Plush Crowbar (I'm not crazy)

by Vincent Blackwood

I love a mystery. Who doesn't? But there is one cliche that just pisses me off. The detective gathers all the suspects together and announces the killer seems normal but is really insane. Then he points to a sweet little old lady, and says, "You're the murderer."

Revealed -- she gives herself away and begins to act "crazy". You know: the drooling, talking like a five year old, voting Republican. I know, I know...you see it every day. It is heartbreaking. But to me, it is bad writing; an insult to every person who has ever suffered from mental illness. And that is a very large number.

Part of the reason that fact is not well known, is the stigma that is associated with it; a veil of silence that is suffocating millions of Americans. It and other forms of mental illness are a disease like cancer or high blood pressure. But even many doctors forget that. Too often the sufferer feels ashamed, alone and like a freak. They are frighten of how you will treat them. So they not only have the disease to deal with but other people’s primitive view of it. Wait a minute! Who is the monster? Who is the hero in this farce?

My heroes -- my two best friends -- they suffer from depression. Their brains don't work like yours. They are so different, thank God.
Yet I know how I feel is so often what they feel. The only difference between them and I, is that I'm better at hiding...no. I am better at lying -- about my true feelings. I'm a coward. I don't want the trouble that comes with being emotionally honest. So I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut and blend in with the other sheep. Baa.

Walking down the street, I love to listen to conversations. Wow! I am so happy I am not chatting with the average hunk of mutton. Our society demands that we hide our true feelings. Who cares -- or wants to know -- what the person next to us on the street is thinking. Other people might not understand the pain and loneliness. It could scare them away. So they talk about “American Idol”, Football or the weather. Like a wolf caught in a stainless steel bear trap, I'd sooner gnaw my own leg off than talk with a normal person and their conditioned responses. Give me my friends.

My friends are thought of as "too sensitive". They, to me, suffer from an artistic temperament. It makes them so amazing to talk to. The B.S. that we tend to put up so people think we are together, and sane, they drop. It is the real deal; fresh and honest.

I meet so many people who seemed to have died. Seems so hard. They've killed their inner child. To me it is like watching a pod person from that grand film from the fifties; "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". I hope none of my friends fall asleep and awake cold and sensible. I hope they never lose their sensitivity and sincerity that makes them so vibrant. So alive. Umm...so not boring.

I too suffer from depression. So I guess that makes me mentally ill. I hope so. I’d be so proud to be like my best friends, my heroes. We are not monsters. We are not the punch line to an Agatha Christie mystery. We are not cliches. Sorry, we won't sit in that box so you won't have to think about it. I know our crime too; we are people who express our self with more clarity than the daily government approved dosage of honesty. And yeah, I guess that can be a little scary. Too bad. We will not be silent anymore.