Shouldn’t he be asking me for money or food or something else? Why, instead of the expected “Hey baby, it can’t be all that bad, smile!” do I get genuine concern? What desperation am I putting out into the world that would prod him to ask me if I am ok. What judgements are you making about me?  And why are you noticing me at all?

I think that unlike those I watch every day, I am invisible. I want to be invisible. I need to be correct in my belief that I am going through this day to day anguish unseen.  I work very hard to be as small and as quiet as possible.  I try to take up very little space so that no one sees me, sees the inner world that takes up so much of my psyche.  I NEED this struggle to be invisible because if people are seeing it, are seeing me, then my shame is exposed and I do not know how to hold my head up anymore. Then there is this conundrum: If strangers are seeing my broken places and commenting, but those who are in my life are not, what does that say about the place that I occupy in theirs? Do they watch me like I watch the other sad broken souls, seeing but unsure of what to say or do or offer? It’s not as easy as buying a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter, as I often do for the man with the dog. I am not sitting on a street corner, asking for help. What are they supposed to say if they do see me? What walls am I erecting that make it too hard to reach me?

I fear I am one of the neighborhood eccentrics. I look at the tiny woman sleeping in the doorway and can barely breathe. Is that my future, that common bag lady nightmare so many single women have? The likelihood of such a future is small, but the fear is visceral and my connection to the fringe more acute than than that of other single women that I know. Like the other eccentrics, I wander the streets at all hours, running when I wake at 4am, walking at midnight to disperse the inner demons. I haunt the stores during the day not to add to my material possessions but because often the walls of my house are closing in on me and spending one more moment alone might break me. Rather than sit with the fear of being alone forever, I escape and look through racks of used clothing or walk two miles to get a serving of sorbet or dried fruit. Because I also fear being physically present in the world, I walk fast,  hoping that the miles of walking will mitigate the calories and guilt that accompany eating anything extra. I wonder if the sales people notice how often I am around, if my guilt in making a purchase greater than my normal greens and almond milk is palpable. I wonder if they see the miles and miles that I pace and recognize me, or worse, have an identity for me like I have for the toothless woman or the sad praying man. Does anything set me apart from them? From you?

Every neighborhood has its eccentrics, its broken souls, its sad people trying to get through one more night alone. You see them, every single day. It is just that most do not carry a written sign telling you so and asking for help.