Does That Make Me Cra-azay?

He was a handsome child psychiatrist. I used to see him at the local coffee house among a murder of men. (See “crows, collective”.)

I didn’t find him particularly interesting...until he began a pursuit, which I found interesting.

We started going out.

In the getting-to-know-you phase, he began a detailed account of his last relationship with a woman whom he repeatedly referred to as “crazy”. (A totally unacceptable claim these days, but discriminating decision-making was not my strong suit back in the day.)

I didn’t give it another thought...until a few weeks later.

After a romantic sunset stroll along the beach, we walked arm-in-arm to a cozy local eatery. We slid into the leather banquette of a corner booth to enjoy a candlelit dinner and inch toward you-know-what. Suddenly the door of the place swings open with a forceful "whoosh" and this chick storms into the restaurant. She freezes to a stop in the middle of the dining area, throws her right hand over her mid-chest as if she's been shot and begins a one-woman show of tears and screams. The entire place falls silent as everyone watches her unravel on the spot. My first response was to utter a quiet “What the fuck?" Followed by, "Why is she looking over here?!”

Oh! The “former girlfriend”.

Crazy? As a loon.

He got all sad-eyed on me as if to say, “See what I mean? Ooh, poor me. Can you still love me?” And though, no, I couldn’t, I slept with him anyway.

Yada, yada, yada…sex was great...blah, blah, blah.

As the truth unfolded, this turned out to be not a former girlfriend, but the woman he had been dating when he decided that I looked interesting.

Of course, in my opinion, I was clearly the better choice: An independent thirty-something woman with a tousled mane of untamable blond curls, a unique wardrobe of shoulder-padded blazers to dress up my typical California coastal attire of jeans and t-shirts and an athletic figure kept trim with yoga and bodysurfing. What's more, wrapped around my wrist was a lotus seed prayer mala - the constant reminder of the Buddhist teachings I followed. Yes, I was a wild force to be reckoned with. It was the 80's and my southern California community was filled with countless quirky creatures like me.

On the other hand, Ms. Looney-Tunes was a devout Christian life insurance agent with a proper conservative business wardrobe, lots of money and a large SUV (not to mention her flair for drama). He said he would stop seeing her. I chose to believe him.

His struggle with that decision became increasingly clear. One afternoon he appeared deep in thought and quite removed from the moment at hand. "Whachya thinking?" I asked with a smile and a girlish musical lilt as we sipped tea on the terrace of a beachside café.

"She just bought a new Eddie Bauer Limited Edition Ford Explorer..." he said. His flat tone hid his inner thrashing about, but caught my psyche in its weakest spot: competition with another woman...and in this case, her car. The situation provided a perfect storm and created a dynamic that my particular complex wiring found irresistible.

You see, in my own family history, my poor mother's fears and demons ruled the roost. As a result, my equally wounded father was basically forbidden to have any relationship with me other than polite conversations at the dinner table. I finally questioned him about the dysfunctional family rules. "There are things you don't understand," he said, "I'm afraid she'll commit suicide if I____." (Fill in the blank with "talk to her", "change", "support you"...the list goes on.) And with that, each attempt to address the weird family construct ended. My psyche longed for a father. What's more, it wanted my father to choose me over my mother - just once. Which never happened. No surprise, really, that I found unavailable men most attractive. A solid stint in therapy brought this charming little pattern to light.

The ink on my graduate psychology degree was still damp and my exploration into my inner world was in full swing as the saga with Mr. My-Last-Girlfriend-Was-Crazy played out. I flopped around in the lesson of it for several months. Until one revelatory weekend in the woods.

Sitting around the campfire one night, he began sharing one of his recent dreams. I thought: "Oh god. This can’t be good." But he continued: "I was stuck in a tub of shit and couldn’t get out.

“I’m covered in the stuff and I can’t get it off," he said, voice on the edge of a whine as he relived his sleeping state of frustration. But then he brightened and added, “Then I woke up!”

As he turned his unconscious gaze into the gasping flames, I woke up, too.

The scales finally tipped during an incident that occurred as we were packing up to break camp. Fortunately, the over-extended bungee cord that he let fly just missed my eye (was he aiming?) but left a nasty knot on my forehead and had me seeing stars. He seemed unconcerned about it...and me.

At this point, I was planning my exit and his next move made it exceptionally easy. He called me one afternoon “Just to say hello,” and apparently to add, “You can put it over there, honey.”

H.O.N.E.Y?!

I heard a woman’s voice in the background.

Minutes later I appeared at his door to confirm my suspicions.

Yep – you guessed it: The crazy former girlfriend.

“This is rich! And now this is over.” I snapped, spinning around and storming back to my car.

He followed me whining, “I just can’t decide, baby.” (Yes, that's a quote, dear readers.) Adding, “See, when you’re like this, I like you more.”

Like this? And what would this be? My eyes bulging from the pressure of swallowing the expletives I’m preventing myself from spewing forth, little bubbles of saliva forming at the corners of my mouth? That's called “frothing mad”.

I didn’t even turn around.

Next.

CC photo courtesy Έλενα Λαγαρία