food bank – See Holly Run

I write this blog because it helps me sort out my feelings, my thoughts about my life, and to share my experiences with some folks who either can relate or those who care about me. I do not ask for anything but a few minutes of your time if you are so inclined. But my last post brought gifts from some of you. You read my piece and felt for me and my family’s current situation. Your generosity and kindness was and is appreciated, and I am honored to call many of you my friends. I know you did what you did because you love me and the thought of me hurting in any way made you want to help. And I love you for it. I truly do.

But to be honest? I felt tremendously embarrassed and ashamed afterwards. I didn’t share to “get stuff.” I shared just to show this new thing I was experiencing and how frustrating (and humbling) it can be to eat from a food pantry. After the influx of gifts, I was kind of a mess for a few days until I had therapy. When I explained my dilemma to my therapist, she said something pretty dang profound. “Sometimes, Holly, it is our job to receive.”

*mic drop*

That one sentence changed my perspective on these gifts. I ended up using two gift cards for a trip my son and I had planned from last year. (We drove to Washington, D.C. to look at colleges and we needed snacks, friends.) I did refuse a few offers when I was able to, and others? I put some of the gifts aside for a little later when I know we’ll be more desperate than now.

Do you know what’s really disturbing about all of this? When my son and I went to D.C., we stayed with some old friends, who have become part of my family. My dear friend, a woman I’ve known for 30 years, had asked me about these cassava flour brownies that I made. I said that I got the flour from someone, but I could not say the words out loud, “I got it from the food pantry.” (Which, btw, that’s pretty great to get anything gluten-free from a food bank, and this was from our local high school’s food pantry.) I know for a fact that she would never judge me. Not for a second. Yet I was too ashamed and embarrassed to say that I got it from a food pantry. That shame is so deeply ingrained into me. I just want to starting yelling, “I have a good job, a fucking master’s degree, so don’t look down on me!”

But who is actually turning their nose up at me? Is it you? I don’t think so.

I think it’s me.

I shouldn’t be in this situation. I should be helping people that need an extra hand.

I should be you.

But I’m not. And I’m angry about it.

Then today, I brought this walker up from the basement. When my husband was on a respirator and in a coma back in 2020, this was given to him once he was able to leave the hospital. It was necessary then, so we kept it, hoping we wouldn’t need it for years to come. This morning, my husband’s knee was swollen, his neuropathic feet were hurting, and he was having problems standing up from his living room chair. Before I left for work, he asked me to get the walker from the basement. So I did.

On the drive to work, I couldn’t take a deep breath. I knew I was having an anxiety attack. I was thinking about my husband, my son was home sick, I was missing some friends I haven’t been able to talk to, I was feeling alone and scared…but I just needed to get to work. Once there, I pretended all was good until I couldn’t any more. I asked a colleague if they ever had anxiety attacks (I was pretty sure they had) and asked what they did. They sometimes would just go into the bookstacks and center themselves. So before we opened the library, I went to a section of the stacks, sat on the floor, and sobbed. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak. I just sobbed and rocked myself. After a few minutes I was able to stand up and go back to work. A different colleague checked on me and we talked for a few minutes and they let me vent and cry some more, and that was the end of it.

When I was a Trevor Project volunteer, I helped many teens get through anxiety or panic attacks. Often I used the 54321 grounding exercise (name 5 things you see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste–the taste thing is always odd). But while my brain is freaking out, I could not name anything I was seeing because everything was a massive blur. Hell, I couldn’t remember the order of seeing, touching, hearing, etc. But today I learned that sometimes being alone to cry, drinking water, taking a brief walk or finding a place nearby to get a good snack, are all good things to help calm me down to a place where I can function again.

Did I feel a bit embarrassed and ashamed for having this mini breakdown? Oh yeah. I see people every day who have no home, who keep every possession they have in a shopping cart, who only eat what is given to them. And I’m crying over a husband who can’t work and a life that I wasn’t expecting?

Well…yes. I am. Do I wish I could suck it up and just get on with whatever life I have? Yes, yes I do. And somedays I do a great job at it.

But today wasn’t one of those days.

You know what, though? Tomorrow is a new day. So there’s always hope that I’ll function tomorrow, that I’ll be able to get up on time, exercise, eat well, and smile more often than not.

That’s my goal.

How about you? Are you ok? No matter what I’m going through, I’m still here to listen. It’s the least I can do for you, like you’ve done for me. ❤

Years ago, when my son was a toddler, we were on food stamps and WIC for a short period of time after my husband had been laid off. (If you’re not aware, WIC stands for Women, Infants & Children and is a federally funded supplemental nutrition program for low-income pregnant women and children.) My husband’s unemployment had run out, he was depressed, and he couldn’t find a job. It was a horribly scary time.

Yet even with that kind of stress at home, what really made it unbearable for me, was how I was treated at the grocery store when I used WIC. There was an older woman at the grocery store in the town I worked in, she waited on me and made me feel like absolute garbage. She scoffed when she saw my WIC paperwork, yelled at me when I had something on the counter I wasn’t allowed to get through WIC, and never once looked me in the eye.

I felt humiliated.

I left the store in tears, holding the bag of the few items my child needed to keep growing and thriving. The next time I used WIC, I didn’t go back to that grocery store, but went to a larger one near my home. It was a little better, but not by much. The clerk was closer to my age (I was in my mid-30s at this time), but she was efficient, did what she needed to do, and finished the transaction. There were no extra niceties, but at least she didn’t degrade me.

Now here we are, 15 years later. My son is still a growing boy, but a teenager. My husband is out of work and will be permanently. Although the disability paperwork has been filed, he will not have an income for 1-3 years. There is no WIC or food stamps for us, because in the eyes of the government, I make too much money.

So what do we do? Each day when I go home from work, I pass a local church that has a food bank every Tuesday morning. My husband and I had talked about it, and we both knew how fucking hard this would be. You work your whole life, you try to help others, but when it’s time to go for and accept assistance, it felt…wrong.

The morning he was going to go to the church for the first time, I said to him, “Remember, you’re doing this for your family. You’re doing this because our kid, god help us, is still growing. We are going to survive, damn it, and this is how we do it.” He kept nodding his head, “I know. I know.”

And off he went. I’m sure every food bank has their process and I know each one has slightly different rules. This one is in our town, but many folks who go are not from our town. They drive in from other places, but that’s how they survive. Each person or household is given a box to fill, but you can still only take as much as you need for the number of people in your home. For instance, he picked out 3 potatoes the first visit and 3 oranges, because we have 3 people. It’s been quite a humbling experience for all of us, but especially for my husband.

Each week the items are different, and you have to pick numbers to see how far down the line you are. If you get a low number, you have the better choice of produce or any of the goods. If you have a higher number, it’s often slim pickings by then. But it’s fair.

What’s interesting is the choice of items. This past week there was sliced swiss cheese with the expiration date of that day and yogurt a week past the expiration date. Usually the produce is about to go bad or you might have a few days to eat it. But so far, we’ve made sure nothing has actually gone bad. We’re trying to be creative with whatever food he brings home. He’s made hash browns with a few potatoes or sliced and baked them until they’re like potato chips. We’ve received spring mix a few times and have placed greens in nearly everything to make sure it’s eaten. I feel like I’m living in that commercial with chefs who cook gourmet dishes with food scraps…except without the chefs. We’re not making anything fancy, but we’re trying to make meals and not get sick from them. (I’m not gonna lie, the swiss cheese did taste a little odd, but I figured swiss cheese tastes a little weird anyway so it’s fine!)

But one thing that was seriously sweet about last week’s haul, was this rose. I guess the church gave it to my husband to give to me. I don’t know why, but I don’t care. I kinda love it. I’m not typically one who likes to receive flowers, but honestly, it was just nice to get something….lovely. Something that could brighten my day, even for a moment.

Someday, I hope we’ll get to the other side of this. I’m not sure what kind of shape we’ll be in financially by then, but I’m really trying to find ways of cutting costs. I make my own laundry detergent now, we switched from regular cat litter to these pellets that barns typically use, and I’m always scouring my basement to look for things to sell. This isn’t where I thought we’d be at this age, but shit happens, right?

One thing I know is that if we ever do get to the other side of this…no. WHEN we get to the other side of this, we will donate money or resources to local food banks. Even if some of the food items are a little sketchy, we still accept it with great gratitude. They are truly saving our bacon.

Eat well, my friends, and as always, hugs to you. ❤