My Year of the Crazies

There I was at the conclusion of an industry conference, running to the gate still wearing the clothes from the night before, after partying until the wee hours at Orlando’s Pleasure Island with my new friend Wayne who was desperately unhappy with obligations in a life that wasn’t his own. His family owned a diaper-cleaning business in Roanoke.  “Business is shitty,” he told me, and I laughed over my Long Island iced tea.

Hangover still blaring, I was looking forward to laying sideways on the empty two seats next to me that the airline employee, taking pity on me, managed to secure.  As I boarded the plane, I noticed a guy in first class look up.

Within minutes, there he was before me as I settled in my seat.  “Are these two seats occupied?”  And the rest of the flight had him eating off my plate and telling me about his ex-wife’s accusation of child molestation, only interrupted by the times I politely announced ”excuse me” when, overcome by nausea, I ran to the bathroom.

Diaper cleaner Wayne and my airline passenger were many characters I came across during what I like to call my “Year of the Crazies.”

I had just ended a long term relationship with my fiancé, a man I met the last month of college. It lasted through most of my 20s, and by the time it was over, I had forgotten who I was.

So in they marched, one by one, to keep me company.

A new friend who cheerfully told me one night during drinks that she drove her car through her ex-boyfriend home’s front window six months earlier.   The attendees at the sex and love addicts' meeting that my hairdresser –my “therapist” at the time -- suggested I attend with him.  A few minutes after I arrived, it became apparent I was the only woman (love addict, perhaps?) in a group of 12 men (sex addicts) who went around the table describing their deviant acts of the day.

(And what does a female wear to a male sex addict gathering anyway? I settled on baggy clothes sans makeup.  For added measure, I didn’t bother to comb my hair.  Frankly, if you ask me, love and sex addicts don’t belong together in any sort of therapeutic setting.  It’s like holding AA meetings in a bar.)

Then there was a first date with whom I was fixed up.  He didn’t bother to tell me he was newly separated, but I found that out very quickly as his wife tailed us down the boulevard, yelling, “He has VD!” while she repeatedly bashed her car into ours after we had pulled over.  “Um.  I am not a threat to you,” I replied calmly after I exited the car and surveyed the damage. 

(I did manage to have a longer term relationship during that time, but he had a habit of sobbing loudly during lovemaking and telling me he didn’t really care for my inherent body odor, whether newly showered or not.  When we ended our relationship, he ran out of my apartment and barfed in the bushes.)

I would joke with my work colleagues, “I seem to attract all the crazy people!” And they’d listen to all my stories and reply, “Yes, Julie. You most certainly do.”

But nobody bothered to point out that I was very potentially one of the crazies. That the common denominator in all these stories was me.

We all go off the rails sometimes.  Weak broken people attract weak broken people.  Boundaries fall away, and it seems the damaged people of the world set off a sensor that is perceptible only to each other.

As the man on the plane reached for my scrambled eggs with his fork and casually told me his ex-wife had accused him of molesting his children, I suddenly realized that I had a hand in what was happening.  I had arrived at the airport that morning, spending the evening with a man I had no business being with, so far removed from any version of Julie I had ever been in my life.  My broken wing sensors were emitting emergency signals.  And I had allowed a fellow crazy to sit next to me when I had specifically asked for a row of empty seats.

Not too long after returning home, I set out on a course of extreme self-care, seeking therapy, moving apartments, reconnecting with old friends, and nurturing myself with hot soups I would concoct on lazy weekends.

I often think back with fondness on the cast of characters I met during my Year of the Crazies.  I hope their clipped wings have been restored.  That Wayne’s night on Pleasure Island made him return to Roanoke family obligations and take stock of his life to change it. That my friend with the violent boyfriend troubles realized she was better than that. That all the men who were so brave in seeking help for their sexual issues were able to forge a path of healthy sexual behavior.  That my arranged date had an epiphany at the auto body shop that he and his wife had to sort things out more peacefully moving forward.  That my sobbing lover eventually found someone who would not make him cry.

I would be lying if I said my present situation was void of any sort of craziness, for “crazy” is actually a factory setting as part of human production.  We just have to work to make sure it’s not set on cruise control, and some of us have biological conditions that make that task more difficult.  I certainly don’t mean to minimize that in the least here.

And yet, in some ways, I still attract the crazies.  In fact, you really can’t be my friend if you don’t allow your authentic craziness to be revealed.  I like my friends a little messy.  But not so much violent, immoral and unhinged.

With age and experience comes the ability to recognize when boundaries need reinforcement, that your life has reached a point where you don’t recognize yourself and certainly the people you have allowed within your sacred walls. Sometimes, other addictions are added into this mix. Which is precisely when the Universe swoops in and practically forces you to make a move, to rebuild your walls. 

All you have to do is listen and be ready with the proper construction materials. And be thankful you were able to read the signs.