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.