Today, I saw a strange yet familiar sight. A homeless woman with obvious mental health issues sitting on a bench on the Grand Central Station train platform.

What’s so strange about seeing a mentally ill homeless woman in New York City? I mean, I see them quite often. However, today was different than the other times. Typically I look on with pity, but today I looked on with fear and curiosity. My fellow commuters shared smirks and glares as the mystery woman engaged in a dialogue with herself, filled with genital references and sex acts.

So many questions crossed my mind. For one, I wondered who she was and how this illness happened. As her outbursts became louder and more vulgar, I wondered how many heartbreaks, setbacks and letdowns this woman had experienced before she reached this point. How many times did she respond “I’m fine” to the “How are you?” inquiry when she was actually doing all that she could to hold her broken pieces together? How many times has she cried herself to sleep without properly caring for her wounds, and then gone off to take care of the needs of others? As her voice became louder, it was apparent that we (the commuters) weren’t there; she was in her own head being controlled by an ill mind and more than likely a broken spirit and heart.

When the train finally arrived, I glanced at her as I boarded the train and she remained seated on the platform bench. I tried to forget about her by placing my earbuds in my ears, but my thoughts about this mystery woman overpowered the sounds of my music. I so desperately needed to know why, or better yet how, did this condition happen.

With the music blasting silently in my ears, I looked up and saw my reflection in the window across from me, only it wasn’t my reflection. The reflection staring back at me was of the woman on the subway platform. My curly hair was a matted down blonde wig, my black coat was now a linty sweater and my oval-shaped eyes were round and dazed. I had to do a double take. At first I thought I was staring at the woman from the platform, but I remembered that she hadn’t boarded the train; it was “my” reflection.

No, I didn’t enter the “Twilight Zone,” and I wasn’t losing my mind. I simply saw what I could become, as we are all susceptible to mental and emotional illness. I was frightened and to be honest, I still am, but I guess it was a wake-up call for me. This woman, who I may or may not ever see again, shook me to the core, and without saying a word to me she said everything to me. She said, “Take care of yourself.” “Make yourself a priority.” “Do not put up a front of happiness when you are hurting.” “Deal with your emotions.” “Take breaks when you need them.” “Speak your mind.” “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” “Cry when you need to cry.” “It’s OK to not be OK.” “Say ‘no’ when you need to.” “Care about others but not more than you care about yourself.” “You are not an island. Ask for help when you need it. You don’t have to do it all on your own.”

Addressing mental health issues is often taboo in the African-American community, Afro- Caribbean and Latino communities. We are often told to “Be strong” or “Pray about it” or “Talk to Jesus.” That is all fine, but I believe that the Creator gave people the knowledge and will to become psychologists, therapists and psychiatrists, and He would want us to seek out those wonderful people He has given the skills and knowledge to address mental health needs. Saying I need help is not a sign of weakness. It can indeed be a sign of strength and in some cases a matter of survival.

Veronica K. Thompson, M.S, Ed, SBL

vthompsonn@aol.com and my website: www.veronicare79.com.