Well, that hurt like hell! A lightning bolt of pain that fogged my mind. An accident. Actually, the flailing of my leg into my sparring teacher’s massive leg swinging towards mine at less than 5% of his full power. A painfully clear example of what he, my self-defense coach, constantly drills: that the employing of the physical aspects of self-defense is similar to the airbags deploying in a vehicle. No matter whose fault or how much damage is done, it can only mean one thing—there’s been a terrible collision.

That’s why we spend most of our time training on the mental aspects, the mindset. Avoid. Prevent. De-escalate. When a student reports they used the physical aspects in real life, they can expect to be intensely interrogated. How did you not avoid it? What could have been done to prevent it? Why weren’t you able to de-escalate? As it turns out, it’s super rare when all three were unavoidable.

Once, during a break in training to catch my breath, I asked, “How does one de-escalate with the mentally ill?” To which he answered, “There’s only one way. You have to immediately try to understand just enough of the alternate reality they are in, acknowledge, never refute, what they are telling you is real to them in that moment. If they are hearing voices, apologize that you can’t make out what the voices are saying. Ask them to tell you what they are being told. Become the person’s ally. People just want to be heard. Next round. Let’s go.” Right into the deep memory went his advice, his compassion.

Good thing, too. This past week, I got to practice three versions of it absent physical threats.

Pull into an expansive parking lot. Get out of the car. From the sidewalk, hear a man screaming a tirade of angry words like only a man crushed by life and mental suffering can. Avoidance. Stay out of his line of sight. Then I see a woman jogging. Their paths will cross, and she may not see him in time. I can’t tell if she has headphones in. This could be a problem. Stand by. Oh, thank goodness, she could hear him. Changed her path by cutting into the office complex.

The entire time, I am listening to the words being belted out by the man. He was truly trapped in a hellscape. What if an encounter with him became unavoidable and unpreventable, I asked myself. How would I attempt to bridge the chasm between our two realities and de-escalate? I came up with nothing obviously smart. Maybe mirror his anger at my own demons to distract them and create a mutual bond? Risky. The teacher was right. Much better to avoid and prevent.

The next night, another chance encounter brought me deeper underground.

Sitting in my car watching a hilarious voice-over artist’s short videos putting voices to cats and dogs as a distraction from all the day had been. A dude backs his luxury sedan into the parking space next to me. I should say, he was trying to; his driving made it clear he wasn’t familiar with the car. A tall, thin man in his sixties with the energy levels of a sixteen-year-old gets out of the driver’s door to inspect his parking. While slow to do so, he managed it. My window was open. He needed someone to share his adventure with. And so it began.

I will encapsulate for you what he told me. His daily driver is a mini motorcycle. He’s known on YouTube for it. He rented the luxury sedan so that he could return to Nike 15 pairs of shoes. You read that correctly. Fifteen pairs of Nikes. Why? Don’t know. Why didn’t I ask? You had to be there. As these things go, this location was his second attempt, as his first was rejected by the manager. However, he arrived at this location five minutes after they closed. So he’s going to extend the luxury car rental a day and again attempt to return the shoes. No receipts. He’s read Nike’s policies online in detail and feels they serve to protect Nike and not the customer. I’m not encouraging him; I’m just listening. He had more to tell. Says his health care provider lost all his records, including the record that he’s their customer. Moves on to bemoan the suffocating levels of fuckery the modern world has brought upon us all. I couldn’t disagree with him on this point. But as these things go, I had to tap out when he started to describe his fantasies of how to stop it. We bid each other a good evening.

What’s important to appreciate is how normal the conversation was in style. He was polite, self-conscious that he might be talking too much. He was kind. The differences in the two realities we individually experience weren’t something to be feared or judged. Just another person wanting to be heard.

The very next afternoon, yet another chance encounter with another brought me much deeper underground.

At a cafe. Unsweetened iced tea diluted to my liking. The healthiest unhealthy bread they had on offer. Computer powered up. Head in the work game. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a young woman take a table near me. Can’t help but notice her posture. A slight bending forward. Something with her stomach or maybe her monthly cramps. On a deadline. Eyes back on screen.

“Excuse me.” I look up to see the face of youth framed by red locks reminiscent of a childhood friend reading this essay. “Would you mind watching my stuff?” Obviously while she went to place her order.

I turn to take a visual inventory of her things. Turn back and reply, “Sure, but only of the things I don’t want to own.” For a brief moment, we were both silenced. Me, disappointed with myself at this failed attempt at humor. Her, wondering what I meant. Then it clicked. Somehow, this made her laugh. “Ok. Thank you.”

She returns with her food and drink. Thanks me for what is good cafe culture of helping others, keeping morally comprised opportunists from taking our hard-earned things during the brief moments of compromise. I return to work, only for her to double back and say, “And thank you for making me laugh. I had some bad medical news today, so thank you.” To which I confessed, “And I was going to apologize for the failed humor. I’m glad it made you feel better.” She returns to her table. Decision time. Is it really when one can’t help themselves?

“If you need someone to talk to about the bad news, a stranger with no judgment, feel free.” She desperately wanted to be heard. She came over. Sat down.

She’s thinking she may have a week to live as a rare condition threatens her life. One of the symptoms is having lost a considerable amount of weight with no change in her diet. My gallows humor couldn’t resist making light via her weight loss, “Congratulations?!” She paused, looked at me, realized I was being kind in my brazen humor, and let out a big laugh. Fueling this, “I have 30 lbs I could lose; can I have a tiny bit of whatever you have?” With perfect comedic timing, she waves her hands in my direction like she’s flicking magic fairy dust. More laughter.

The floodgates opened, and she shared a tale of woe. I very much want to share her story with you, but it could easily identify her, and without permission, you’ll have to imagine that she felt to me like the most fascinating character come to life from an episode of Dr. House. Her story more incredible than the most incredible story told on that show. Leaving me reeling as I struggled with what was true and what was fiction. Everything she said was true in her world, no doubt about it. Even her body. I saw evidence. Interestingly, the red-headed friend this young friend reminded me of had instilled in my mind sober medical thinking.

Mid-conversation, I knew enough to protect myself, so I let go and let her take me deeper underground of her reality. As the conversation was coming to a natural close, I encouraged with words that served a dual purpose. If everything she said was factual, they might bring her some comfort. Otherwise, she might find the words helpful to deal with her conflicting realities. It’s hard to explain in words how genuine the human moment was, no matter the facts. She felt heard. I could feel that meant a lot to her.

The implications of this week’s adventures in alternate realities I am still processing and likely will have to for some time to come. In this week’s photo, a stairwell that takes its pedestrians deeper underground seemed most fitting.

And now… know the photograph.

P.S. For you photo geeks, yes, this is my conscious homage to the legendary photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson’s staircase photograph. Instead of a cyclist, the cactus makes this a fitting Mexican tribute. This week’s companion video is the audio of the track I had on repeat all week.