I'm not a big believer in, well, anything. Just lump me in with the "ye of little faith" category. Tonight, however, I was tested. I think I passed with flying colors. It may end up that I failed wholeheartedly but tonight I feel that I passed.
Not so long ago I found out that a guy I have a little crush on is an unmedicated schizophrenic. (You can read a little about it here.) I made a few well placed comments to my friend, testing the waters to see if she knew about his illness. I determined that she unequivocally does not know. I decided I will keep it to myself.
He invited us to see his newest band tonight. We went through a bunch of shit just to be able to go out, blah, blah, blah. Before we left, her mother asked exactly who the band is and I explain that one of the singers from the band her nephew is in has formed a new band. She asks if it's the really crazy one, meaning someone else. I bite my tongue and let her correct herself. We finally got to the bar, a bit later than usual. My friend was a little annoyed because she likes to chat before they start the show. We entered in an almost rush. As we were paying the cover charge, we noticed that the bar was empty. I mean five people in the place empty. None of those five people were in the band. Um, OK.
So we asked the owner what the hell was going on, she tells us they cancelled at the last minute. We go to the car, go through a big long process to get in J's number, and wait. All through this time my friend was ranting and raving about him inviting us and then not showing up. I was hoping he wasn't hospitalized. The story that I found online was on the tip of my tongue several times. I was configuring how to start telling it as we walked. Instead, I chose to keep my mouth shut.
We played phone tag and received cryptic texts for the better part of an hour. The story was on the tip of my tongue the whole time she was making snide remarks about him. I swallowed it.
Turns out the drummer cancelled at the last minute. J finally came to the bar to hang out with us. I was glad I hadn't told his story. My friend was drunk enough that I know she would have brought it up in the bar. She retold the story of her mother asking "is that the crazy one?". His eyes darkened and the terror was visible in his face before R laughed it off and blamed the alcoholic for bringing that comment to light. Any shred of doubt I had, any slight hope, suspicion, whatever you want to call it, that the article was faked for a grade was permanently erased from my brain.
Just the look on his face when he realized that she never suspected he was crazy told me that I did the right thing by holding my tongue.
I hope keeping this secret that is not mine to own never becomes the wrong thing.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Schizophrenic Crush
Tonight I was searching online for a better picture of my crush so I could post it on a blog. I wasn't finding any good ones, and tried searching a variation of his name. What I turned up was a recent college article about his schizophrenia. The article states that only his band members and family know of the diagnosis. I read and reread the article, in a state of shock. It appears to be written by someone who is or was very close to him. She has his mannerism down pat. I can see him sitting before her, answering questions.
My shock is mostly due to the fact that he is against getting treatment for his disease. According to the article, when he takes his pills, he can't write music. When he doesn't take his pills, reality is a challenge. I knew he had problems. I knew they were of the mental health variety. He has spoken about his state of mind on several occasions. I wonder if he assumes my friend and I know. I wonder if she does know? She's not exactly known for keeping things to herself. She once told me about her cousin fucking a horse, pleading with me not to say anything to anyone. I doubt she could keep a secret that big about him. Ah, no, she doesn't know. I mentioned a review that had him quoted as "spending time in the looney bin" and she said something about him going to rehab. Schizophrenia is too close to her family for her to know and not say a word.
For me, it explains a lot about the guy. Before I met him I knew (through my friend of course) that he had left a problematic marriage. He put up with all kinds of shit from his ex-wife, and then they had a baby and he left two weeks after she was born. That always perplexed me. I thought poorly of him because of it, until I got to know him a little better and saw what a gentle soul he is. After reading the article, I can understand his fears and why he would think that leaving was the best thing for her. The article states that he cannot have unsupervised visits with her, although he'd love to do so. I want to shake him and tell him "Damn it! You can have time alone with your daughter if you own up to the demons and give up some other parts of your life!!!"
I have long wanted to tell him that he is more than he gives himself credit for. I have listened to his music and thought about the comforting words I could say, the words that could make him see what everyone else does. I know better than to do so, I know better than to believe that he would take such things to heart and change them, for he needs to believe them first and foremost. Turns out there is much more that he can see that I will never know. I'm glad I do not share his pain, but I wish for him that he would share it and try to find a way to live without it.
Living with schizophrenia without getting treatment is like giving yourself a death sentence. I want him to live, even if his brilliance seems to be cut off by medication, I want him to live. It's not up to me to make these decisions though. It's not up to me to try to save the day. It's not up to me to share his secret, or even to let him know that I have discovered it. All that it is up to me to do is keep his secret and allow him the dignities he apparently feels he needs.
My shock is mostly due to the fact that he is against getting treatment for his disease. According to the article, when he takes his pills, he can't write music. When he doesn't take his pills, reality is a challenge. I knew he had problems. I knew they were of the mental health variety. He has spoken about his state of mind on several occasions. I wonder if he assumes my friend and I know. I wonder if she does know? She's not exactly known for keeping things to herself. She once told me about her cousin fucking a horse, pleading with me not to say anything to anyone. I doubt she could keep a secret that big about him. Ah, no, she doesn't know. I mentioned a review that had him quoted as "spending time in the looney bin" and she said something about him going to rehab. Schizophrenia is too close to her family for her to know and not say a word.
For me, it explains a lot about the guy. Before I met him I knew (through my friend of course) that he had left a problematic marriage. He put up with all kinds of shit from his ex-wife, and then they had a baby and he left two weeks after she was born. That always perplexed me. I thought poorly of him because of it, until I got to know him a little better and saw what a gentle soul he is. After reading the article, I can understand his fears and why he would think that leaving was the best thing for her. The article states that he cannot have unsupervised visits with her, although he'd love to do so. I want to shake him and tell him "Damn it! You can have time alone with your daughter if you own up to the demons and give up some other parts of your life!!!"
I have long wanted to tell him that he is more than he gives himself credit for. I have listened to his music and thought about the comforting words I could say, the words that could make him see what everyone else does. I know better than to do so, I know better than to believe that he would take such things to heart and change them, for he needs to believe them first and foremost. Turns out there is much more that he can see that I will never know. I'm glad I do not share his pain, but I wish for him that he would share it and try to find a way to live without it.
Living with schizophrenia without getting treatment is like giving yourself a death sentence. I want him to live, even if his brilliance seems to be cut off by medication, I want him to live. It's not up to me to make these decisions though. It's not up to me to try to save the day. It's not up to me to share his secret, or even to let him know that I have discovered it. All that it is up to me to do is keep his secret and allow him the dignities he apparently feels he needs.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Grammy and Pappy's
My great grandparents lived about a mile away from my house when I was growing up. For the longest time, we visited them every Friday evening. Sometimes my dad and I would walk through the fields and over the bridge across the creek and follow the windy road to get to their house. After we left our little town, there was cow pasture on the side of the creek we had just left, complete with small meandering streams and large hills. It was pretty and peaceful. Fields were open behind my great grandparents' house, which was one of a small enclave consisting of three houses in the general area.
Their house was situated dead center on their rather large lawn. The front lawn had a gentle downward slope, leading from the house to the road, where it abruptly arose. The lawn was decorated with fruit and chestnut trees as well as a large stone bird bath.
Depending upon the time of day, my great grandparents either sat on their front porch beneath the green awnings looking out onto the road, or on their back patio overlooking the fields and the birdbath. Both porches were surrounded by well trimmed hedges. In fact, the entire yard and the house were always immaculate.
I was angry when strangers bought their home because my great grandmother went into a retirement home several years after my great grandfather died. I wanted someone I knew to keep the house, but I didn't get what I wanted.
I still drive by there every month or so. Things look mostly the same on the property. I can't say the same of the general area. Now I can take my son on a paved path to a playground at the bottom of a hill of condos where the cow pastures once stood. The trees that grow along the creek block the house from that angle, but I know exactly where we are. Behind their house the fields have turned into another kind of field, a college athletic field, with constantly glaring lights.
The changes in the area dishearten me sometimes, but it's the changes in the house itself that make me want to scream. I suppose I should be thankful that an older couple bought the house and have made very few changes throughout the past 15 years. The same green awnings are there, although they leave them on in winter, so they have faded. The yard is usually well maintained, but the driveway is in need of repairs. Someone apparently can't park cars very well because a bright yellow caution line has been painted at the bottom of the garage door. I drove by and saw an elderly man picking fruit from a truck in the yard and shook my head at what he must be doing to my great grandfather's lawn. I wonder about the birdbath and if it has been maintained. Sometimes it takes a lot of strength to keep from pulling into the driveway and heading to the back yard to check.
Today I saw cinder blocks sitting by the front porch. Apparently that is in need of repairs too. Inexplicably, I was angry with the current owners for letting the porch get to the point where it needs to be replaced. I certainly am not one to care about my own lawn or small repairs, yet I wondered why the porch had not been sealed gray every year like my great grandfather did.
I hope the porch doesn't change too much. The house feels like it is mine, I want it, I have always wanted it, and I don't want things to be too different when I can finally call it my own.
Their house was situated dead center on their rather large lawn. The front lawn had a gentle downward slope, leading from the house to the road, where it abruptly arose. The lawn was decorated with fruit and chestnut trees as well as a large stone bird bath.
Depending upon the time of day, my great grandparents either sat on their front porch beneath the green awnings looking out onto the road, or on their back patio overlooking the fields and the birdbath. Both porches were surrounded by well trimmed hedges. In fact, the entire yard and the house were always immaculate.
I was angry when strangers bought their home because my great grandmother went into a retirement home several years after my great grandfather died. I wanted someone I knew to keep the house, but I didn't get what I wanted.
I still drive by there every month or so. Things look mostly the same on the property. I can't say the same of the general area. Now I can take my son on a paved path to a playground at the bottom of a hill of condos where the cow pastures once stood. The trees that grow along the creek block the house from that angle, but I know exactly where we are. Behind their house the fields have turned into another kind of field, a college athletic field, with constantly glaring lights.
The changes in the area dishearten me sometimes, but it's the changes in the house itself that make me want to scream. I suppose I should be thankful that an older couple bought the house and have made very few changes throughout the past 15 years. The same green awnings are there, although they leave them on in winter, so they have faded. The yard is usually well maintained, but the driveway is in need of repairs. Someone apparently can't park cars very well because a bright yellow caution line has been painted at the bottom of the garage door. I drove by and saw an elderly man picking fruit from a truck in the yard and shook my head at what he must be doing to my great grandfather's lawn. I wonder about the birdbath and if it has been maintained. Sometimes it takes a lot of strength to keep from pulling into the driveway and heading to the back yard to check.
Today I saw cinder blocks sitting by the front porch. Apparently that is in need of repairs too. Inexplicably, I was angry with the current owners for letting the porch get to the point where it needs to be replaced. I certainly am not one to care about my own lawn or small repairs, yet I wondered why the porch had not been sealed gray every year like my great grandfather did.
I hope the porch doesn't change too much. The house feels like it is mine, I want it, I have always wanted it, and I don't want things to be too different when I can finally call it my own.
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