Back in the day.
Before diagnostic psychobabble became part of talk. Before you became wary of saying you were feeling "blue." When the blues were best treated by listening to the blues.
Before consciousness included realization that your best friend suffered their thinking.
A delight with morning dew and sunlight spun in the rose bush between thorns and bud.
Me - the fly who realized and wiggled loose.
That day when his friend who knew him since high school dismissed your concerns about his pain by saying, "But - don't you know?! He's just really really really neurotic!"
That day you just got a clue.
She had a decade on you.
Sentimental with childhood, no one told you.
Where exactly is that point where really really really neurotic and mentally ill meet? When the day you realized you lost a friend along the way?
When saying someone was "crazy" was said with a smile, a laugh, even a hold-your-belly because it was meant as a compliment. When "crazy" was "genius" and innovation. When you respected unique individuals. No one was on trial for "culture appropriation" either. So what if they wanted to do something with their hair?! It was their hair. Crazy, man!
But, now you know more. Too much. Some would say better. Now you can use words like narcissistic personality disorder, self-harming, or clinically depressed with knowing and sadly, abandon.
He lived all those labels and more. As the years went by he got really really really really really neurotic.
He tore himself up on a nightly basis. He spent hours looking in mirrors. He went into a zone while stretching his legs before a run. Where are you? Come back! Come back!
He was always running late and drove like a hellion, even the blind curves through the canyon. Scared the hell out of you a few times.
Had to chase young girls. Really young girls. Really really young girls... Sunset Strip. Told them he was a music producer. Leaned into his dream of being a Rock Star. He passed on first and second look. Told too young girls who could believe their eyes... Went home alone to dismantle.
Did not see his aging.
Women as props.
Women as compensation.
//
Being around these people makes you sick too, so you make your escape. That's what you do. You're afraid their mental illness is a contamination. Cooties. Associating with that person means something about you - you mean girl.
How did you acquire all the clutter of mentally ill friends? Do you hoard mentally ill friends? Remember when you thought you were loyal and faithful rather than an enabler?
//
Went to visit his parents. His mother you always liked. Tears springing from her eyes as she said, "I hope it's not mental illness."
"I think it is," you said, quietly but sure.
Obsessive-Compulsive. Self hater. Something at the core.
C 2021 Christine Trzyna
Note: The last couple days living through history; The siege of the United States Capitol to disrupt the political process of confirming Joseph Biden as the next President, the fervent discussion of President Donald Trump's mental health, and the effect of the Covid-19 plague and economic disrepair, has me thinking about mental illness. In discussion with a friend, we agreed that we don't think of depression as mental illness. It is most often common and appropriate. There is a great deal of pain to process and a Dark Night of the Soul can be Spirituality Enlightening. We don't think a mere six weeks of feeling blue should lead to medication. We do think self harm and suicidal thoughts should require a psychiatric consultation. In this series of free writing I'm exploring mental illness and friendship.
