It’s been over a year since we began dealing with a heartbreaking situation in our condo townhouse complex — nine homes sharing the same outdoor space, where we’ve always felt part of a kind, generous, and close-knit community.

One of our neighbours, who had been sober, social, and responsible, began to spiral after his divorce. We believe he returned to alcohol and eventually drugs. At first, we felt deep compassion for him. My partner and I even invited him over for dinner, and other neighbours tried to involve him in gatherings. But over time, his condition worsened.

He started sending erratic messages in our group chat, accusing us of spying on him and breaking into his home. We saw someone who had once fought so hard for recovery begin to slip away—becoming isolated, unemployed, physically unwell, and gripped by paranoia and hallucinations.

One day, after a particularly disturbing message, we called the police and a helpline to check on him. The police arrived, but since there was no immediate threat to his life, they told us there was nothing they could do. They couldn’t force him into treatment or even a hospital visit.

Months later, the situation escalated. His delusions became fixated on my partner and me—especially me. He began accusing me of hiding cameras in his home, controlling his electronics, even sleeping in a neighbour’s van to watch him. One day, he confronted my partner and threatened to call the police. He did—and the police came to our door.

We explained the situation, and other neighbours came forward with the messages they had received. Still, because there was “no threat,” we were advised not to engage with him and left with no real options. Meanwhile, I changed where I parked my car to avoid crossing paths with him. I feared what might happen if his hallucinations escalated further.

Eventually, I called the police again—this time because a neighbour warned me that his accusations were becoming more intense and concerning. I explained that I no longer felt safe in my own home. The officer took my information and said someone would follow up. No one ever did.

To this day, I still call my partner to meet me at the parking lot if I need to park near our home.

Recently, he received an eviction notice. A few weeks later, something finally shifted—not because of the system, but because of the people. His church community stepped in and helped him get into rehabilitation. Some of our neighbours offered to store his furniture. Today, he’s moving out to begin treatment. It was the community that ultimately did something about it.

He was lucky to have this kind of support around him. But what if he wasn’t?

We still care deeply about our neighbour. We feel helpless and disappointed that there’s no effective system to intervene before someone becomes a danger to themselves or others. We have to wait for a life-threatening incident before anything can be done.

If he had been bleeding, we would’ve called emergency services—and he would have received help right away. So why is it that when our souls are bleeding, we’re told to wait?

When it comes to mental health, we are failing — as a system, as communities, and sometimes even as individuals. We’re not educated on how to support someone in crisis, and the support services in place are under-resourced and overburdened. The helpline we called kept us on hold for nearly an hour (because they were probably understaffed)—during a moment when we feared someone might harm themselves.

The police are bound by protocol. The public is left in the dark. And the person in crisis? They’re left alone, falling through the cracks.

What will it take for us to take this seriously and build the systems we need — for everyone’s safety, dignity, and humanity?