Out of the closet with my lunacy

by Paul McGillicuddy

"There are two in the world:

The mad and the sane. The sane see what is and the mad see what is not, and only a crack in the mirror can tell the difference."

Consumer; survivor; consumer/survivor, prosumer; ex-patient; psychiatric survivor. We wear strange names. We the mad, only a medication away from convention, have many faces. Lunatic; loony; fruitcake; nut; crazy. The list goes on and differs in tone from the first.

To say I am a consumer is self-identifying. I can say I'm a consumer, but only I can make that distinction. I consider myself a survivor even though I'm being treated with neuro-leptics and a derivative of diazepam. Oh, yea, I'm calm. That's the way they like me. Not in the hard times. Times when the clouds darken and the crows laugh at me.

I like to use the tag lunatic. I published a newsletter for two years called Lunatics Not So Anonymous and wrote articles about living mad and loving it. Outside of convention, sane enough to see the lies, mad enough to seek the truth. And the truth became bread and I ate my fill. I love to be insane. Nothing quite like it in psychedelic. I've practiced years to capture some of the ecstasy I experience when I am truly insane. It's glorious and frightening at the same time.

"And what is a genuine lunatic? He is a man who prefers to go mad, in the social sense of the word, rather than forfeit a certain higher ideal of honor. That's how society strangled all those it wanted to get rid off, or wanted to protect itself from, and put them in asylums, because they refused to be accomplice to a kind of lofty swill.

Mad enough to pursue the truth

For a lunatic is a man society does not wish to hear, but wants to prevent from uttering certain unbearable truths". Antonin Artaud from "Van Gogh: the Man Suicided By Society".

So I'm a lunatic. and loving it. I collect bird feathers, thus my childhood nickname, Feather. I collect bits and pieces of life's debris from ocean shores and forests deep. I identify with cloudy days. Days when the heavens are filled with pillows of cotton. Rainy days looking out my window to the street. Retired at 43, I enjoy each moment. I've worked hard to be a lunatic. Not everyone can wear that one. My experience with the mental health system has been of mixed benefit and I make the ultimate decisions. The therapies I use to help with my symptoms and the respite care I need from time to time, I decide.

I'm out of the closet with my madness. I wear a triangle that is worn in memory of the tens of thousands who had psychiatric labels, and were interred and executed in Germany's concentration camps. Get it? we are expendable. Being crazy is taking your life in your hands. You can get shot being crazy enough. I'd like to see a lunatic patrol that could intervene in situations where only the insane are able to appreciate the fear, the anxiety that a person can experience during an episode.

Being a lunatic is liberating. It sets me apart and I like the solitude. It gives me time to write my poetry and lyrics and drink coffee and quite smoking for the third time in a week. It gives me time to advocate for other persons with a crazy attitude. Crazy folks Nora used to call them. That's us. It's a reason to celebrate, and cry all in a single moment. How many side rooms have they locked me in during the last fifteen years. Treated with Haldol for two years, over-medicated and misunderstood. Abused by a system that oppresses and normalizes while you only want to walk with the Goddess when She dreams. Dreams of forever. Forever comes tomorrow and tomorrow never comes.

So we should be given a holiday when once a year we can celebrate our lunacy with face paint, pretty stones and magic boxes filled with bits of life's treasure. Or even better, celebrate every moment. One truth I've learned is that nothing remains the same. If you find yourself locked up, medicated and alone, think of where you'll be a month or year from now. It can make even the most unbearable situation less so.

Blessed be