Lady Parts by Andrea Martin

Author:Andrea Martin [Martin, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781443443920
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2014-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

*Overused title.

Crazy

I am no expert on mental illness, and yet I could be, I’ve been called “crazy” so many times in my life. Not the Sinead O’Connor shaved-head scary kind of crazy, but the charming, spontaneous, unpredictable, cute kind of crazy. Think Diane Keaton or Goldie Hawn.

As a comedienne, I’ve been able to hide the varying degrees of anxiety I’ve suffered with all my life. Yup, I’m just a funny, wacky kind of gal. No need to run away. I won’t hurt you.

I have managed my disorders successfully over the years, with exercise, therapy, family, close friends, children, a career, and humour. They are no longer debilitating. My mental-health issues now seem to be more the garden-variety, everyday neuroses that just come with living with myself twenty-four hours a day. But for millions of people who suffer with mental illness, the prognosis is more uncertain and less kind. There is still a stigma attached. We want to avoid anyone who looks and acts strange. We have little understanding and patience for people who are not like us. We are frightened to make eye contact with someone whose behaviour is different. We lack true compassion and insight. We turn away and go about our business, hoping we don’t come in contact with someone who looks crazy.

Recently, I took my boots into a shoe-repair shop. They needed new rubber heels. I had never been in the store before. The tiny shop was filthy and in disarray. There were Post-its scattered all over the floor, empty bags of potato chips and candy wrappers jammed into one corner, and in another corner, I noticed what appeared to be a pile of wood shavings and sawdust. In fact, there was no section of the floor that wasn’t littered with trash. There were heelless shoes piled high on a shelf in no particular order. The walls, which looked like they had been used to itemize the inventory, were marked with pencil and pen. There was no space on any counter to put my boots. The man who worked in the store was dressed fairly neatly in a black turtleneck and faded, saggy black jeans. He was in his fifties, bald, missing a few bottom teeth, and overweight. He averted his eyes as he spoke to me. His speech was halting, his manner distracted, and yet he seemed friendly enough. I couldn’t hold back my shock at the state of the store, but tried.

“Wow,” I said in a high-pitched voice, the customary tone I use when I’m nervous, or lying. I tried to find a place to stand. “You don’t have a lot of space in here.” He made no apologies, like, I’m sorry, I haven’t had a chance to clean up or I’ve been so busy, I need to pick these things up off the floor. He just stared at me as he stood among the worn-out bags and tired shoes and zipperless leather boots. I wanted to turn around and walk out. How could anyone

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