NEW: Crazy People Will Make You Crazy
2006-12-16 | Filed Under Participatory Books |
I often think about how there have been areas of my life, both huge and tiny, that have been influenced by the moods and/or mental health of other people. And I’ve often wondered if these parts of my life hadn’t been governed by other’s people’s states, what would life have been like instead? What would be different? What would I have done differently? Did they influence my choices? My behavior? In hindsight, did I do things that were sort of crazy too? Or was I much more sane than I thought at the time, and just thought I was crazy because the measure for sanity was set by them?So, this is what I want to know in you. Has your life been influenced/effected by the sanity of others? Have you ever done things that in hindsight were a little crazy because the person or persons you were with had influenced you in a way uncharacteristic of yourself? Has anyone (or anything) ever make you wonder if you’re crazy?Tell the story and I’ll illustrate it …4 Responses to “NEW: Crazy People Will Make You Crazy”
I’m that person who makes other people crazy with my craziness. I know I am. I’ve seen people around me wither in the shadow I used to bring with me everywhere I went. I’ve watched them disappear from my life, and can’t really blame them– sometimes I would like to disappear from my life too. The problem with being crazy is that, even when you know you’re crazy, you can’t necessarily fix it, even with a battalion of drugs and therapists and self-help books. That’s why being crazy isn’t a lifestyle choice. Or, well, not one that most people would make on purpose. (You’d have to be crazy.)
Now, of course, I’m not crazy anymore. (I know, it’s pretty amazing.) I chalk this up, in part, to the people around me who STAYED around me even when I was crazy. The ones who saw that there was a person inside that shadow, and had the patience to wait for her to come out, despite her being a complete pain in the ass most of the time, and mopey, and even hostile, and definitely passive-aggressive. All you need, sometimes, is a couple of people to answer your calls or meet you for lunch or just watch you cry in order to become less crazy. It’s hard for those people, though, to do that on a regular basis. I salute them, and would like to give my particular friends a merit badge for friendship.
Crazy People Make You Crazy (or Sane)
I had an East Village neighbor in the mid to late 1990s. She lived in the apartment building next to mine. Her name was Juana. She was anywhere between 60 and 70. She was Puerto Rican, wore a curly wig and a lot of foundation, and spoke only Spanish. Coming home in the summers, I would often see her ensconced in her first floor window, wearing a pair of headpohones and singing along to whatever music was or was not on her portable cassette player, and waving to all passersby. Alternatively, she would sit on one of the garbage cans in front of her building wearing her puffy winter coat (in summer) and singing along (really squawking along) to whatever music was or was not playing on her portable cassette player. Juana always waved while she was squawking. Sometimes she would eye me up and down, especially if I was wearing shorts. (I don’t have a bad pair of legs after all, but am obviously of the ‘swish’ temperament.) One day in the summer, I passed her as I was going to the corner Korean market to get something for something (a recipe ingredient or toilet paper). I bought one of those $1 roses wrapped in plastic to give to her, which I did on my return. She squawked her appreciation, eyes glinting, head nodding. It’s such an easy thing to give pleasure to someone.
Then sometime in November, I stopped seeing Juana in her window or outside. Christmas came and went. I assumed she was in Puerto Rico for the holidays.
In January or February, another woman on the block (let’s call her Yvette with the Wall Eye), with whom I had yet to initiate an active acquaintance, was sitting on her stoop one day and hailed me as I was walking past with a friend. She asked if I had heard about Juana. In November, Yvette with the Wall Eye told me, there had been a fire in Juana’s kitchen and that she had had a heart attack and died.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, truly shocked and saddened.
“And you know, she was a man,” said Yvette, her wall eye suddenly honing on my own.
“Of course,” I said, after a minute, and after a fashion that Watson would have responded to Holmes. “Of course, she was a man.”
How many Wigstocks I had attended; how many ‘gender illusionists’ I had seen perform: Glamamore, International Crisis, Perfidia, Lypsinka. I was thoroughly ashamed and titillated.
“She always liked you,” said Yvette. “You bought her a rose once. She always talked about that.”
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF SAINT DOORHOLDER
OR
CRAZY PEOPLE WILL MAKE YOU CRAZY
Hello!
Have we met before?
Perhaps I once held a door for you…
…at a drugstore…
…at a restaurant…
…at a rest stop off the New Jersey Turnpike…
…or maybe on the subway–even though that’s against the rules!
Some people get money for holding doors.
But I hold doors for free because…it’s just what I do.
If you’re the type of person who says “Thank you” to me, I’ll say “You’re welcome.”
That’s when all is right with the world.
But if you don’t say anything…
…if you walk past me like I’m just a doorsill…
…then I can get upset.
I’ll probably smolder inside, like a ticking time bomb.
But I might say “You’re welcome” in a bitter, sarcastic voice–even though I know I shouldn’t do that.
***
Not very long ago, I was on a line of people exiting the Museum of Modern Art.
In front of me was a largish older woman who used crutches to get around. [in the movie version, she will be played by Jane Houdyshell]
In front of her was a younger man. [who looked like me]
As he passed through the revolving door, he slowed it down, trying to help the crutch lady.
I thought he was being a good guy…
…but the woman seemed to think otherwise.
Instead of going through the door, she [turned to the rest of us and] launched into a tirade.
“Did you see that? What the hell’s the matter with him? He can go to hell for all I care. What an actor. Maybe he should get an Academy Award. Does he think he should win a Nobel Prize? Does he think he’s Albert Schweitzer? What makes him think he’s so goddamn great? Damn him to hell, what an asshole, etc. etc.”
Meanwhile, no one else said a word. We just stood there. But then….
Me exploding: “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
I plowed past her, went through the revolving door, and stalked off into the night, steaming.
Thoughts: “What an asshole!” “She was holding up the whole line!!” “Fuck her!!!” “Did I just curse out a crazy old woman on crutches????”
***
Days later, I met my friend Clare in upstate New York.
We strolled along the Poets Walk in Red Hook, overlooking the Hudson River.
The day was lovely.
Clare: “Look at the sunlight on those yellow leaves!”
But I had a cloud over my head
“Clare, I have to tell you something. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
Clare’s thought: “Uh-oh.”
Clare’s voice: “Sure. Go ahead!”
I told her the museum story.
Me: “…and so I exploded. I know I shouldn’t expect anything of anyone when I hold doors open for people. I should do it because I want to. But after all those years of being treated like a doorsill, I couldn’t believe this woman was actually cursing out someone who was simply trying to help her!
“So what do you think?”
Clare: “I think you’ve lost your chance at Sainthood!
“Look, it’s only human to lose it every now and then. Don’t hold yourself to such high standards.”
Me: “I guess you’re right.”
Clare: “Stop kicking yourself over this.”
Me: “I’ll try.”
* **
But you know, I’m still thinking about the whole episode.
The woman on crutches was crazy.
And seeing her abuse that guy made me act crazy.
But you know who else acts crazy?
The people who don’t offer a simple ‘thank you’ when someone does them a favor.
After all, what’s crazier than treating a person like a doorsill?
Stompy and Barky are my upstairs neighbors. Barky’s a one-eyed dog and usually doesn’t live up to his name, thankfully, although he tears down the back stairs in a torrent when he sees a squirrel butting in on his balcony. But every once and a while he goes on a bark-fest, ten fifteen twenty minutes at a time. Always late at night, naturally, and only when Stompy’s out. Insomniac Stompy, meanwhile, is a bachelor around my age, although I suspect his sexuality is different. To quote the Poet, “No straight guy wears shoes like that.” He’s obviously voguing up there, clacking his heels back and forth, back and forth, long after midnight. But then he starts to bowl, perhaps in an effort to reify his masculinity. Indoor Brooklyn row-house bowling; I’m surprised NPR hasn’t done a piece on it yet. Also, there’s the door slamming: all doors must be slammed! But what’s with the wrestling? There doesn’t seem to be anyone else up there, so I don’t know who is being thrown. Barky, neurotic enough, wouldn’t stand for it. I just know someone or something is landing soft-hard, like maybe a really large stuffed bear dressed in combat fatigues and wearing bandoliers.
Me? I’m losing sleep and plotting their deaths.