crazy

Sometimes crazy sneaks in.

Like a thief in the night.

Like roaches that scurry away on your kitchen floor.

Like cancer. Infection. Disease.

It takes over. And you.

You.

The person who once was sane, becomes consumed.

And despite what pretty poems one can write; there’s no cleaning up crazy. No darling bow. No fancy dress.

Nothing.

Last night crazy struck at 6:02pm in downtown Honolulu. It wasn't pretty, but the destruction was minimal and there were no fatalities.

I hate suffering the crazies.

For those of you who read my blog, you've probably realized that I have issues. I'd like to think we've all got issues, we're all crazy in some mean or form, but that could just be me trying to make myself feel better.


I remember working with my first paranoid schizophrenic client. I was an undergrad in Greeley, Colorado, tender age of 20. I was on an acute residential psych facility. These kinds of places see your schizophrenics and schizoaffectives, major depression disorders, bipolars, meth addicts in psychosis and several others. Each of these disorders is a person, with a family of origin and many times with a family of their making. Each person lives a life. Each individual who comes through the door is labeled and put into a category describing their type of crazy. Many came already labeled. Already through the door several times before, wherever these doors exist.

My door belonged on the corner of a quiet suburb neighborhood.

I was a psychology major in the last year of my studies and doing my field experience.

The first client I worked with was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. He was older. Had white hair. For some reason, I've always had an affinity for older grandpa like men. He looked the part with his hair, wrinkly skin and physical stature, but his suspicious, angry eyes gave him away. Made him un-grandpa like. I remember before meeting with him, catching a glimpse of him through the window, my heart felt pity, it felt sad. But then, when I walked through the door and caught eyes with him, the pity faded to the background and fear jumped up and lodged itself in my throat.

He told me he was a vet from the war. He told me he couldn't trust me and that the room was bugged. I told him it wasn't and he could trust me. My heart beat rapidly in my chest, and the fear still lodged, now pulsated. I stammered that I was here to help. He told me no. Demanded that the room was bugged and eyed me suspiciously. I told him it wasn't. He said it was. I started to repeat myself again but then stopped, because it suddenly dawned on me that there's no arguing with crazy. And then a sense of calm came.

If I was going to be in here with him, I needed to be with him.

And so I asked him where? And he pointed out the spots. I suggested we problem solve. I knew I had to complete an interview with him and get some information, but I understood his concerns. I wouldn't want to talk in a bugged room either.

And so, we moved our chairs to the other side of the room. We pushed the table against the bugged wall and we spoke in whispers.

It was an interesting and exhilarating experience. Sad too. I felt for him. I felt for everyone that walked through that door.

I can't imagine what life would be like with that type of crazy, and so I suppose I should be grateful with my level. I think it's higher than the norm, but not on the smallest end of the far right bell curve.

My crazy. I'm not sure where it comes from exactly. Perhaps in my emotions. That they're so close to the skin, so easily activated and that they run so deep. For years and years I tried to numb myself. Teach myself not to feel. It didn't work, so then I ran in the other direction. The acceptance direction.

I came to terms with the fact that I am emo. I am sensitive. I am questioning and often anxiety ridden. I am a complete contradiction. Cynical and optimistic. A woman who refers to herself as a girl. A girl who searches for doom while at the same time believing in blissfully happy endings.

Just like my client from long ago, sometimes there is no arguing with me. It is the way it is, and even if all logical sense can tell me otherwise, it still doesn't matter.

My friend Brendt can attest to this. Half our encounters entail arguments. Playful arguments, but arguments nonetheless. Brendt is not crazy. He's the opposite. He's logical, practical. Analytical and goal oriented. He leads with his head. I lead with my feelings. And so, we often end up head against emotions, on some subject in which he feeds me logic and I reject it with feelings.

At the end, he always surrenders. Because you can't argue with crazy. He'll agree to disagree and let me hold to my faith, not because it makes sense, but because it's just the way I feel.

I don't know when I started letting my freak flag fly. When I came out of the closet and declared that I was in fact not completely sane and I wasn't going to hide it anymore. But it was a relief, and in it, I've connected with other fellow crazies. The ones who bank on things they cannot guarantee even exist, the ones who torture themselves needlessly and ask unanswerable questions about life.

Last night at 6:02pm the crazies struck. I found myself overwhelmed with questions about life and love. Once again fear lodged itself in my throat, and pulsated, begging me for an unanswerable answer to calm my nerves. I was desperate to know what my future will be and whether or not I'm making the right decisions now.

I was fortunate enough to find myself in the company of friends. Who listened and watched as I wrestled myself. The self that so often seems to get in the way of... not happiness- I've been accused of being afraid of happiness, of not wanting to be happy, and that's not true. Happiness is easy. It's there every day of my life. In my morning cup of coffee, in my interactions with others, by watching the sunset, seeing a rainbow in the sky, or riding down a sloping wave or steep hill. Happiness isn't my problem. The part I wrestle with, the part I can't seem to settle into is contentment.

And so, on a bar on Hotel St. as I poured out my fears and concerns, and wrestled myself to the ground. While my friends watched and did one of two things one should always do when they're confronted with crazy. (They didn't leave, which would be number one.) They did two. Stayed. Held the space. Were there for me. And even though they could have told me I was being irrational, that life will unfold as it will and that I needn't know all the answers right now, they didn't. They let me have my fears, they pushed the table against the metaphorical bugged wall, moved their chairs in closer, and convinced the bartendar to buy me a shot.

build up

i want to drop my head

my arms

my shoulders

breathe in deeply

exhale

and then just shake.

shake it all out of me.

hickeys

This is not a hickey. It's actually a paintball wound from this Saturday's festivities for Erik's birthday. But it looks like a hickey, and it's making this week's wardrobe one of scarves and turtlenecks.

And it's got me thinking about hickeys...

My first hickey was when I was around 6 yrs old. I think my brother came home with hickeys on his neck and that was how we learned about them. It was a phenomenon at the time, and being fascinated, Kimi and I sucked on our hands and arms until we had the maroonish brands tattooed up and down. I remember getting questioned by our gymnist teacher, who pulled us aside and asked us what the marks were from. I didn't want to tell her, and she probably initially thought that we were hiding a serious secret, because I remember her being very concerned and talking to us in a cooing "it's okay" kind of voice. She even asked if they were burn marks. When I finally confessed she stared at us like we were two strange children. It was an awkward moment to say the least.

I can't remember my first "real" hickey... as in one that I got from necking with a boy... I think it may have been early college... I remember never wanting them on my neck, but secretly enjoying the ones that only I knew about. There was something about them... a sense of ownership, taboo, something... I'm not sure how to quite explain it, and as I try to right now, I'm wondering if I'm branding myself as that same weird 6 yr old all over again. .

Nowadays I can't stand hickeys. Early in our dating Erik accidentally gave me a few during the phase of our courtship when we were like high school kids all over again. I yelled then cried. It was an overdramatic reaction, but it was seriously how I felt.

So you can imagine how it feels to have this nice new mark glaring on my neck... sigh.

The death of a girl who believed in signs

There's a scene in Sleepless in Seattle, when Meg Ryan is trying on her grandmother's wedding dress as she talks to her mom about her fiance. The mom exclaims the way she and the fiance met was clearly a sign. Meg tells her she doesn't believe in signs, and then seconds later, in true romantic comedic irony, as Meg moves her arm and suddenly rips the dress, she turns to her mom in panic and whispers "it's a sign!"

And it was. Because (spoiler alert) she ends up with Tom Hanks, not the dorky loving fiance.

I can relate to Meg's character, as I am often quick to search for the negative signs, instead of the ones pointing to eternal bliss.

I wasn't always like this, once I was a girl who looked at the world around me in wide eyed wonderment, eager for signs that confirmed what I wanted. But that part of me died long ago.

16 years, long ago...

His name was David. He was gorgeous. Tall, handsome. A smile that drew me in. A year younger, which made me hesitate, until I caught sight of his smile again.

I met him on a playful summer's day at Twin Falls, minutes before I jumped off the back waterfall for the first time. I had eyed the jump for a while that day, and knew sooner or later I would take the plunge. He arrived with mutual friends, and as I climbed my way over, and stood at the edge, fear riveting through my body, knees shaking and confidence wavering; he caught my eye and shook his head "no." It was all I needed to push me over the edge. I smirked at him and flew.

When I emerged soaking wet and triumphant, we caught eyes once more and I knew he liked me and I liked him. We hung out for a couple weeks, coincidentally running into each other wherever we would go. Which wasn't so coincidental as his two friends had huge crushes on my sister and friend. While they outwardly pursued their objects of affection, David and I and shyly danced around that line of mutual attraction. All talking lied in the eyes, half smiles, and subtle gestures. It was a tremulous excitement... the silent knowing.

This all occurred the summer following the death of my Grandad. He was a sweet old man, who was gentle and kind. He repaired bikes for the neighborhood kids, loved mint chocolate chip ice cream, and carried butterscotch candies in his pocket. When I was little, he was my best friend. I was always by his side, and it was his hand I always reached to hold. And when we would hold hands, we would make a point to squeeze three times, a secret code meaning "I love you."

When I was 15 he had a small heart attack. He was scheduled for a bypass surgery in order to make things all better. I remember seeing him before he flew out to Oahu for his surgery. I had just finished my second attempt at obtaining my driver's license, this time successful. I visited him in the hospital happy and excited about my newest step toward adulthood. He and my parents all assured me his surgery was no big thing, and so, I casually wished him well probably more focused on me than anything else. Before I left, I held his hand, making sure to squeeze it three times.

He died during his surgery.

Six months later, I was still missing his presence in this world.

The signs...

On a cloudless starry night, my friends and I, along with David and his friends met at Big Beach. We did what normal teens did. Hung out doing nothing. We started as a group until slowly by slowly people paired off...

And then there were two.

David and I.

Alone.

He suggested we walk down the shore, and I agreed, both excited and nervous. As we walked, I stared at the sky. We didn't talk. Just walked in silence as the tension of our attraction became thicker and thicker. I could feel my heart racing as I bit my lip anxiously. I didn't know what to expect, but knew I was excited and having the time of my life. David grabbed my hand as we continued down the shoreline. His warm palms enveloped mine. The silence continued, as we trudged across the sand going with no destination in mind, just happy to be walking together. And then, he squeezed my hands three times. I came to a halt, turned to him, then turned my head up to the heavens. At that exact moment a star leapt from them and fell across the sky.

I was certain it was a sign.

So certain, I let him kiss me, even though he wasn't my boyfriend.

I went home that night feeling giddy. I knew deep down there was something extremely special in store for David and me, for surely the signs said so.

Surely.

Not.

Two weeks later, on a sneak out camping trip, I found him kissing my friend.

I was dumbfounded more than devastated because I just couldn't understand. And so, I decided that signs meant nothing. They were for fools.

Fast forward to now...

In my relationship with Erik, I battle my commitment phobic self daily. I sometimes surprise myself with how many issues I have, and how hard it is for me to be settled. There are days when I am certain about our destiny and others when I feel the future is what it is: unpredictable and unknown.

And it's funny, but the signs that point to yes seem to scare me more than the signs that point to no.

Our signs...

Most of our "signs" are found in the quietness of our daily life... the small things he does everyday to show me I am loved. But some are more symbolic. The messages from the world around, kind of stuff...

I remember on our second date we went for a hike. (The second date is always a turning point for me because it means "hey I actually like you enough to want to get to know just how much I can like you.") During this hike I saw my first ever mountain Naupaka flower. It's a flower I've kept my eye out for since the time I first heard it's legend as a child (http://christy-writes2.blogspot.com/2009/05/unemployment-mondays-ii.html#comments). I had many times over seen the common beach variety, but never before found a mountain plant. To me, the Naupaka flowers are something that symbolize romance and two halves destined to be together. And seeing this particular flower was a significant moment for me.

Perhaps if I was still the girl I was before meeting David, that experience alone would have convinced me that Erik and I are meant to be. It would have saved him from the questioning and doubt I sometimes find myself trapped in; but since that part of me died off long ago, it remains what it is. An interesting and cool coincidence.

The signs, the knowing, the meant to be's...they haunt me. I sometimes feel so much pressure to know my forever right here and now. I feel society and what not push us to believe in a level of sensing that seems more like luck of the draw. Is it really possible for someone to "just know?"

Maybe...

In my life, there are many people who "just knew," that remain together to this day and beyond. But I also know just as many who claimed that same destined-fate feeling that are no longer together anymore. As well as another handful of couples who's fates, as strong as they may seem, still remain unknown. This need to know drives me to points of insanity at times.

Erik and I. We don't know. Even when we think we do. We don't. No one does. Except those who do. But then again, who's to really say?

And so, as I continue to find my footing in the world of relationships, I must remind myself that each day is a new day filled with whatever signs I choose to seek out, and if I focus too much on predicting the future, I might miss out what I know right now.

That being said... this is not in anyway to discount those who "just know"- good for you. Really. This is perhaps, just to nullify my own feelings of inadequacy for not always knowing.

Good luck to all of us.