Mental illness scares me. Or maybe what’s scary is being fully present to the mental illness I know so well.
Where I grew up, in New Orleans, crazy is a given. It’s expected. It’s part of the charm. There’s a saying. “We don’t hide crazy in the south. We parade it on the front porch and give it a cocktail.” And that’s true, if it’s your great aunt Johnnie who wears red high top Converse with a dress to your granddaddy’s funeral. Or the duck lady in the French Quarter. Or the guy that parades around with nothing but a feather boa and a pair of black briefs, the words ‘Who Dat!’ embossed in gold across his ass.
But when it’s dark crazy, when it’s dangerous and violent and not pretty to look at, you draw the blinds. You stop playing with your friends long before the street lamps come on so you can make sure the crazy stays indoors. And then you tell yourself, it’s not really mental illness, it’s just an inability to handle tough times. You tell yourself you have it all under control, even though you’re only 9 years old and your mother has secluded herself in a blacked out bedroom with a cold cloth on her forehead and you have to make dinner for your little brothers and help them do their homework. Because if you don’t, who will? The mental illness it scares me to write about isn’t…
