issue 252

Maybe California should change their slogan to “The Land of the Crazy.” I remember one day at work, sitting on the brittle gray-blue carpet on my boss’s office floor. My legs were crossed beneath me Indian style as my hands rested on my knees, palms up.

“Now feel your cord go down through the floors of the building, all nine of them,” my boss said in a soft hum. “All the way down, down through the concrete.” I wondered where was she taking us this time. She guided my mental extension cord all the way down to my own little core of the Earth. I saw the flashing neon lights that read “HILARY” with little arrows pointing to an ugly Lazy Boy recliner and a little outlet sitting atop the brown center of the earth. I plugged in my cord, per my boss’ request.

I have never been one to underestimate the power of crazy. To me, this world seems impossible inside the four walls of an office, a stale conversation, or an attempt to be normal. I have understood all my life that normal just doesn’t exist. This however, was something else entirely. Did my mental core really include a recliner and flashing neon signs?

Out in California, I had somehow landed a semi-respectable position as a marketing assistant for an employment law firm. It seemed normal enough. I had my own office. I had to wear nice clothes and couldn’t even participate in casual Friday. I learned employment law as if it were the back of my hand, and could spout off people’s rights at a moment’s notice. But what might have otherwise terrified me in what I consider to be a suffocating lifestyle, turned out to be too crazy even for me. Was it really possible that someone would trust me with the laws of the United States Government?

“Okay, now where were we?” she asked, smiling at me triumphantly. We had been in the middle of a meeting. I’d gotten distracted, needing to recharge. Clearly, it had been time to meditate, and this was not an uncommon venture.

One morning, months later, my boss stormed through our office, tears streaming out of her eyes, screaming, “I’m outta here! He’s driven me insane!” referring to the owner of the company. As if it were something unachievably hard to do. I helped her pack up her boxes, told her I thought she had made a great decision to leave her well-paying job when she was a single mom with two young girls to raise and no prospect of future employment. I was lying. Sometimes crazy can go a bit too far.

But there was something inside her crazy behavior. While it was maddening at times to deal with, she left me with the knowledge that a sense of self is more important than anything else in your life. She knew who she was, and she never made any apologies for it. Sometimes things didn’t always work out, but to her, that was just the price you pay for personal power.

For the five weeks after my boss quit, my coworker and I managed ourselves. Eventually, another boss arrived, this time a guy of a whole different breed. He opined on our choice of clothing every day and “complimented” the outfits he liked. One day he walked into the office, grabbed my co-workers purse and threw it on the floor.

“You better keep that purse closed,” he screamed.
“Why,” she asked, surprised by his sudden outburst.
“Because you might have underwear in there!”

The look on our faces was baffled at best, although fearful and disturbed were not far off. He was a different kind of crazy. I was suddenly missing the days of crazy tarot and chakra alignment. I started shutting my office door more and more, trying to block out the awkward, uncomfortable world that I lived in day in and day out. I felt imprisoned.

There are all kinds of crazy in the world. Some kinds of crazy are good. They open your mind to things that might make you uncomfortable but can give you a sense of freedom you would not otherwise have. Other kinds are bad– the killing kind, the abusive kind, the awkward and alienating kind. Each of us has a little in us, either way.

California seemed especially keen on it and not afraid to show it, even if it was the bad kind. Trust me, there was plenty of it to go around. But in some ways, it’s one of the things I miss most about the place. Here in the South, we keep our crazy hidden. It’s just not proper. We turn a blind eye or change the conversation when someone does something weird or talks about uncomfortable subjects.

That’s not to say I want to go back to the world I left behind. It was a nice visit that made for some nice stories, but I want to wear my crazy with a little more pride. Maybe that’s what I’m doing right now. I’m showing you my crazy. I promise not to bring it out too often, for everyone’s sake. But it’s there in all of us. We should be proud to say we’re crazy. It’s what makes us worth telling about.