I like January. It offers a fresh start and a chance to go through some of my things. Without doubt, I have too many clothes. I thought it might be a good idea to see what was in the far reaches of my closet. At the very far end, I was surprised to find something I had not thought about in awhile. It was the colorful velvet skirt I was wearing while homeless in Los Angeles in 2007. It was also the same thing I was wearing when I was picked up by police for psychotic behavior in March of 2007, and taken to a hospital where I began my long journey back to sanity, thanks to treatment for schizophrenia.
The skirt is made of patches of velvet separated by silky ribbons. It is not a garment that helped me blend into a crowd, as its bright colors look too fancy for normal wear. I recall it was a gift from a janitor I had befriended.
I loved the skirt. It made me feel beautiful. It came with a tan-colored, casual jacket. I convinced myself that it did not make me stand out. (I was unaware that just my homelessness appearance and habits, such as spending days in parks, were enough to make me stand out.)
My final year homeless, I would go several days in a row only washing up in public bathrooms as best I could, without a real shower. It was difficult and embarrassing to do my best at a sponge bath in a public bathroom. Eventually, rather than wash, I began to give up, and accustomed myself to just being dirty.
By the time I behaved strangely enough to be picked up by police and taken for psychiatric evaluation, I was filthy. The skirt was covered with dust, and my body had collected layers of dirt. I remember the emergency room psychiatric unit staff offering me a shower.
When hospital staff determined I was ill enough to be transferred from the observation area to the general hospital, they took my clothing and gave me hospital garb to wear. Fortunately, they were willing to wash the skirt, which, at the time, felt like an old friend, and perhaps my only friend.
Within 24 hours following my hospital admission, my parents flew from Ohio to Los Angeles to see me. It was our first meeting in nearly five years, as I had cut off all contact with them. My lack of contact stemmed from a paranoia of my family and friends, and a delusion that they, especially my parents, would stop me from making a worldwide impact which could win me a Nobel Peace Prize.
I hated wearing the hospital garb, but fortunately, street clothing was allowed in the hospital. When my parents visited, they were kind enough to bring me jeans, T-shirts, and comfortable black shoes.
As the days went by, my world in the hospital felt so small. I appreciated the high-quality food and a fun game of ping-pong with the hospital security officer, but what I really wanted was to spend my days in the parks again, free and homeless.
At the onset of my hospital stay, I was adamant that I did not have a mental illness, and would not consent to treatment. However, after a few days, I was informed that if I did not consent to taking the pills, I would be given an injection, and that I would be restrained and injected if I still resisted. I consented and began oral medication.
As I spent day after day consenting to the oral pills, I slowly lost interest in the skirt. I realized that it absolutely made me stand out in a crowd.
When I was discharged from the hospital and moved to Ohio to recover at my parents’ home, I would look at the skirt sometimes and feel its soft velvet. Somehow, the skirt became a tangible reminder of my four years of homelessness in Los Angeles.
Over the years, the skirt has even become an icon of my homeless life. Today, it is the only thing I have left from that time. I don’t have any snapshots of the church where I slept, or of my favorite park. But I do not need a photo album from that time because I have pictures inside of my mind. I remember churches I visited while homeless, watching the sun rise and set, and spending my days in the Rose Garden, my favorite local park. I remember speaking with certain people, such as some janitors I befriended.
It is amazing how different possessions mark the times of our lives. Today, the skirt reminds me of all the time that has passed since I wore it. I remember the prognosis that I would be permanently and totally disabled, which my first three doctors agreed was most likely. I also remember my full recovery a year after my diagnosis, thanks to an underutilized antipsychotic medication called clozapine.
Today, I realize how important it is, even more than the skirt, to treasure the people in my life. Through my journey, I have been blessed with knowing excellent people, and also with incredible opportunities. I am deeply thankful for the people who read my posts here.
I’ve decided to put the skirt in a more central location to remind me of how far I’ve come. A photo of the skirt is also on the cover of the memoir my mother wrote in 2014 about my parents’ journey through my schizophrenia and recovery.
This year, in 2025, I resolve to remember the time of my life when I wore the velvet skirt, and always give thanks for my good health, which has lasted almost 17 years. Even for those who become homeless and dirty due to schizophrenia, through effective treatment, there is hope for healing, recovery, and a bright future.