Madness

Under the desk I was deftly remedying the problems with the server. An age old process of rebooting, beating the casing repeatedly and administering terse profanities. Midway through a cluster of ‘mutherfuckers’ a woman snagged the corner of my eye. ‘Hello.’ I offered in polite passing, assuming she’d just go on with whateverthefuck it was she’d come to do. She nearly did. Then she stopped suddenly and turned back to me, muttering something completely unintelligible. ‘I’m sorry?’ I pulled my head out from under the desk. Her eyes widened and her gaze intensified. She spoke. Softly and assuredly, “I’m not the mad one.”
‘Umm… ok!?’

If ever there was a litmus test for insanity she’d just gone from red to blue so fast that the paper caught fire, igniting the vapours from a leaky Bunsen burner valve, creating an explosion that took out an entire wing of a research facility, including a group of Nobel Laureate scientists trying to decide on which subjects to test a cure for Mouse Cancer – the quiet, squeaky killer.

Overly long analogy short – she was a nutbag. The very real and obvious kind. One that wouldn’t look out of place singing to an empty packet of crisps and stringing another pigeon ear to her necklace. I started to wonder what kind of help she was actually getting. This place has councillors and social workers flitting about but is there anyone with the capacity to prescribe some serious anti-psychotics… I could really use a fix.

I never know quite how to respond to nutters, and the treatment thereof. Sure, they seem to be odd, unbalanced and smell slightly of urine, but really they’re just exploring their minds in different ways. What’s more, everything cool that you read about quantum physics, enlightenment and spiritual ascension seem to pivot on that exact kind of exploration. The fruitcakes of the world attempt to dip their toes in this exciting Psychotopia in a way that psychotropic drugs can only faintly imitate. Yet we hold them back – sedating them with pharmaceuticals, rehabilitative therapy and American television.

What gets me is that I never actually feel that far removed from the shores of La La Land. Pretty much everyone I’ve ever admired has been insane. Practically every great thinker, writer, leader and musician has been completely bonkers – even if it was just the syphilis talking. Be that schizophrenia, bi-polar or a little good old fashioned depression – madness is the muse of genius.

Even my close friends. Those who haven’t been clinically diagnosed with something at some stage easily could have been. Even I’ve been at the point where I’ve toyed with the idea of getting professional help. But, like most people, I’ve largely self-diagnosed and prescribed heavy bouts of drinking, bitterness and pharmaceuticals *cough*. It’s the way it’s been done for centuries.

Staring into the eyes of that crazy lady this morning, I kinda smiled on the inside and thought to myself, ‘Thank (insert deity), I’m not the mad one’. Then wondered, if I had have said the same thing out loud, would she be thinking all these same thoughts about me? I figured she wouldn’t, and went about beating and swearing at the computer.