Same man.
Two Different Stories.
The story of Johnny, and the
home that changes everything.
Part One
His name is Johnny
He's 38. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia at 23. Fifteen years of meeting with an overworked case manager. Fifteen years of chaos, then stability, then chaos again. He's been hospitalized more times than he knows. He's lived in more places than most people cycle through in a lifetime, in just fifteen years.
Johnny is not what most people picture when they hear "schizophrenia." He's not violent. He's not yelling at strangers on the street. Most of the time, he's quiet, in his own mind. He asks you how you are when you greet him. He likes baseball and donuts. He has a sense of humor that his family loves. Cold brew is his favorite type of coffee. But black, make sure it's black.
Sometimes Johnny is doing “well.” He takes his medication, sleeps 8 hours a day and spends time with his parents and friends.
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But what happens when Johnny isn’t “well?” What happens when something changes? For his fifteen years with serious mental illness, the world has had only two answers for where a man like Johnny should live; government funded transitional group homes and independent housing in at-risk areas.
What would it look like, if there was a place that was made especially for Johnny? Where the barriers that he faces every day weren’t so heavy? What if the house was a place where community gathered, people looked him in the eyes and told them they were happy to see him? These may seem like simple things to most people. But to Johnny, they are everything. And for the first time in fifteen years, he feels like a real person.
This is Johnny's story - told two different ways.
Johnny is a composite — not one person, but many. He represents men Deborah has known, walked alongside, prayed for, and worried about.
Part Two
Johnny's Oasis
1. The "Other Home"
It's 10:30 am, Johnny wakes up to the sound of a TV. It's been on since yesterday. No one turned it off. He wanders around for a while before he walks to the kitchen.
He opens the refrigerator around noon. There's a package of lunch meat pushed to the back: he's not sure when he bought it. The date on the label is from last year. He stares at it for a moment and then closes the door.
When Johnny’s brother visited, he tried to throw away the expired food. But he was told he couldn’t. The group home staff were following the rules. It's his food. His choice. His life. That's what the system calls independence: the right to eat spoiled meat, or never eat at all, with no one authorized to intervene or even ask, "Johnny, are you hungry? I haven’t seen you eat in a while…”
Johnny looks through the sliding glass door that opens to the yard. He sees a concrete slab, a rusted metal chair, weeds pushing through a crack by the wall. Nothing that says come outside. Nothing that suggests anyone has thought about what he might need or like to make it feel like home. Johnny never goes out there. Why would he?
The afternoon dissolves. He opens a can of tuna and eats in front of the TV, which is still on from yesterday. Johnny takes two bites and puts it on the wobbly coffee table. There is a cut on his arm that's been there for two weeks. He noticed it this morning. No one else has seen it because no one else is looking.
This is Friday. It will look almost exactly like Thursday, which looked like Wednesday.
Johnny is free. That's what they call it. And he is completely, entirely alone.
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2. Kenny's Home
Johnny wakes up and can already smell coffee.
Not because someone made it for him, but because this is a house where people are up and moving, and someone else's morning bleeds into his. He can hear the kitchen from down the hall. A cabinet opens, he hears a low conversation. The ordinary sound of people who know each other.
Johnny is excited to get up and start his day. He pours himself a black cup of coffee and looks at the bulletin board in the kitchen. “Are you excited for tonight, Johnny?” his house-mate asks. Johnny actually has something to look forward to.
Friday at Kenny's Home is Table Fellowship Night. “Are you guys ready for tonight? Can I help you get ready with anything?” the house staff member asks. “We are good!”
Johnny was asked yesterday what sounded good for dinner- not what he needed, not what was practical, just what sounded good to him. He said he was craving burgers, so that is what they are making for Table Fellowship night.
“Oh, by the way Johnny, how is your arm? Did the doctor help you out?”
“Yeah he did, he gave me an ointment and its healing already!”
Johnny didn’t ask for help. Someone noticed him, and cared.
The sun started to set and the Table Fellowship community gathered around the table on the patio.
Dan Landis and his team at Landiscape designed this space specifically with someone like Johnny in mind. Wide, easy-to-navigate walking paths, low-maintenance planting, because the goal isn't upkeep, it's use. Shade and places to sit, because in Arizona heat, an outdoor space that doesn't account for the sun isn't an outdoor space at all. Every decision came from a question Dan was willing to ask: what does a man with serious mental illness actually need out here? And what could it look like if a community of people gathered together with him?
What Johnny needs is what will happen at Kenny’s Home.
He didn't have a word for what the other Friday felt like, the one in a group home. He doesn't have a word for this one either. But he knows the difference between being free and being seen.
At Kenny's Home, he gets to be both.
A Free Man
1. The "Other Home"
It's 10:30 when Johnny wakes up, because there's no reason to wake up sooner. Another day that feels the same as yesterday.
The TV is on, still. Down the hall, a man he shares the house with is already on the couch- same spot as yesterday, same clothes as last week. Nobody's sure how long it's been since he changed them. Nobody knows what his room looks like, or whether he owns a toothbrush. He's a grown man. He's independent. So no one asks.
Sometimes a van comes and takes a few of the men to a room. The “program” doesn't really have a name. That's how little was built into it. It's a rec room with a white wall, a TV, some chairs, and playing cards. No one is engaging with Johnny or his housemates. No one is suggesting a game. So they sit until the van comes back.
He has a job, technically. In a basement somewhere, Johnny and a few others fold flyers and stuff them into envelopes, hour after hour, for a few dollars. Sometimes Johnny feels like he’s being kept busy so no one has to worry about him. His mind- the one that remembers every starting lineup, that makes his family laugh- is not required in this work. So it wanders.
No one asks Johnny what he wants- not what he'd like to do, not where he'd want to go, not who he wants to be. He's free to do anything, which turns out to mean nothing, with no one. Even though he's "independent," he doesn't get to choose.
But today none of those things happened. Today there's no van and no basement, so Tuesday is the couch, the TV, and the light crossing the floor and leaving again. Johnny eats a few crackers standing at the counter, or he doesn't; no one will know either way. The cut on his arm is still there. It bothers him, but he ignores it.
Johnny is free. That's what they call it. And he is completely, entirely alone.
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2. Kenny's Home
Johnny is awake by 7 am. He gets his coffee and protein bar and looks at the board on the wall where the week is written out. A painting class this afternoon. A walk at the park with one of the staff, whenever he wants it. Thursday, a few of them are going to the symphony. He opens the patio door and feels the cool morning air. He steps outside to enjoy the breeze…
“The symphony,” he says aloud. A man who spent years in a basement stuffing envelopes is going to sit in a concert hall and let his mind fill up with something good. Because no one decided Johnny didn’t need the symphony, that it wasn’t for him.
He can hear his roommate start to stir when he steps back inside. Johnny remembers to fill the left side of the sink with soapy water in anticipation of the morning dishes. This is part of his agreed-upon responsibilities; it gives him a sense of ownership.
The “Resident Lead, RL” (staff) walks into the kitchen and says, “Thank you, Johnny, for remembering to fill the sink this morning. Some days I can’t even remember how to put on my socks, you’re a rock star!” The RL Person is aware of what it takes for men living with serious mental illness to even get out of bed in the morning. He gives them their space and greets them with gentle kindness.
Breakfast is an opportunity for a question or topic, but just one. “What did you think about the Worship time this morning?” or “Did you see that jump shot last night!?” Chores are shared at their own pace. One washes the dishes, one dries. They wipe down the counter again. The Lead Resident makes a game of it and is sure to look for ways to encourage Johnny and the other men, because this is part of the culture at Kenny’s Home.
Bathroom routines commence. The men take their medication on their own; they have their own storage area. And they have a routine that supports this.
Yesterday Johnny met with his mentor, who has been helping him put together a résumé. Actual work, the kind with purpose in it. Next time they are going to practice answering the questions an interviewer might ask, so he is prepared, as anyone else would do. Nobody is keeping Johnny busy. Somebody is helping him build something.
His mind is working. People call Johnny by his name. When something's off, the way his arm was a few days ago, someone notices and asks him if he is okay.
By evening, Johnny’s tired in the good way: the way you're tired when a day is productive. It’s rewarding. He knows tomorrow has a shape too, and the day after that, just like the day before. Later in the week, the whole house will plan Friday's Table Fellowship dinner together; he already knows what he's hoping they'll make, and he knows someone will ask him.
He couldn't have told you what the other Tuesday felt like. He can't quite put words to this one either. But he knows the difference between being free and being seen.
At Kenny's Home, he gets to be both.