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| Why! Oh, Why! |
(Subtitle: A Thoughtless, Clueless, Stupor Story)
Background: Our marketing town borders a reservation where a few individuals have severe addiction problems. In their desperate condition, they sometimes frequent the town’s main street looking for compassionate or naïve souls who might fulfill their hunger for food or money or some substance to simulate an alternate high when their preferred choice of alcohol or drugs is not available. Fortunately, amongst several frustrated town customers and business owners, there are also many compassionate ones who do what they can to alleviate the suffering. I have tried to be amongst the compassionate ones on my infrequent visits from the country side. Such was the situation a few days ago on a cold, snow-packed mid-morning.
As I returned to my car from errands up the street, I passed two men standing near a store front. I sensed they were going to ask for something as I passed, but they did not. But as I pondered my errand list, one hurried over to my driver-side door. I unrolled the window. He said his arm was broken and that he feared to walk up the steep, icy street to get to the homeless shelter on the reservation. His brother Jimmy, he said, needed to come too. Could I take them?
Let me say here, that even though some of these people can be aggressive and violent, the majority have a gentle, humble, polite spirit, augmented by a sense of witty humour. “Tom” seemed of the gentle, polite nature and his broken arm looked genuine, bundled under his heavy coat with the left sleeve hanging limp. I opened the back door for Tom and before he was even seated, Jimmy was already ensconced in the front passenger seat. As I backed out from angle parking, I saw Tom try to hand Jimmy a folded S20.00 bill and spoke something in their native tongue that I did not understand. Jimmy waived it back, but seconds later, when it was thrust forward again, Jimmy took it, and Tom said: “On the way, can we stop at Husky*? Jimmy is diabetic and needs a pop.”
That registered as unwise, but before I could speak, my mind said: “What do you know? Maybe he’s in low blood sugar and needs a sugar spike.” We were then just passing a convenience store, and I said, “Oh, you could get it here,” and Jimmy said, “Oh no, it must be Husky.”
Halfway up the hill, the “need” morphed. Tom spoke: “We need to get some hand-sanitizer for our work.” My mind heard “hand warmers.” My excuse for hearing something not said, was that it was cold outside (and maybe a smidgen of lingering hostility toward hand-sanitizer from the 2020s).
Anyway, I pulled into Husky and Jimmy held out the folded $20.00 bill? “Could you go up to the counter and get us four hand-sanitizers for our work? I can’t go in because we had an argument here and they won’t let me in anymore.”
My mind again, inexplicably, translated: “hand warmers,” and since I wasn’t at all keen about leaving two unknown men alone in my car, I said,: “I think Tom should go in.” So Tom got out, saying “I guess I can try.” Split seconds later he returned saying: “I look too much like Jimmy. They think we are the same. Can you please help us?” He handed me the folded $20.00 and climbed in the back seat.
I’m now a little concerned, but still compassionate. As I turn the car off and pull the keys, I say, “Now you won’t take any thing while I’m gone, will you? In unison, they exclaim: “OH NO, we’re not that kind of people!”
I go to the counter and say: “We need four hand-sanitizers.” I hand her the $20.00 bill, all the while thinking I will get four hand-warmers. The clerk seems a little brisk as she pulls four mini bottles from a high shelf behind the counter and then drops the change: 4 coins (80 cents) in my hand. “Wow, are they
that expensive?” I say. “Four-eighty each,” she clips. I pick up the “hand-warmers," now registering foggily as hand-sanitizers, and exit with their
work-stash. As I drop the 80 cents into Jimmy’s hand and say “Boy, are they expensive!” they reply in unison, “Yah.”
That’s when the fog and stupor of compassion vanished. Good grief! hand-sanitizer must have joined behind-the-counter items, like hair spray, (a long-standing local practice) to try to limit the harm caused by drinking substitute toxins. My mind exploded: How could I have been so clueless?! Why did I not see the caution flags flying all the way up that icy hill? Why did I keep imagining “hand-warmers” (even when I, myself, said: “hand-sanitizers”), so the whole charade could unfold without awareness till it was too late?
As Jimmy pocketed the four mini-bottles, I blurted out: “Are you intending to drink this?”
"OH No! It’s for our work.” they said.
I felt sick. It was
their money. It was
their wasteful purchase of a toxin with my “kind” help. As I dropped them off at the shelter, I said: “Please use this for your hands. Please do not drink it.”
“Yes, yes, for our work,” they said, and thanked me for the ride. As I drove to pick up my sister who had been engaged in more useful service, I lamented my stupidity. In my thoughtless, clueless, stupor, I had let myself be taken for a ride and thus, facilitated their self-harm.
As I waited for my sister who was delayed, I had 20 minutes to lament and then process the truth of this story: that thoughtless, clueless, stupefied compassion can lead us down a path of irreversible harm to self or others; time also to ask myself: Is this what we are seeing and doing all over the world? thoughtless, clueless, stupefied, toxic compassion for people suffering disorders and dysphorias?
Not so long ago, our society and mental health professionals sought to help heal dis-ease; now they clamour to normalize and affirm it, acting as if pretend substitutes will satisfy — will bring happiness. And worse yet, trans-advocates refuse to acknowledge unhappy de-transitioners and the toxic, irreversible consequences they must endure. “Compassion” has been weaponized to justify and ignore harm and injury in the name of
progress.
So, to those parading and flaunting “compassion,” please, step out of the stupor and hear the de-transitioners. To encourage confused young people into toxic solutions is thoughtless, clueless, stupefied, if not heinous. To threaten suicide or assign blame for it if one does not get one's way is manipulative and tyrannical in the extreme.
When was that ever acceptable? Yes, you can posture your compassion in a thousand ways, but to promote the mutilation of floundering youth is criminal, faux compassion.
As for the profiteers who are not thoughtless, clueless, or stupefied, but are pied-pipers for those who are, know this: Justice will not be denied; it can only be satisfied by repentance, mercy, and grace (which must be activated). You may still have (unknown) time to repent and remediate as best you can.
Do not delay, whatever the cost.PS: How timely that this CBC headline should show up yesterday:
“Violent online groups are pressuring youth into harming themselves, authorities warn | RCMP is investigating suspected cases and urging victims to come forward”**
From a 360 truth view,
a companion headline should read:
“‘Compassionate’ Support Groups are coddling youth into harming themselves, truthtellers warn | RCMP will be investigating suspected cases and urging victims to come forward”
But it seems in our DEI world (where the DEI is nether diverse, equitable, or inclusive) the faux-DEI mantra has morphed into: Feelings don't care about facts.
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*Husky: a gas / convenience store franchise.
**
https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/online-groups-pressuring-youth-self-harm-1.7107885?cmp=newsletter_Morning%20Headlines%20from%20CBC%20News_1613_1393148
