CRAZY, WE ALL ARE

Several years ago, a group of friends and I were sitting around having one of those conversations that comes at the end of the evening, sometimes after several glasses of wine. You have discussed politics, sex, work, and the TV reality shows. Each subject would end with someone looking disgusted and making the statement, "Hell, they're all just crazy as piss ants."

I asked, "Do you know anyone that's not crazy?"

Everyone got quiet, took a sip of their wine and shook their heads, except for one gal. She said she knew her entire family was nuttier than a fruitcake. But she thought her husband's family was sane. I bite my tongue. She hadn't been married long enough; she still had stars in her eyes and refused to see what was right in front of her. It had taken everyone else about three minutes, at the wedding, to know those people would be interesting to watch. You can only hide crazy for so long, it will come out.

I come from a long line of insane folks, got it from both sides of the family. I'm not talking serial killer stuff. But go back and read my essay about my grandpaw being a bulimic and grandmaw being a passive aggressive hypochondriac. These people had a good reputation, money, and power. Not once did anyone confront the insanity or try to get'em in therapy.

On my mama's side, my grandmaw was a control freak who thought if you had fish and milk at the same meal, you would get sick and if you sat on a feather pillow during a rain storm, lighting wouldn't hit you. My grandpaw was just passive or as I call it, lazy. They lived way out in the country, so they sort of ran under the radar. Just trust me, the gene pool started going downhill long before I was born.

Along came my parents, those two would never been allowed to breed if they had been dogs or horses. Mother has always seemed to live off in some fuzzy world of her own. She was, and is a precious woman, who was ripe for the pickin' when she met my dad. I doubt dad was an upstanding citizen by the time he spotted mama. But he was cute and could be quite a charmer. They came together and became poster children for "Passing On The Crazy Genes."

I could look around at my life and see that my parents weren't doing a very good job of raising me. Way before I had a name for it, I knew I wasn't right. That explains me. So I'm not responsible.

Hell, even Hitler had times when he could go for hours or days looking normal and sane. Have you seen the old movies of him and his gal pal in the mountains on vacation? If it wasn't for a world war and the murder of millions, who would have known.

And I hate to bring his name up, but they're going to find out poor Mel Gibson isn't just being mean. He's insane, he has lost contact, bent the old brain stem. He did give us hints. Remember those movies with Danny Glover. Gibson played a hero cop and told people he was insane. We should have believed him then. He knew just how to have that "look" in his eyes. Check out his mug shot.....crazy eyes.

I actually didn't name my particular crazy 'til I was in my forties. Please understand I didn't go to counseling for myself. One of my sons just didn't hide his insanity very well. He didn't give a crap if the whole world knew he was nuts. OK, he was sixteen.

I was sort of puzzled and insulted when the therapist said, "Yes, I see, you are having trouble with your son, so let us get busy and help you." I repeated the whole sordid story, thinking he wasn't the smartest therapist I could've chosen. He kept repeating that we were going to work on me. Maybe he was hard of hearing. I sat in his office once a week for several months. Didn't help my son one bit, but he kept gently pointing out my shortcomings.

I ended up in group therapy. Lord, a room full of 'me.' Of course, I didn't see myself in these people at first. I just wanted to jump up and slap the crap out of several of them. All the whining and complaining. I swear they enjoyed getting the attention. I think they looked forward to the meetings. They showed up once a week just busting to tell their newest sad story, or repeat an old childhood memory of not getting that red bike when they were eight.

Therapy went from me standing up and screaming to one guy, "You've been separated from your wife for 11 years and are engaged to someone else for five! You need to get a damn divorce! I'll drive you to the court house myself. What the hell do you think you're doing or do you think?"

It ended with some gal looking across our little circle of insanity and yelling at me, "I want to walk over there and just slap the shit out of you! You sit there without an expression of any kind when I talk about my mama!"

I had spent an unusual amount of time wondering how this group thing would know when to end. No one seemed to get better. I figured out it would be one of two ways. The first was when your insurance ran out. The second was when the patients threatened bodily harm to each other. Both happened about the same time. Several folks still had a story or two they wanted to share, but the decision was made when the therapist announced he was moving to Houston. Ha, he couldn't take it anymore.

Sort of lost faith in the therapist when I discovered he was a recovering addict, and was leaving his wife and kids, "cause I just can't be myself with her. I'm just feeling like I am being held back." Hell, it was a marriage, not a movie. None of us would stay married if we were our true self. Who wants to see that disaster? And, ha, that proves he was crazy too.

I never got much self awareness, I just decided to straighten up and behave, 'cause I didn't want to be grouped with those people. I was able to see that I was co-dependent, adult child of an alcoholic, and depressed. That was just the top layer of my crazy. Later I found ADD in the mix. So now I could name it, but didn't work too hard to change my behavior. Like most crazy people, I just though that's what made me interesting.

My son grew up and became as normal as anyone in our family can be. He didn't even thank me for all the therapy I went through for him.

At this place in my life, I don't have time to fool with the idiots that claim to be sane. They are either telling a lie or actually believe they are ok. And the sure sign of insanity is to think you're sane.

Most of my friends are taking great pleasure in being insane. We are of the age where we just don't care if we embarrass our adult children. And our grandchildren think we are the coolest because we keep their parents upset and crazy.

See there's that word again "crazy"........we all are.


copyright 2011, Southern Writer