Let's say I've plowed through the mental health system about as much as Tiger Woods has plowed through restaurant hostesses and unhappy soccer moms. I've had a diagnosis or two (or eight), but I like to keep things simple, and for simplicities sake let's just call me crazy.
First things first, I'm married so if you're one of those guys who likes a woman with baggage, this chick's is being towed by a very patient man, God bless him. I don't have a job right now because I'd rather ride a triple-looped roller coaster than step foot in a public place alone. And for those of you who don't know me very well, I get sick on winding mountain drives. I don't drink either. If I wanted to feel the effects of "a little too much" all I have to do is step foot into the local grocery store alone because that is the place I'm most afraid of....Yes, the grocery store.
That probably sounds odd, but it makes sense to me. See, I used to be a fifth-grade teacher and like most teachers the last thing we want to happen on a weekend is to run into a parent of one of our students so we can have an impromtu student conference (for which by the way I think parents should be charged fifty dollars an hour.) Anyways, as Murphy's Law would have it, anytime I would run into a parent I would also manage to have a hand basket in tow filled with something horribly embarassing (booze, pregnancy tests, astrolube, super-absorbancy tampons).
It's bad enough to run into a parent with something embarassing in your cart, but it's another thing to run into a parent when you've mysteriously disappeared from work and not even your coworkers know why. Luckily, I haven't run into a single parent since my disappearance. In fact, it took three months for me to run into a parent...at the movie theater.
My husband and I were late to the movie on purpose to avoid running into any parents. I figured everyone would be seated. I wore my 3-D glasses to play it particularly safe and found an inconspicuous seat so we could enjoy the latest Tim Burton flick in peace. Unfortunately, we weren't late enough. Just as I got comfortable enough to take off my 3-D glasses to enjoy a few previews and stale popcorn, two of my fifth graders waltz into the theater giggling. I noticed them at the same time as they noticed me. Wide-eyed, we all froze, and I clumsily shoved on my 3-D glasses, like that would help. The girls high-tailed it out of the theater to get their parents. I hoped the parents would just tell the girls to leave me alone and they would all sit down. I feared that they would walk up the isle and ask me which rumor as to why I was no longer teaching was actually the truth, but neither of those things happened. About a foot away from my face a bushy head of gray hair slowly crested the banister that my husband's left elbow rested against until a pair of oversized, glasses stared right into mine, the mother of one of the students. Funny things was, she looked more embarrassed than I did and rightfully so if you ask me. Her bushy head fell quite fast.
I guess my story starts somewhere in the middle of what people in the business call recovery. I've spent most of my teenage years and adult life trying to get rid of crazy. When I realized I couldn't get rid of it, I tried to pretend it wasn't there. That didn't work either. Crazy doesn't go away. It's a part of me forever. Medicine helps quiet the crazy down a lot. It helps me know when crazy is influencing my thoughts and my actions. I spent three months in a hospital and now I'm at a dialectical behavior therapy center learning how to handle being crazy, since it's going to be with me. I'm doing all I can to get on the good side of crazy.
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