Crazy.

He was a client. Just a client.

Why am I sitting here, crying over the news of his sudden death? Why did he have to die while vacationing with his bride? Why did he have to die at all?

And the other? He was my sister-in-law’s father.

I knew him better, but that fact didn’t save his life. Maybe he’s spending time with dad now, maybe not.

Am I crazy for crying?

She’s a client as well.

One who’s been holding onto a very dark secret for far too many years. A secret she’s no longer willing to live with. A secret she shared with me. Again, impotent tears roam my pallid face.

And the one I’m supposed to be protecting?

Well, she won’t even protect herself. At the grand age of 14, she’s decided that life is a waste, bettering yourself, for chumps.

Am I crazy for trying?

Am I?

•••

Listen, I apologize if this one is all clunky and amateurish in nature. It’s just that here it is September already, and still 2012 continues to shit itself down the throats of my friends and loved ones. Shoving pain after pain into their lives while I sit idly by – a personally unaffected and powerless passenger on a bullshit scenic drive through the streets of Miserytown, population: too damned many.

And then Fay dropped “Crazy” by Patsy Cline as her latest song prompt, the very day I found out about one client, three days prior to other client’s unexpected and violent death. As one who seemingly can’t let any damned thing go, thoughts of these two brought to mind the other two. And the rage builds. The anger boils. The frustration, the God damned frustration… Part of me wants to fall down at His feet, and the other part wants to sucker punch Him in the gut. The 150 words laid down today aren’t a testament to Patsy’s lost love so much as they are an affirmation of her feeling like she’s crazy. Anyone who lets love in is crazy. But maybe crazy is the way to be. Maybe crazy is the sole path to salvation, the route to being reborn.

I don’t know, and to be honest, I’m not actually in the mood to care just now. Just now, all I want to say is “hey, Big Daddy Death and Uncle Devastation, fuck you. I’ve had enough of the both of you this year. Quite enough. Give it a rest already, will ya? Leave my friends alone. Leave my family alone. Just leave us alone.”

I’m terribly sorry about all the pissy posts as of late kids. I’ll try my best to find a better place, and write from there moving forward. For now here’s Patsy with “Crazy,” one of only (3) country performers I’ll ever admit to listening to on a regular basis…

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34 thoughts on “Crazy.

  1. “Population: too damn many.” That and so many other good observations here. I think it’s good to feel what we feel and question what we question and then find as you are, a way to keep moving. Excellent post. Your writing just sings!

    I have to ask though, besides Patsy (one of my favorites ever) who the other two are? Come on, I won’t tell….

  2. Hey, T.

    You’re certainly not crazy. You’ve hit the nail on the head. He was a client – I imagine that fact means you had regular contact with him, in whatever capacity. When someone dies, we have a right to grief, it doesn’t matter how well we knew them, or whether we knew them at all. Like you said to me a few days ago, don’t worry about the ‘craziness’. It’s just your gut, and this is your blog. I for one am honoured that you choose to share your world with us, whichever happy or crappy place you’re writing from.

    Thinking of you,

    Casey

    • And I for one, am honored that you enjoy sharing in it =)

      I just got back from the funeral. It was nice and very well attended. He was obviously a man who touched many, and I don’t feel nearly as awkward now as before. There was nary a dry eye in the whole place. I hope that someday, some blogger somewhere will be able to write something similar about me.

      • Hey, T.

        I’m glad to hear you felt the funeral was appropriate and well attended. :) The fact that the awkwardness has lifted is also a plus. I’m sure some blogger will honour you with a similar sentiment in the future.

        Take care, my friend.

        Casey

  3. The only rules I understand are those I choose to follow, those I choose to break, and those I choose to make.

    Frustration is built when we are outside of the control tower and want to be inside. What if death were an open door to a vacation with a side dish of a promotion to another type of job? What if death was a positive transition, rather than a hellish nightmare?

    My maternal grandmother sat down with me during the summer of my 12th year, while I was staying with her, and told me that she was going to die. My first response was shock. I told her she couldn’t tell me that, and that I didn’t want it to be true. She looked me in the eye, in a way I had never seen her do before and said, “I’ve earned my right to die, and I don’t want you crying for me, I will be in a much better place than you are now.” The conversation that followed led me through places in my mind and heart I never thought of treading. That was in August, in February she died. She changed my perspective on death, though it didn’t happen quickly. I learned to think of what comes next as a privileged, earned place, rather than a punishment. It is hardest on those left behind, and it is for that selfish longing to have them close that I shed my tears, then smile, as I begin to understand they are never very far away, if I have loved them even for a short while.

  4. ((hugs)) Not crazy, t. Human. I just finished reading Maya Angelou’s autobiographies, and in her last book she writes about the deaths of Malcolm X in 1965 and Martin Luther King in 1968. When Malcolm X was murdered, much of the black communities in California and New York were calm. Of course, they were deeply saddened. Of course, they were angry and hurt. But they kept their grief private, and showed the world a face of composure. When King was murdered, and everyone took to the streets, many said their impromptu demonstration was for “both Malcolm and Martin”. They felt that King’s death was brought about by their earlier refusal to let their hurt and rage show over the loss of Malcolm X. It’s a clumsy analogy, but I hope you see my point. This human thing that we do, this shouting and crying to Heaven, we need to do it. When we try to deny our humanity, to pretend that everything is all right, the hurt we try to hide can only grow and spread. Now, THAT’s crazy :-)

    • I hear you. I get it. I just wish that it didn’t need to come in waves at a time. You know?

      Thanks for your words of encouragement and hope. I still hope I can be as smart as you one day =)

      • Like Jack Kerouac said, “the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

  5. You are not crazy for cryin’. Not at all. When we stare death in the face, no matter how much or little we knew the person it brings the reality home to us. That someday that will be us. Someday our children, hopefully grandchildren, friends and a host of others will be told of our demise. Will they be sad? Yes of course. Some will be devastated. But all will cry or mourn in some way. Remember we don’t mourn those that die. We mourn that we are still alive and must deal with the loss. No matter how great or small that loss is. We mourn it. You are a compassionate soul. That’s what I love about reading your words. You share of your sadness, anger and elation. Isn’t that the point of a blog? So cry away t. Mourn. Remember, mourning is for the living, not the dead. They are already free. Oh and be pissy all you want and rant and rave. It makes you feel better in the long run. Live longer too. ;-)

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