When crazy meets crazy
On Mondays I have my therapist, who can only be reached by taking 2 buses there and back. Notoriously, one of the bus lines is always filled to the brim with pissed off people. Never fails, someone is always in a bad mood. This time, however, it was a crazy person.
I am a big proponent of treating crazy people with dignity and respect (and yes, I get that many crazy people don’t like being called crazy, but I would like to point out that this is my journal, ffs). I don’t freak out when they engage me, I chat with them in a polite manner. However, I wish with this guy I would have taken the next bus. He wasn’t mean, or violent, he was just…there is a look in a crazy person’s eyes when you know at any moment they could snap. I have that look every once in a blue moon, so I know the look very well. This guy was a walking embodiment of that look. And for some reason, he was fixated on my son. He wanted to play with him, say hello, touch his hand. Again, I normally don’t have a problem with engaging crazy people…right up to the moment where they interact with my child. Then we have a problem. So for a very nervous 15 minutes I tried to keep the man focused on me versus Alex, and for Alex’s part, he did a great job standing his ground (at one point the man reached out to touch his hand, and Alex literally slapped his hand away and gave him a look which I can only describe as ‘Bitch, please’). And while it wasn’t my stop, I got off a mile from home (the bus hub) just to ensure if he did get weird, there would be oodles of people around.
Sigh. It’s tough walking the line between insanity and the sane, knowing how mad it can get inside someone’s head, because of how bad it’s been inside mine, and yet knowing that my son will have to grow up with that. It’s a bitter pill.