I’m overly fond of the word “crazy” and its derivatives.
Calling myself “bonkers” gives me a cheap thrill, even though it’s wrong to be so cavalier about it. When I use these words, please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not referring to those clinically diagnosed with mental illnesses, nor would I ever seek to demean their struggles. I would even reconsider my use of the word if someone affected by it told me it hurts them.
Like most human concepts, language is fragile, so it’s constantly evolving. It makes discussing word choice difficult, because words are hollow shells until we sprinkle a bit of our magic on them.
(It behooves me to point out that the photographer posed me like this, asking me to “look serious,” so that’s why I look like I’m about to murder someone.)
My mom taught me the importance of language when I was little. Instead of simply saying, “Don’t say ‘stupid’ or ‘shut up’ to your sister,” she always explained why.1
When she first told me about the “r-word,” she explained why I should never use it. To this day, I have never spoken that word aloud, and I cringe whenever I hear it casually spoken by acquaintances. I don’t even want to write it out now. It might seem childish, but it’s important to my mom, who grew up with a little brother with Down syndrome, so it became important to me too. I’m white and have no personal connection to the “n-word,” but I have the same strong aversion to it, likely because of how I was raised. Words have power, and their negative connotations can linger long after their meanings have shifted.
Damn it. I’ve really gone off on a tangent. This post is meant to be about how “crazy” I feel for the things I choose to fixate on. Well, I suppose the above is an example of my mind fixating on something random, like the importance of word choice. But that’s not what I set out to write about. Before I let myself veer off again, let me get to my original point.
I worry about the oddest things, or, to put it differently, the things that keep me up at night don’t seem to bother most people, which makes me feel bonkers.
While talking to my sister the other day, I realized that we’re not so different. She also dives deep into topics that interest her. She enjoys researching subjects she initially knows little about until she becomes well-versed in them. It just so happens that she looks into normal things that will actually benefit her daily life. None of that practical stuff excites me. I would rather explore unanswerable questions that leave me feeling frustrated and confused. Go figure.
For example, it Bothers me I don’t understand how Dad’s addiction worked — how he got from Point A to Point Z. Something within my soul needs to “get it” for me to move on. I’ve mentioned this before, as it’s a big part of why I started writing this memoir. While I may never be totally satisfied with the answers I discover, my journey should give me a better understanding2 of my dad.
While I do find it concerning that my not comprehending how Dad could succumb to alcoholism and die horribly somehow translated into this project taking over my life until I “figure it out,” that is something I can wrap my head around, because he was my daddy. I’ve always had an obsessive mind, making it easy for me to fixate on things I care about. (Why can’t I care about normal things that actually make money, like the stock market or investing in a house?)
What concerns me the most is my obsession with other aspects of Dad’s life, like certain people he encountered, and how they fascinate me for entirely different reasons.
When someone commented on an admittedly snarky post I made about She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or Undesirable #1, reasonably advising me to let her toxicity go, it gave me pause. Why can’t I let her go? Shouldn’t I focus solely on my dad, the one who actually died, and dedicate all my efforts to telling his story? Of course, she’s a big part of his ending, but that doesn’t mean I need to engage with her online.
I think the answer lies in my obsessive mind. I find her unreasonable actions mysterious, though her motivations are obvious. There’s a clear pattern to her behavior, though it can be strangely erratic, and records show a past of similar wanton destruction following her everywhere she goes.
Once he started drinking again, Dad came into contact with several women exhibiting similar attributes, but Undesirable #1 was the worst. I genuinely believe her to be dangerous. I was afraid for Dad (and myself) while they were together, leading me to distance myself from him for my safety. But Dad’s dead now, so why should I still care about her? Why does she still keep me up at night? Again, I think the answer lies in my obsessive nature.
It drives me bonkers to not know how someone like that can exist, and I don’t think I can ever do enough soul searching to figure her out. It upsets me knowing she’s still out there doing this to troubled men with loved ones, torturing their family members with taunting messages3 in the same way she did to me and my sister just a few short years ago. The same way she did to multiple others a handful of years before us, and so on.
This is what keeps me up at night, because I know by the end of this project, even after I’ve completed all my research into psychopaths and toxic relationships, I’ll be no closer to understanding her. Our hearts just aren’t made of the same stuff.
- This is likely because I never stopped asking “but why?” to just about everything Mom said. I was a very curious tot. ↩︎
- But what if everything I say about understanding is bullshit, since the only person I can ask “why” is dead and gone? Some days, I’m impatient for the end of my journey to just arrive already, but I know it won’t until I put in the work to get myself there. ↩︎
- Even posting said messages online, like she’s proud of what she’s doing, embarrassing herself and no one else. Like, why? I would never reveal her identity in the way she revealed her victim’s name, and I can’t imagine what possessed her to do something like that, when it only made her look bad. I find this type of self-sabotaging behavior fascinating. ↩︎
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This is so tough to read – but I continue to be grateful to you for sharing your journey. (Not going to lie: I want to find this horrible person, who was so nasty and abusive to you and put some serious smack down on her.)
I appreciate the sentiment, but I am OK. I’m more worried about her current target’s family and all the havoc she’s causing them. I’m terrified of history repeating and feeling like I didn’t do enough to prevent it — again. And I’d love to pretend like I’m this great person who was above all her name-calling, but it was more of a shock response. I was so singularly focused on saving my dad that her insults didn’t really register. I’d never experienced such vitriol like that before, and all I’d done was tell my dad that I was worried about him being around someone who ordered 5 drinks at a fancy dinner. (After later realizing he also quietly ordered himself a drink that night in all the hubbub – in front of me and Libby.) So, I do feel healed from her personal attacks on me. It has taken me longer to get over her more vicious attacks on my dad, even though he seemed to forgive her in his addled state for all she’d done to him and his children. But I’ve been known to hold grudges against those who harm my loved ones.
I am so glad to hear that you have healed from these attacks. How dreadful to hear that she is terrorizing another family now. You are (and were) a powerful advocate for your dad – and for others struggling with this terrible disease (and their families). It is remarkable – and personally healing to me – to read these posts.
Kenzie, I just read this piece for the first time. I understand your feelings about Undesirable #1. I understand your concerns about her targeting other vulnerable men, as she did your dad. You are right to be concerned, but other than venting, writing about it, and reporting any criminal activity to authorities, there is not much else you can do to prevent any similar occurrences. I commend your writings and your journey towards healing, and I do hope that journey comes to an end soon. I love you, Papa
I agree with you. At the time of this post I’d just heard about her latest vic and all the same signs were there, so it was triggering, as much as I hate that word. It felt like my dad all over again. I’ve been laboring under the delusion that my writing about her might somehow make a difference, that she could somehow be shamed, but she’s too starved for attention. Writing my latest post about the worst thing she ever did to me has gone a long way in releasing the pain she’s caused. Almost right away my dreams changed; the past couple nights I haven’t been stuck in somber thoughts of Dad, death, and decay but instead had an odd whimsical dream a la Wonderland. I can’t recall the last one I had like it, but I’m guessing it was before Dad’s death when I was working on Elementals!