• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar
  • Read An Issue
  • About
  • Advertising Information
  • Where to Find the Reader
  • Subscribe to our Mailing List
  • Contact Us

Park Slope Reader

  • The Reader Interview
  • Eat Local
  • Dispatches From Babyville
  • Park Slope Life
  • Reader Profile
  • Slope Survey

self help

A BIT OF A DEPARTURE

June 7, 2016 By Melanie Hoopes Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: advice, dementia, schadenfreude, self help

When I started this column 10 years ago, I was really bossy. I insisted you do things like recycle and shop local and volunteer. After six years, it occurred to me most of you do recycle and shop local and volunteer and those who don’t, well, a column in a free magazine wasn’t going to change that.

Then I went the advice column route, which I might return to, wherein I attempted to solve the problems of hardworking Park Slopers in hopes of providing you perspective or at the very least, a healthy dose of schadenfreude. But now, that’s feeling a bit stale. So I’m taking a break from that, too. This issue I’m going to tell you something that happened to me and then I’ll attempt to make sense of it. If you’re bored by introspection, check back next issue when, most likely, I’ll be back giving advice to a compulsive liars and adulterers.

Twenty years ago, I taught improv to wannabe child stars in LA. One night I was waiting for parents to pick up their kids when I noticed an older woman, alone, clutching her purse on the corner of the busy street and our parking lot. Odd. In LA people are outside for two reasons: They are walking to their car from a nearby building or they are walking to a nearby building from their car. This woman was small but sturdy with a mop of wiry gray hair and wearing pants that they used to sell in the back of TV Guide in ten colors. She was making a great effort to not look confused but she it was obvious she was. She was walking in a figure eight pattern in blue terrycloth slippers. After the last parent pulled away, I went over and asked if she was okay.

[pullquote]

They say we differ from animals because of our thumbs. Another difference is that we are the only species to tell stories to one another to make sense of our lives.

[/pullquote]

She was lost. She walked out of her house for a breath of fresh air and got turned around. Her daughter would be worried. Could I help her? Of course, I’d escort her back. She told me her name was Mary Murdoch and then she gave me her address. I went to my car to get my Thomas Guide, the pre GPS, indispensible street atlas/bible, and looked it up.

The address she gave me was about 25 blocks from the acting school across several busy streets. Was it possible she’d been walking for an hour? She didn’t look exhausted and certainly someone else would’ve stopped her and offered help. I asked for her phone number to let her daughter know she was safe. She couldn’t recall it. The heat, she offered, she couldn’t think straight. She repeated the address and asked me to drive her there.

When you decide to help a stranger there’s a moment when you regret it. This happened after I helped her into my car and shut the door. What was I risking in helping her? Could she be having a stroke? A heart attack? What if she died in my car? I decided if her behavior changed I’d drive her to the emergency room. I attempted small talk as we drove across West LA in my Mercury Tracer. At a stoplight I glanced over at her. She was looking out her window smiling, beaming even.

We pulled up to the address. It was a small neat craftsman with a front porch that ran the length of the front of the house. I helped her out of the car and up the path, but she stopped short of the front steps. I walked up and knocked on the door. A woman in her late forties answered but kept the screen door closed.

“Hi,” I said, “I think I have your mom?” I said gesturing over the shoulder to Mary who had turned a quarter of the way in the path to face a hibiscus shrub.

“My mom died 10 years ago,” said the woman at the door.

Mary walked up behind me. “This is my house,” Mary said softly studying a rattan bench on the porch, “but it’s different.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked Mary.

“Mary. Mary Murdoch.” Mary looked down at her slippers like a schoolgirl caught late in the halls.

The woman made a short gasp and turned to me.

“We bought this house from The Murdochs twenty five years ago. Her parents?” She addressed Mary again whose eyes were still on her slippers. “Was your mom Lucille?”

Mary’s head shot up. “Yes, that’s my mother. Do you know her?”

The woman opened the screen door and gestured for us both to come inside.

The woman, Karen, and I introduced ourselves to one another and strategized. We asked Mary for her purse and checked the contents. The only thing inside was a green plastic checkbook cover with a single deposit slip from an account belonging to Joanne McMaster. No address below the name but there was, miraculously, a phone number.

“Hi, I’m with your mother,” I said to the woman who answered.

“What? No, you’re not,” she sounded annoyed. “Ma?“ A pause. And then to someone in the room with her “Shit, Mom’s got out again.”

I told her the address and it was her turn to gasp. “That was my grandparents house! We’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, Joanne, her husband Al, her kids—a boy around 8, and a girl maybe 10—and Lisa, a friend, were in Karen’s front hall. Mary sat on a chair facing into the living room with her back to her family.

“She’s been doing this now for a few weeks,” Joanne said. “She has an ID bracelet but she takes it off before she leaves the house. We put a card in her purse—she tears it up and throws it in the wastebasket. It’s as if she wants to be lost. I can’t watch her every minute and we don’t want to lock her in.” She looked to us for answers or maybe forgiveness. Karen and I smiled sadly back at her.

Conversation turned to memories of the house so Karen gave the family a tour. I stayed with Mary where we could hear Joanne saying “I like what you did with the kitchen,” “…there used to be a wall here” and “…we used to play marbles on the floor there.” Back in the front hall, the family offered their thanks for helping Mary and we said our goodbyes. I got back in my car and watched Joanne pull her mini van away from the curb. Mary was in the back seat with the kids, looking very small and—was I imagining it?—embarrassed.

Over the course of the next twenty years I would find myself returning again and again to that night as a moment when something shifted for me. Soon after that night, I got fired from that horrible teaching job, gave up my bungalow by the beach and made plans to leave Los Angeles for grad school in NYC. What about that night struck such a deep chord in me? Over the past couple days I’ve been turning it over in my mind and just recently, like ten minutes ago, I hit on something. My experience with Mary that night had a dream-like quality so I decided to try to interpret it in that context. Jung believed that dream characters can represent an unacknowledged aspect of the dreamer. So if Mary was me, what was she trying to tell me? Or rather, what message did she tell my subconscious that got me to pack my bags and leave LA two decades ago?

This is what I’ve come up with: Mary had dementia. Because of that, when she strayed from home, she’d gotten turned around. When she attempted to go back to the home she remembered, it wasn’t as she left it. Someone else was living there and they had knocked the walls down and put an island in.

At that time, I, too, was walking the streets of LA in my metaphorical slippers where nothing looked familiar. I had wandered from home and was, like Mary, in need of a stranger to guide me back. Los Angeles was like Mars to me. I think it’s like that for everyone who moves there at first. You either adjust or you don’t. If you do, you can make a home there. If you don’t, it’s hard to breathe and there’s nothing to nourish you. For the seven years I lived there, I waited for my own version of a Mercury Tracer to take me to safety. While waiting, I lost my bearings, my confidence and I believe, my sense of self. Seeing Mary lose her way set me into motion. I had to leave. To Joanne and her family, the night we met was just another time that Mary got out. For me, our meeting was an awakening.

They say we differ from animals because of our thumbs. Another difference is that we are the only species to tell stories to one another to make sense of our lives. This was one of mine. I’m sure you have hundreds of your own. I wish I could hear them.

See you next time.

Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: advice, dementia, schadenfreude, self help

A Small Step

January 29, 2016 By Melanie Hoopes Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: counseling, life coach, Park Slope, self help, Therapy

Dear Hypocrite.
I love your column and I think you help more people than you imagine. Now it’s my turn to ask for advice. This letter is not of your usual landlord/parking/parenting troubles variety. It’s bleak and more desperate than anything I’ve read here before. Wish it wasn’t the case. I wish I were writing about how frustrated I am with my loud upstairs neighbor.
I’m in a bad place. A series of unfortunate events has left me with some serious problems. I lost my job in May and haven’t been able to find another one. I’m in debt. I’m estranged from my family. I think my girlfriend is about to break up with me. I’ve gained twenty pounds in the past three months. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I have bedbugs.
I’ve been sitting on the couch watching TV for months, fully aware that it’s not helping my situation. I woke up this morning and thought today, “I have to do one thing, just one, that will make my life better.” So, you are my one thing. I know there’s not a lot you can do from wherever you are. Maybe you can give me the “everything’s going to be alright” speech to comfort me for a little bit. I completely understand if you don’t want to answer this letter thinking it’s out of your jurisdiction. I know I need a therapist but can you try to help? Please? Whether you answer it or not, thanks for your column. It’s a bright spot in my life. Wish it were weekly. Maybe you could find another place to write it?
Signed,
Sad Sack

Dear Sad Sack.
I’m so sorry to hear you’re going through an epically hard time. Just one of those things you’re going through is a lot and you’ve got yourself quite a list. How sweet of you to compliment me while you’re so down in the dumps. I don’t get a lot of fan mail (I got one email a few years ago from a woman who confused me with her husband’s distant cousin who lives in Utah. Still, she said some nice things.), And to your comment of finding a place to have a more regular column—I’m very happy with the infrequency of this gig. It allows me to live a rich life on which to draw my advice. If that sounds like bullshit, it is. I don’t have time to write more than four times a year. I need to hustle in order to keep my kids in ridiculously overpriced athletic footwear.
Sad Sack, I must say my column doesn’t really support letters like yours. You’re right; you need a therapist, not a free of charge hypocritical life coach. To me, the excessive TV watching is a clear sign that you’re depressed and I don’t traffic in depression, that’s for the people with training. I can give you the “everything’s going to be alright” speech but if you don’t do something concrete, things will most definitely not get better. In your letter you use the word “wish” a lot. Although I believe in fairies and trolls, I don’t believe you can wish your problems away. You need to take action and that action is usually outside of your comfort zone. It’s hard to step outside what’s natural when you’re feeling shitty about yourself. But you have to. You must. It might be hard to believe, but things could actually get much, much worse.
The skills to turn things around are two: You need to ask for help and accept it when it comes to you. This is not as easy as it sounds.
My husband has a friend who is forever experiencing the hardest of times. He’s always in danger losing his job, he’s in debt, his landlord is in the mafia, his dog needs an operation. The numerous times we’ve tried to help him, we’ve been bitten. The apartment I suggested was above a burger joint (who could live with the smell of grease?) The car my husband’s aunt was selling was beige (He could never drive a beige car!). Something always stops him from receiving help and he keeps on complaining. I won’t go out with him anymore and my husband comes back from a night at the bar with him drained and frustrated. Look, shit happens to everyone but this is different. I’m not abandoning him in this time of need. I’m abandoning him because I think he gets off on how crappy his life is and I don’t have time for that.
Not you, though. You know how to ask for help and receive it (right?). Ask around for a therapist, pronto. Then find a headhunter or ask your friends for leads on work. Get recommendations for exterminators. So you need to find low cost options? That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Ask about sliding scales, bartering and payment plans. Make a list of what you need and who can help you (in the corporate world they call this a strategic map). Take a nap and a bath. Exercise. Be upfront with your girlfriend. Tell her you’ve got to get yourself together before you can be a good partner. “Just you wait,” tell her, “you won’t even recognize me.”
Listen to me, Sad Sack. Do these things and you’ll be on your way to a better, happier you. We all need help from time to time. Tell us how we can help you and then let us. You’ve made a step asking me today, so ask someone else for help tomorrow. You need to get your life back (and banish the bedbugs) to experience life in The Slope to the fullest. The leaves are going to change color soon and you’ll want to be outside on a blanket staring up at them in wonder, not despair.
I know I’ve ignored the fact that you’re estranged from your family. I’m sure that is very painful for everyone involved. Your therapist will help you with that. Know that we can create our own families, Sad Sack. You can consider me your wise Auntie. Auntie Hypocrite. I like that the sound of that.

See you next time.

Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac Tagged With: counseling, life coach, Park Slope, self help, Therapy

Primary Sidebar

The Spring 2025 Issue is now available

The Reader Community

READER CONTRIBUTORS

Copyright © 2025 · Park Slope Reader