When a neighbour has problems, such as mental health difficulties, it's not always easy to know whether to intervene – particularly when professional support services are being cut
I have a new neighbour a few doors down. Since he moved in a couple of weeks ago I could count on one hand the number of times I've walked past his window day or night without seeing him sitting there alone staring out into the street.
The window is huge and looks directly on to the pavement. The pavement looks directly into the room. The man sits on a folding wooden chair surrounded by a litter of cardboard boxes. If it weren't for the thin pane of glass that divides us I could reach out and shake his hand.
In one sense I know nothing about the man. My assumptions are all conjecture. But in another way, I feel I know far too much. I strongly suspect he has mental health problems, that he is isolated, that the football shirt he has hung in the window is not so much an advertisement for his club as a tiny, futile attempt to create some sort of barrier between himself and the world outside. I could be wrong, of course. But I don't think I am. The sense of recognition is too strong.
It is hard for those living in more private circumstances to appreciate just how public life in social housing can feel. Partly this is due to the nature of the flats. However, small, inadequately soundproofed flats are by no means unique to social housing: more significant is the fact that a social tenancy is so difficult to get. Demand so massively outstrips supply that if a young single person is given a flat, everyone knows there must be a reason for it. And the reason, if not quite public knowledge, is certainly an object of public interest, most particularly to the longer-term residents.
Feeding this interest is the highly visible nature of the various interventions. Police, bailiffs and ambulances can be obvious and regular visitors. As can social and support workers, at least to those in the know. Some tenants respond by abandoning any attempt at privacy. One mother who lived near to me used to call her kids from across the street. "No, you come here! I can't come out, can I; I got a fucking tag on!"
And then, of course, you recognise your own. You may recognise people personally, having seen them on the wards or in the waiting room. Or you may, as with my new neighbour, recognise a situation. The inevitable question is how to respond.
It's straightforward enough if you have reason to believe a neighbour is at serious risk. In that situation you have an obligation to act. But my current dilemma is more common and much more complex. In a sense, not responding is impossible; I cannot "unaware" myself of something I am aware of, walking on past is in itself a response. I've tried smiling, but even that felt intrusive, let alone knocking on the door and offering some curtains.
And it's not only my neighbour I'm thinking of. I have to protect my own boundaries. For professionals these come with the role and indeed enable it. Hours and a place of work should help to protect other times and places for things outside work. When you live next door to someone you must establish such boundaries yourself. This is something that I, like many people, struggle with. It may be 3am but if someone's in need, it's difficult to say no. If you know that support is available, this makes things much easier for everyone. But in the age of the "big society", professional support is being cut dramatically. Situations such as this are going to become ever more common. I do hope someone's considered the implications.
Some details have been changed.
• Clare Allan is an author and writer on mental health issues