Arguing and Undermining Myself

Original Article: My Father is Homeless and I Don’t Help Him

When the World Saw a Homeless Man, I Saw My Father

Some time ago, I wrote an article admonishing my father’s homeless-by-choice lifestyle. I believed my tirade would help children in similar situations and, somehow, motivate him to do better—be better. But life has a way of teaching us that nothing is black and white.

I was wrong.

My father was homeless, a fugitive, and an addict. He squandered chances and burned bridges with alarming consistency. But that wasn’t all he was. He was intelligent, capable of building a house with his hands, and charming when necessary. He loved the outdoors, had impeccable taste in music, and could be surprisingly funny. He was also mentally ill.

In 2019, the National Institute of Mental Health reported that 51.5 million Americans experienced some form of mental illness, from mild anxiety to severe psychosis. Among those, 13.1 million suffered from serious mental illness—conditions so severe they interfered with major life activities. My father was one of them.

He didn’t choose to be homeless. He must have felt he had no other choice. His mental illness made it impossible to consistently provide for himself, let alone for others. Relationships crumbled not because he wanted them to but because his skewed perception of reality convinced him that others harbored malice or conspired against him. By the time we reconnected, I expected the worst of him—and gave him no room to prove me wrong.

I judged a man I didn’t really know. I judged a man I could not know.

I blamed him for being homeless. I blamed him for not being the father I needed. I thought fatherhood should have been enough to anchor him, to keep him sober, medicated, and present. And maybe, at times, he wished it could be enough, too. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

He wasn’t just fighting addiction or homelessness—he was fighting the stigma of his mental illness.

The Weight of Stigma

When most people looked at my father, they saw only a dirty, crazy, homeless man. Sometimes, that’s all I saw, too. And maybe sometimes, that’s all he saw when he looked in the mirror.

The American Psychiatric Association defines public stigma as “the negative or discriminatory attitudes that others have about mental illness.” And there’s plenty of it to go around. Studies suggest that the majority of Americans hold stigmatizing beliefs about mental illness, often associating it with dangerousness, unpredictability, and unreliability.

Worse still, stigma isn’t just external. Self-stigma occurs when people internalize societal prejudice, convincing themselves they’re less capable or less worthy. This leads to the “why try” effect, where individuals stop seeking help or striving for improvement because they believe they’ll fail.

My father fought against that “why try” every day. Every time he was committed—voluntarily or not—he wasn’t trying to escape responsibility or punishment. He was trying to learn how to endure his own mind.

The Reckoning

In my earlier article, I wrote that I would no longer help him until he helped himself. I didn’t realize he was helping himself the best way he knew how. His efforts didn’t align with what I thought recovery or responsibility should look like, so I dismissed them as failures. I didn’t see the battle he fought daily against self-stigma, trauma, and a reality skewed by mental illness.

It took years for me to unlearn my judgment. My father’s diagnosis wasn’t a choice; it was the result of genetic susceptibility, past trauma, and environmental factors—all things beyond his control. The same could be said for the cancer that eventually claimed his life or the genes he passed on to me.

Because, like my father, I have a mental illness.

My diagnosis isn’t as severe as his, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve chosen to fight against the “why try” of self-stigma. For me, that means accepting my diagnosis, seeking therapy, taking medication, and being open about my struggles.

These are things my father couldn’t do—not because he didn’t want to but because his basic needs often went unmet. Because, like me, the world judged him. And because he internalized that judgment until it weighed heavier than the illness itself.

Breaking the Cycle

Mental illness affects one in five Americans. Serious mental illness impacts one in twenty. That means you likely know someone struggling—perhaps someone who hides their pain because the stigma convinces them they’re nothing more than a diagnosis.

We can break the cycle. We can fight stigma through education and conversation. We can see people for more than their struggles and offer them the compassion we hope for ourselves.

I judged my father harshly once, but now I see him more clearly. He wasn’t just a dirty, crazy, homeless man. He was a father, a builder, a music lover, and a fighter. He taught me that nothing is black and white—and that everyone deserves to be seen for the full complexity of who they are.

And if I’m honest—which, again, is all I strive for with this blog—this article is one of the major reasons I wanted to get back into writing. Because I needed to admit how wrong I was in my initial judgment. Writing has always been my way of making sense of the world, a way to confront the uncomfortable truths I might otherwise avoid. Even when I tried to throw them away.

In revisiting my father’s story, I’ve come to see that understanding isn’t linear, and judgment is often the easiest, yet least truthful, path. My father was not simply the sum of his struggles or mistakes, just as none of us are. He fought battles I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time, battles I now recognize in myself and in others.

This realization isn’t just about him—it’s about all of us. The labels we place on people, intentionally or not, can become prisons. But they don’t have to be. We have the power to challenge those labels, to see people in their entirety, and to foster conversations that strip away stigma instead of reinforcing it.

So, here I am, writing again—not just to acknowledge where I went wrong but to honor the complexity of my father’s life and, in turn, my own. Because in understanding his story, I’ve begun to rewrite my own. –Cori Anderer

Original Article: My Husband, Our Marriage, His Rank

This reflective piece revisits an earlier article I wrote as a military spouse, addressing my husband’s promotion and the role of rank in our relationship. In the original article, I expressed pride in his accomplishments but dismissed my own contributions, framing his success as entirely his own. While I still believe in fostering connections based on shared experiences rather than rank, I now recognize the mistake of downplaying my role in supporting his career and our family.

Looking back, I cringe at how much I diminished myself. How often do we make ourselves smaller so others can feel bigger? While my ex-husband’s career might have thrived without me or our children, the reality is that we shared a life, and I played a part in making his journey easier.

Now, as we co-parent, I tread carefully in reflecting on these experiences. Despite our challenges, I wish him success—it benefits not only him but also our children. This reflection isn’t about blame but about acknowledging the lessons learned through those years, many of which he helped shape.

One of the most important lessons I continue to relearn is the importance of prioritizing myself. As a romantic partner, mother, and people-pleaser shaped by past trauma, this feels almost impossible at times. Setting boundaries and valuing my own contributions is a work in progress. I have a hard time saying no, offering help even when it’s not needed, and often overextending myself—sometimes to the point of physical harm. Even now, I’m dealing with the lingering effects of a neck injury from last year, a stark reminder of how much work I still have to do in putting myself first.

**WIP/ARTICLE NOT COMPLETE**