Kindness happens in myriad ways, unexpectedly and without fanfare. It’s what keeps us sane
Name: Amethyst DeWilde
Age: 51
Turning point: Leaving my job in a toxic workplace and being diagnosed with bipolar disorder
Lives: Adelaide
After housing costs has to live on: $331.20 a week
“And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ‘Tis that I may not weep.” (Lord Byron, 1788-1824.)
The more I ponder upon it, the more I become cognisant of the fact that poverty is not “another world”. It’s another dimension.
We live in the grey, the sepia toned. Thousands of tiny decisions are made for us by indigence and our survival within it.
When I was young, solvent and employed, I would watch planes fly and imagine all the wonderful places in the world that I would visit one day. Kathmandu, Timbuktu, Paris, Egypt – the list went on.
I realised today as I walked Mojo that I hadn’t looked up in years and I consciously took a moment to watch the sky. It felt unnatural.
We’re bowed down by the exhaustion of living in the red. The constant borrowing from one apostle to pay another to make the mythical meeting of the ends, grinding us down.
We sit, defined by grey in borrowed clothes and no socks and secondhand shoes.
We know we don’t fit, we’re not stupid. You’d be surprised who lives in our dimension – mathematicians, scientists with double degrees, linguists with PhDs ... So no, we’re definitely not stupid.
Your dimension, I am told, is bright coloured and vibrant. There is no fear of decline in your world. Need-buy-have. All is good.
Some of you may not think twice about binning a chicken dinner for four because no one was really that hungry.
In my dimension my friends don’t get to eat every day. I think you call that “food insecurity”. Orwell would be proud. Doublespeak is alive and well and defining our politics and thereby our reality. Generally we cope, but when something goes wrong the effects can snowball and bury us alive.
Recently I had to go to the doctor’s to get the results of tests. Mojo had to go to the vet. The doctor is on Woodville Road, the vet on the other side of town on Anzac Highway. The petrol light was on but thankfully not constant. Both trips weren’t possible. I rang the doctor to advise of my inability to attend. They said I had to go. So I go to the doctor’s to find out that I have a contagious amoeba which needs hardcore antibiotics and if they don’t work it’s off to hospital – eeek!
I borrow $15 from Mum who lives around the corner from the doctor.
Mojo still needs to go to the vet. Hmm – do I spend the money on antibiotics or put petrol in the car for Mojo’s vet visit? I choose Mojo.
The next day I am at the emergency relief programme to request a prescription voucher. It takes me all day to get my meds. Meanwhile I spend more time in the public toilet than in public. Not pleasant.
I do realise that I sound churlish as I write this. Do not for one second believe that I am ungrateful for the help or am insensitive of the efforts of those that assist but I was sick, in pain and close to tears.
Whenever I become physically ill my constant dark traveller is never far behind whispering to me: “What’s the point?” “It’s all too hard.” “You believe in reincarnation – just do yourself in and come back later.”
It’s generally at that point that Mojo does a Mojonic thing – he licks my face (yes I do realise that’s gross) or he paws at me with his “no” paw or he shmooshes his face into mine taking full advantage of my situation and my inability to protest. He is my saviour in a million ways. I wish for everybody a Mojo.
So I force myself once more to practice my gratitudes. I am grateful for my Mojo I am grateful for my family I am grateful for my house. Slowly the crushing weight of despair lifts if even for a second. I can breathe and begin again.
I watch Call the Midwife and thank the gods for my blessings in comparison.
"How many people have killed themselves in desperation? How many people are we losing?"
Recently I had a discussion with my GP worker. Someone that comes once a week to check on me, help with practical things, chat with me if I’m low ... truly the ONE programme that has done more to keep me sane than any other service.
We spoke about the changes to her funding and I asked what she would do if it dried up. She said that she would have to move to the country because there was no way that she would be able to afford city rent on Newstart. I again thanked the gods for subsidised housing and was reminded of a conversation I had had with a new friend I had made from the Anti-Poverty Network.
He put in excess of 350 job applications before he was able to find employment. I had joked in the past with my terrible Australian humour “you know I just don’t think you’re really trying – you really should pull your finger out and try a little bit harder!” Thankfully he shared the joke and laughed as well.
As we sat outside on the asphalt he told me that he had been two weeks short of becoming homeless. I asked him what he would have done if that had been the case. He simply replied that he would have topped himself. He stated it without rancour or hyperbolic exaggeration. It was just the truth.
This man has children. He is intelligent, well educated and seems kind. If someone like him can be pushed to such extremes, how are those of us that were brought up without his opportunities faring? How many people have killed themselves in desperation? How many people are we losing?
Writing this article is beginning to wear on me so I’ll change tack and let you into a secret. It is what keeps us sane, and it’s not shared among the solvent so you’re very lucky you are reading this.
When you are impecunious you are given a gift. A gift of seeing people as they really are. People are kind. People do care. It happens in myriad ways, unexpectedly and without fanfare. When it does, it fills your heart and overflows into your soul and life is wonderful because you are seen. Somebody kind cares and acts accordingly.
The shop assistant in Coles that pays for your toilet paper from the left-behind change to stop you from putting it back.
The anonymous somebody that sends you a $20 note assiduously wrapped in alfoil through the mail. (That made me cry).
Last week was Father’s Day. I suppose because I had been so very unwell, it crept up on me. Generally I buy my presents throughout the year and put them in a cupboard ready for the occasion, but Father’s Day dawned and I had nothing.
I checked my bank accounts. Oh salubrious day, I was solvent! I had $4.50 in my account. Wacko! I knew that Coles had Old Gold chocolate on special for $2.50 and I could get a card for $1 at Smokemart. Chocolate achieved, now for the card.
No go. The shop assistant advised me that the minimum I could buy on card was $5. I tried my purse and was 20 cents short. I smiled and said that I would go to Coles and get the dollar out in cash. Then I heard a voice say in broken English. “How much for to pay? I give to her? I pay.” I turned and saw two young male immigrants standing patiently in line. “20? I pay for her 20 cent.”
Tears sprung to my eyes and I hugged him. “Thank you so much. This is for my father. Thank you so much!” I hugged him again and he smiled. “I am happy,” he responded.
My father loved the card. But he loved the story more.
This is what keeps me going, people are kind.
Age: 51
Turning point: Leaving my job in a toxic workplace and being diagnosed with bipolar disorder
Lives: Adelaide
After housing costs has to live on: $331.20 a week
“And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ‘Tis that I may not weep.” (Lord Byron, 1788-1824.)
The more I ponder upon it, the more I become cognisant of the fact that poverty is not “another world”. It’s another dimension.
We live in the grey, the sepia toned. Thousands of tiny decisions are made for us by indigence and our survival within it.
When I was young, solvent and employed, I would watch planes fly and imagine all the wonderful places in the world that I would visit one day. Kathmandu, Timbuktu, Paris, Egypt – the list went on.
I realised today as I walked Mojo that I hadn’t looked up in years and I consciously took a moment to watch the sky. It felt unnatural.
We’re bowed down by the exhaustion of living in the red. The constant borrowing from one apostle to pay another to make the mythical meeting of the ends, grinding us down.
We sit, defined by grey in borrowed clothes and no socks and secondhand shoes.
We know we don’t fit, we’re not stupid. You’d be surprised who lives in our dimension – mathematicians, scientists with double degrees, linguists with PhDs ... So no, we’re definitely not stupid.
Your dimension, I am told, is bright coloured and vibrant. There is no fear of decline in your world. Need-buy-have. All is good.
Some of you may not think twice about binning a chicken dinner for four because no one was really that hungry.
In my dimension my friends don’t get to eat every day. I think you call that “food insecurity”. Orwell would be proud. Doublespeak is alive and well and defining our politics and thereby our reality. Generally we cope, but when something goes wrong the effects can snowball and bury us alive.
Recently I had to go to the doctor’s to get the results of tests. Mojo had to go to the vet. The doctor is on Woodville Road, the vet on the other side of town on Anzac Highway. The petrol light was on but thankfully not constant. Both trips weren’t possible. I rang the doctor to advise of my inability to attend. They said I had to go. So I go to the doctor’s to find out that I have a contagious amoeba which needs hardcore antibiotics and if they don’t work it’s off to hospital – eeek!
I borrow $15 from Mum who lives around the corner from the doctor.
Mojo still needs to go to the vet. Hmm – do I spend the money on antibiotics or put petrol in the car for Mojo’s vet visit? I choose Mojo.
The next day I am at the emergency relief programme to request a prescription voucher. It takes me all day to get my meds. Meanwhile I spend more time in the public toilet than in public. Not pleasant.
I do realise that I sound churlish as I write this. Do not for one second believe that I am ungrateful for the help or am insensitive of the efforts of those that assist but I was sick, in pain and close to tears.
Whenever I become physically ill my constant dark traveller is never far behind whispering to me: “What’s the point?” “It’s all too hard.” “You believe in reincarnation – just do yourself in and come back later.”
It’s generally at that point that Mojo does a Mojonic thing – he licks my face (yes I do realise that’s gross) or he paws at me with his “no” paw or he shmooshes his face into mine taking full advantage of my situation and my inability to protest. He is my saviour in a million ways. I wish for everybody a Mojo.
So I force myself once more to practice my gratitudes. I am grateful for my Mojo I am grateful for my family I am grateful for my house. Slowly the crushing weight of despair lifts if even for a second. I can breathe and begin again.
I watch Call the Midwife and thank the gods for my blessings in comparison.
"How many people have killed themselves in desperation? How many people are we losing?"
Recently I had a discussion with my GP worker. Someone that comes once a week to check on me, help with practical things, chat with me if I’m low ... truly the ONE programme that has done more to keep me sane than any other service.
We spoke about the changes to her funding and I asked what she would do if it dried up. She said that she would have to move to the country because there was no way that she would be able to afford city rent on Newstart. I again thanked the gods for subsidised housing and was reminded of a conversation I had had with a new friend I had made from the Anti-Poverty Network.
He put in excess of 350 job applications before he was able to find employment. I had joked in the past with my terrible Australian humour “you know I just don’t think you’re really trying – you really should pull your finger out and try a little bit harder!” Thankfully he shared the joke and laughed as well.
As we sat outside on the asphalt he told me that he had been two weeks short of becoming homeless. I asked him what he would have done if that had been the case. He simply replied that he would have topped himself. He stated it without rancour or hyperbolic exaggeration. It was just the truth.
This man has children. He is intelligent, well educated and seems kind. If someone like him can be pushed to such extremes, how are those of us that were brought up without his opportunities faring? How many people have killed themselves in desperation? How many people are we losing?
Writing this article is beginning to wear on me so I’ll change tack and let you into a secret. It is what keeps us sane, and it’s not shared among the solvent so you’re very lucky you are reading this.
When you are impecunious you are given a gift. A gift of seeing people as they really are. People are kind. People do care. It happens in myriad ways, unexpectedly and without fanfare. When it does, it fills your heart and overflows into your soul and life is wonderful because you are seen. Somebody kind cares and acts accordingly.
The shop assistant in Coles that pays for your toilet paper from the left-behind change to stop you from putting it back.
The anonymous somebody that sends you a $20 note assiduously wrapped in alfoil through the mail. (That made me cry).
Last week was Father’s Day. I suppose because I had been so very unwell, it crept up on me. Generally I buy my presents throughout the year and put them in a cupboard ready for the occasion, but Father’s Day dawned and I had nothing.
I checked my bank accounts. Oh salubrious day, I was solvent! I had $4.50 in my account. Wacko! I knew that Coles had Old Gold chocolate on special for $2.50 and I could get a card for $1 at Smokemart. Chocolate achieved, now for the card.
No go. The shop assistant advised me that the minimum I could buy on card was $5. I tried my purse and was 20 cents short. I smiled and said that I would go to Coles and get the dollar out in cash. Then I heard a voice say in broken English. “How much for to pay? I give to her? I pay.” I turned and saw two young male immigrants standing patiently in line. “20? I pay for her 20 cent.”
Tears sprung to my eyes and I hugged him. “Thank you so much. This is for my father. Thank you so much!” I hugged him again and he smiled. “I am happy,” he responded.
My father loved the card. But he loved the story more.
This is what keeps me going, people are kind.
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