Sunday, April 13, 2014


I come from crazy.

My best friend says I'm not crazy.  Mom may need a psych eval, but if I need any kind of counseling, it would be largely from the effects of mom needing a psych eval.

I fight against it, every day.  Fight against becoming what I know I could very easily be, if I'm not careful.  If I hold it all inside, if I take on too much, if I let all the bad and the sad and the hurtful consume me, I could become the monsters that run in my blood.  At least, this is my fear.  Chech says I need to stop fighting.  But Chech didn't grow up in my childhood.

My childhood was dictated by fear, by a constant need to be prepared to get up and RUN, at the word "GO!!"  It was necessary to have everything we needed close-by, ready to grab, as we'd run for Mom and Dad's room.  AS we got there, we were quick to see if Mommy was behind us.  If she was, she would handle it.  If not, I needed to make sure we were all in the room before slamming and locking the door.  Then I would sit with my back braced against that door, feet braced against the wall that my little feet just barely reached.  We would wait, listening quietly for a sign that mom was coming in - hoping that this bout of Schizophrenia wouldn't hurt her, as she battled against a raging mind disease that regularly took over her younger brother.

I grew up knowing stuff that the other kids didn't know.  I knew there were demons in the closets, voices that came through the walls and evil people lurking, just waiting for the opportunity to come out of the television with their weapons, to "slay us all."  Uncle "Schmoo" told me, ever since I was seven.  He knew, because the demons in the closets and the voices in the walls talked to him.  The bad guys on TV warned him that they could come out and come for us, at any time.  I knew things that the other little kids didn't know.  I knew how scary the world could be, even when they all thought that they were safe and protected, in the comfort of their homes.

Today, I still check the closets, even though I know the demons moved out years ago.  The voices in the walls have never spoken to me.  My keys are clipped to my bag, always, easy to reach - and my phone and bag and everything I need, when it's time to run, are always, ALWAYS close-by.

I come from crazy.  So I know I'm not.  I know how to fight it, I know that I'm lucky to get out alive with only depression and anxiety.  I know that I shouldn't run, but sometimes (when I'm scared) that's what I do.  I come from crazy.  I'm careful not to be it, as much as possible.

And I don't watch TV.

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