Sometimes, we don’t get the choice.
I don’t want to be crazy is as much a memoir of a disorder as it is a memoir of the person who suffers this disorder. The story is absorbing enough that this distinction is not necessarily one the reader will make on a conscious level, but it is nonetheless a distinction that drives the action and pulls the reader into Schutz’s world. The anxiety attacks that come out of nowhere on an otherwise fine day–that send Schultz packing whether she’s in a classroom at college or in France for her Junior Year Abroad–simply don’t care. They come and go with the indifference and weird majesty of any other Act of Nature–or God. And they leave destruction in their wake. We feel for the author–we also feel for the family. And what we feel–or at least what I feel–is not always sympathy. This, to me, is the beauty of I don’t want to be crazy: the reader is right there hyper-ventilating with Schutz–and the reader is also wondering (like a traitor!)–how can that be? She has so much! Can’t she just GET BETTER?? I mean–for crying out loud–the girl is at a restaurant in PARIS!
And in that moment–whether we know it or not, we have come face to face with the main character: uncontrollable panic. But it could also be anything else uncontrollable: paranoia; manic depression; anorexia; severe depression. Anything that lays claim to us, to our families, our friends–and, in a story well told–to the reader. At least for the hours we spend between the pages of books like this one.
By using blank verse rather than conventional narrative, Schutz telescopes her perspective without making us feel that we have lost important detail or context. When we see what looks like “poetry”–we are instantly prepared for a story that is pared down to its essentials. In this case, the chronology of events or the larger canvas of Schultz’s life play second fiddle to the effect on both of her anxiety disorder.
My 21 year old daughter is bi-polar. My father, my aunt, and my grandmother were also manic depressive. By the time I was in college, my father was making regular trips to the state hospital, and later, when age had put him beyond the embrace of a straitjacket–he spent time in private psychiatric hospitals. Some nicer than others. To the outside world, I think there is something persistently fascinating and even romantic about “madness”. But up close and personal? It’s like a 100 headed hydra: lop off any one head and two grow in its place. More exhausting and hopeless than it is creative, noble, or even just plain unfortunate.
But Schutz spares us too much commentary. Instead, she just takes us with her on her wild ride through one anxiety attack after another. In between, she is a college student like any other: she’s got boy problems, she’s got family problems, she’s got job problems, she has good shrinks and bad shrinks. She’s also got money and resources, and no matter how tempted we might be to pin the blame for the pressure she feels on her parents–the bottom line is that mental illness and mental disorders can create a hell even out of Eden. It happens that Schutz has a family and community that care for and about her; that she has the benefits of education, money, health insurance, and a roof over her head whether she works or not–and that she is articulate enough to tell us her story.
By pointing her reader to a list of mental health resources in the back of the book, Schutz is generous in reminding us that for every person like her, who has a face, and a name, and story we want to hear–there are thousands of other people whose lives are also dominated by a disorder or mental illness, and for whom there may be far less sympathy or understanding–or relief.
Yes–Linda–you are exactly right. It was reading this book that made me decide to blog about my daughter. Evan’s story is fragmented and haphazard. But I don’t want to be crazy made me think that’s OK. That stories can be told all different ways–and still be interesting and helpful. Evan’s story is written in all the journals she kept starting in the 5th grade. It’s written in my journals too. And it’s written in the fabulous and fearful collages Evan used to make, and in the hundreds of bracelets and necklaces she strung, using alphabet beads to spell out not-so-profound truths like “peas they judge me” and “hysterical mother”.
Maybe there IS a book in there. I keep thinking that’s the case. But the problem for me had always been–how to tell it so it isn’t a story about something that happened–it’s the thing itself. What it looked and felt and smelled like to be those people–in that situation.
I don’t want to be crazy is not just a good read. It’s Help with a capital H for any teen or any parent who has felt the trapdoor of sanity give way under their feet. It’s about friends and family and personal boundaries–and the absence of any boundaries at all. And it feels truthful. If you’re going to write about this stuff–you need to keep it close to the bone.
I’m really glad we read this book. Thank you.
