We’re the Crazy Ones
When I first saw Silver Lining’s Playbook, the movie with Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper about mental illness, I didn’t like it. I didn’t hate it either, it was just kind of meh. I told my older sister, Lauren, my feelings towards the movie and she realized I totally missed the point.
Lauren’s baseline of conversation is always dramatic and loud. She said:
“The reason it’s awesome is because the crazy people know they’re crazy and embrace it while the “normal people” think they’re normal but they’re actually crazy, too!“
Of course that’s a generalization on her part, but with those words in mind I watched it again. Now it’s one of my favorite movies.
The movie is about mental illness, but I liken it to people who have experienced loss. We form a club, and we understand each other’s irrational or non-sensical tendencies that baffle or annoy the outside world (aka “normal people”).
We have grace for each other when we “just can’t today” and don’t need to explain further than that.
We get it when there’s still so much sadness and anger several years later, and don’t ever wonder “why can’t they just be happy?”
We relate to the need to escape even at the expense of friendships and financial wellbeing and don’t ever question otherwise.
We are okay with tears. Lots of them.
A friend of my mom’s came to visit me recently. She’s my friend, too. She lost her brother at a young age to a drunk driver, and she’s been so open about the feelings associated with that, but I never understood what she meant until I lost my mom. She described the connection we share with those who have experienced similar loss as “a language of the heart.” I can write a blog a day and probably never feel like I’m conveying my feelings about the loss of my mom well enough. But to those of us in this fucked up and exclusive club that none of us want to be in but fate has forced us into? We don’t have to try and explain anything at all. We get it. Our hearts get it. It’s the silver lining that weaves together our pain. It’s comforting to know there are people out there who know. No explanation needed.
I sat with her for two hours today on the front porch, soaking in the Winter’s sun. We talked of life and death. Of parents. Of how our lives are split into categories of “pre-Joan” (that’s my mom’s name), and “post-Joan”. About how no matter what you do to mend your broken heart– screaming into pillows, going to counseling, drinking excessively, throwing plates, taking off and traveling ect– there will still always be a feeling of its fruitlessness, because at the end of the day it doesn’t bring back the ones we lost.
I gave her a hug goodbye, and a few minutes later she called me, as is customary for us because there’s always something more to say to each other, even after talking for two hours. She said “isn’t it nice to know you’re not crazy?”
To the contrary, I thought. We– the one’s who have experienced deep and sudden loss, who have seemingly erratic behavior, who go through fits of depression and season’s of joy (sometimes at the same time); who go from seeing and connecting with family and friends to periods of reclusiveness without notice; who talk about depression and anger and loss to no end because we’re not afraid of honesty– we are the crazy ones. We just happen to know it.
