WERE WE CRAZY?

Part II

Our self-loathing included self-concepts based on warped thinking and totally distorted perceptions. Everything was real, yes, but the psychological realities underneath our limited levels of awareness for the most part remained unconscious. Jainie was right. You can be crazy and not know it.

We suffered a host of very real demons, but couldn't face them. We didn't even know they existed, and therefore remained at their mercy, raging and aching inside, reaching desperately for legal and illegal substances to soothe our anguish. We were walking time bombs, detonating slowly over the years, one drink after another, one barbiturate after another, a tab of acid, a snort of smack, a can of beer, good sex. It didn't matter. Pain was pain. Need was need. Booze and drugs and getting laid were medicines.

We drank too much, drove cars and sometimes wrecked them, woke up aching and disoriented, quivering with heebie-jeebie fears. Jail cells, dry mouth, throbbing brains, high anxiety, need, fear, shivering horror. And we never said a word about it to each other or anybody else. We didn't explore the issues, because we didn't know how.

We reveled in each other's company, taking too many reds, crawling on the floor, laughing, babbling — and our loving friends did it right along with us. We could satisfy our need for relief. We could be ourselves without fear. We could stagger and slobber and visit drunken zones of incredible emotional intensity. We could love, express our hurt, laugh at the world — and feel safe. Release, ah yes. Relief, ah yes. Maybe get a few good songs out of it too. Art knows no morality.

Young, famous, performing in spotlights, idolized by thousands. What the hell, right?


People who turn suffering into aesthetics receive medals. Dostoyevski, Van Gogh, Dylan Thomas, Charlie Parker, Bill Evans, Miles Davis. On and on.

Among our rock 'n' roll peers, the list was impressive, too — Jimi, Janis, Jim Morrison, Fred Neil, David Crosby, dozens of others. Within our stoned-out set, compassion for each other and respect for pain was important. Suffering was an ideal.

But we never asked why. We never pushed beyond our ignorance to deeper levels. What, exactly, were we experiencing? What kind of pain? Does it have a name? What are its origins? What, exactly, is it good for? What can we do to alleviate it — besides drink or take drugs or escape through sex?

We never looked into that. We didn't talk about anything that might threaten pain, anesthesia, music, catharsis. In other words, sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. Those were our realities. We guarded them well. Every serious boozer and druggy-wugger knows this.


And now here was Jainie trying to handle her insecurities, visiting a therapist, having moments of insight. "Don't we always think we are seeing things clearly?"

Made me nervous. Couldn't say why at the time.

Now, of course, I can see she was beginning her emergence into a new level of consciousness. She was starting to see through the neurotic illusions that afflicted her, even as they so deeply afflicted those she knew and loved — Timmy, me. Other friends, too, Cool Richard.

But at that time, I didn't consciously perceive Jainie as a threat to the self-destructive viewpoints that drove me and Tim and others toward madness, because we had no intention of slowing down. We needed not only the medicines, but the suffering, too. We wanted rewards for our pain. We wanted roses and trophies. We didn't want to be told that we might be crazy, but we didn't have to fade or die, that there was help available and maybe we could be cured. We didn't want help. We didn't want to be cured. We wanted sympathy and respect—and more booze and reds.

At first, I ignored Jainie's questions. Then I couldn't. If she saw through our insanity and emerged into clarity herself, she might change. She might turn straight on us. Danger. She might be on her way to a healthy, constructive life. She might be on her way to maturity, responsibility, creativity, success—yikes!

So I dodged her. "Sure, we're crazy," I said, popping open a can of beer. "And of course we know it. We're all crazy, aren't we? Relax. Here, have a sip. Takes the edge off."

"No, thanks," she said.

To hell with her. I wasn't going to change. Figured I had a while before I'd be forced to choose. Right now, 31 years old, I could embrace death with impunity. Healthy jock-body. Quick mind. Brains to burn. No problem.

Or was there?

What about her questions?

In my heart of hearts, I knew she was right. In fact, I was grateful to her for raising the questions because they increased my awareness, helped me gauge my own danger-levels more accurately.

Deep down, I had been playing a game. Maybe everyone whose psyche suffers because it has no skin plays the same pain game. Risk. Dare. Don't be chicken. Step closer. Step right up to the brink of the maw — and don't fall. If I keep alert, I can drink longer. I won't have to quit so soon. I can choose death, and live forever too — ha!

Were we crazy?

Damn straight, Jack.

After a while, it wasn't funny anymore.

Tim didn't make it. I did.