Crazy Knows Crazy

Crazy

I talk a lot about my crazy.  I talk a lot about other peoples’ crazy.  I tell people all the time, “Don’t try to play crazy with me, I can see that shit.”  I can.  I can even spot crazy at first glance.  I may not be a good judge of character, but I am an exceptional judge of crazy.  As my girlfriend, Rachael, always tells me:  “Crazy.  Knows.  Crazy.”  She’s right.  And I’ve got the gift.  I can pick crazy out of a line up.  I’m actually trying to pitch a case to the government on how they should create a position for me at the Military Entrance Processing Stations (MEPS), where I just sit and watch the prospective recruits to determine their suitability for service.  I’m pretty sure I could save the United States Government hundreds of millions of dollars by weeding out the crazies before they even hit the bus to boot camp.  So far, that endeavor has been unsuccessful.  Anyway, that’s not the point.  The point is that crazy knows crazy. 

It’s a gift.  And I’ve got it. 

I See it All

Give me a scenario.  Allow me one look at a complete stranger.  I can see everything they have going on in those creepy little minds.  I can call it before they even speak a word to me.  I’ve predicted it all.  Insecure. Egocentric.  Psychopathic.  Sociopathic.  Daddy issues.  Mommy issues.  Want’s a baby.  Want’s a baby daddy.  Drives a panel van.  Collects toenail clippings. I see it all.

Some people say, “Oh, it’s really not a gift, Angela.   You see their medical records before you see them.”  Well, that’s true.  And I know the signs.  But before I even put a face to the record, I can see it.  I see it because I get it.  OK, I don’t get all of it, but I always get crazy. 

My Brand of Crazy

Now, don’t go thinking that because you have a little bit of crazy, you’ll be able to identify all the crazy. That’s not true.  You need to have all the crazy to be able to see other people’s crazy.  I get it because anyone who lives with as much crazy as I do can spot an ally through the fog in a blizzard.  Once you’ve seen it in the mirror, you can see it easier than Waldo in the public market.  I’ve lived a lot of life.  I know that it may not seem that way when you see me from behind a desk or at the coffee shop or when I’m picking up wine at the market.  But you don’t get this sort of crazy from not having the experience.  Or should I say, having the experience of ignorance.   There isn’t a day during the week that my life doesn’t almost fall apart.  Job. Bills.  Grass.  Child. Dinner.  Gas.   Job.  Child.  Relationships.  Responsibility.  Job.  Child.  FUCKING GRASS!!!   Oh look…wine…It’s been that way for my entire adult life.   I never feel adequate.  I always feel like I am letting somebody down.  

 “Adult” is a relative term.  I probably wouldn’t even be sure that I had reached adulthood if not for the fact I have to pay my rent to keep my child sheltered.  If the very real possibility of homelessness didn’t taunt me, I might not ever use the word “adult” as a means of describing myself.   And as I grow, I find that I still get worked up over the insignificant.  It makes me act like a crazy person sometimes.   It’s just life, though.  It’s not death.  It’s just crazy. 

That’s How I See It:

I see the crazy, because I have known the crazy.  Everyone thinks they have a special brand of crazy. Most notably, young adults who have never been away from their parents before.  So they think that nobody has ever been where they have been before.  They think they are alone.  They aren't though.  They aren't special.  They aren't different.  They aren't even, necessarily, unsuitable.  They just haven't figured out how to put the crazy aside for a few minutes.  I understand, better than anyone, that sometimes it's easier to think you are bat shit crazy than it is to try to find a place for peas.  Inner peas.  But, we all need to remember that we have that place.  We also need to remember that we are ALL crazy, so maybe judgment should be replaced with empathy.