You're Closer to Crazy than You Think

I was listening to a podcast featuring Sam Harris yesterday and he made a really good point – we’re all standing dangerously close to crazy.  Let’s skip around the semantics of crazy.  Crazy means whatever you think it means.  The lady laughing hysterically in the frozen food section, the obsessive masturbator tugging away on the subway, the traditional cat lady, her mother, politicians, Catholics, serial killers – we’ll accept all sects of crazy today.

Most of us like to think we’re out of the reach of crazy.  Comfortably escaping the grasps of insanity through superior brain power, upbringing, genetics, or what-have-you.  We understand our consciousness a solid.  Evolving, but free from drastic, uncontrollable changes.  We’re safe.  Homeless people can breathe on us, we can watch horror movies and snuff films without going off the deep end.  We’re in no danger of losing our beloved sanity.

Then you think about dreams.  Last night I had a dream, (suck it Martin Luther King).  In my dream, I looked out my window and saw a camel.  A real camel, humps, dusty fur, disenchanted eyes, the whole nine.  Not only did I see a camel outside of my window, but this particular camel was wearing roller skates.  Four cream colored roller skates, coasting along, chewing its cud – no big deal.

The part that concerns me is that after seeing the roller skating camel, I went about my business.  I didn’t call everyone to the window.  I didn’t take pictures of it.  I noticed the camel, and I went back to whatever I was doing in the dream.  I’d like to note that I don’t live in a sand hut in the Middle East.  Camels aren’t an everyday animal in California.  Camels on roller skates – even more rare.  But none of these things tipped me off in the dream.

This wasn’t the first time something blatantly improbably has happened in my dreams.  I sure you’ve experienced it, dreamt yourself into an impossible situation, under the sea, flying, talking to dead loved ones.  And guess what?  You’re crazy brain bought it. Hook, line, and sinker, you believed it, accepted it for truth like a goddam madman.

I’m no neuroscientist, but I’m sure my casual acceptance of a roller skating camel had everything to do with the chemicals in my brain.  Sure, when I woke up I realized the absolute ridiculousness of the situation, but during that dream, it was just another camel on skates.  Does this qualify me as clinically insane for 8 hours a day?  Eight hours, that’s a third of the day where I’m not only accepting things that I would normally write off as crazy, but I’m conjuring them up somehow.

It’s fun to judge crazy.  “Look at this crazy motherfucker over here... playing paper, rock, scissors with himself.”  But is crazy that unusual?  A nap and a dash of brain chemicals and I become the fucking cat lady.  Shit goes wrong in the brain all the time, what makes you so special? 

Take a few sections from Charles Whitman’s suicide letter for instance:

I do not quite understand what it is that compels me to type this letter. Perhaps it is to leave some vague reason for the actions I have recently performed. I do not really understand myself these days. I am supposed to be an average reasonable and intelligent young man. However, lately (I cannot recall when it started) I have been a victim of many unusual and irrational thoughts.   

If you were unaware, Charles Whitman killed 16 people and wounded 32 on an apparent “crazy” shooting spree in Austin Texas.  Prior to the killing spree, he murdered his wife and mother. 

I imagine it appears that I brutally killed both of my loved ones. I was only trying to do a quick thorough job [...] If my life insurance policy is valid please pay off my debts [...] donate the rest anonymously to a mental health foundation. Maybe research can prevent further tragedies of this type [...] Give our dog to my in-laws. Tell them Kathy loved "Schocie" very much [...] If you can find in yourselves to grant my last wish, cremate me after the autopsy.

The horrific scene ends with the police shooting and killing Whitman.  And what do you suppose the doctors discovered when they performed the autopsy?  You give up?  I’ll tell you.  They found a tumor pressing against Charles Whitman’s Amygdala, a brain region which controls decision making and emotional reactions.  The final verdict being that this tumor likely had a substantial effect on Whitman’s thoughts and actions leading up to, and during the killing spree.

So, I’ll ask again.  How far off is crazy?  It’s probably closer than you thought.   A pecan sized tumor, an erroneous brain chemical dump, one too many Sunday school lessons, and there you have it.  Crazy – dressed as a camel and roller skating by your window.