Pigtails, Date Night and the Clown Prince of Crime
Wayne and I have a game we play. In between customers, we sometimes decide which movie or TV characters most resemble those of us who work in the office. I pick for him. He picks for me and together we pick for our coworkers.
I’ve been Mary Poppins. I’ve been -Leverage’s- Parker. I’ve been Princesses and Queens and Mothers and Neighbor Girls and Adventurers in Search of Love.
Always the soprano. Always the maiden. Always the sweetheart.
Until her.
See, we’ve been a little Batman crazy lately, so when it came time to cast ourselves into the Dark Knight’s Universe, I thought I knew whom he would select.
I thought I did.
I was wrong.
“You” Wayne told me, with no hint of the surprise that was to come “Are Harley Quinn.”
Harley Quinn?
Doctor turned Doxie?
Crazy Little Sweetheart of the Darkside?
In some ways more insane than the Joker Himself?
THAT Harley Quinn?
Don’t get me wrong.
It’s just a game.
It’s not as if we actually TAKE ON the characteristics of the alters we assign each other.
But HARLEY QUINN??
Batgirl is a librarian
Cat Woman is a…er…cat
Poison Ivy has an accent
Harleen Frances Quinzel has…well…
None of those.
And then the recent movie trailer came out.
A Squad is being assembled to take on a mission from which they might not return. Everyone is in place, solemn or scowling by turns.
Out snaps a hand.
“Harley Quinn, nice ta meetcha” she chirps. Somber and scowling she is not.
“This” Wayne tells me as he sends me the clip. “This is why I chose Harley for you. That and the obsession.”
Ah, yes, the obsession. Harley has her Mistah J, the lunatic that she was supposed to be treating and ended up in thrall to instead.
I? I have my…endless need for love. I have the desperate certainty that I will never truly find a place to belong. I am not Barbara with her books. I am not Selina and her kittens. I’m not even Ivy with her pale skin and green plants.
I am Harley. Chirpy. Twittery. Eager for friendship. Searching for affection.
It was cute. It was fun. It got me a couple of weeks of threatening to wear my hair in pigtails and Wayne threatening to quit if I did.
Until it became real.
Harley had her Joker, her mad love, her injections, her chemicals, her vat of acid.
I have my…misaligned brain.
Clinical Depression, my counselor told me.
PTSD.
And And…
Bipolar Disorder.
Biwhatnow whatnow?
Since adolescence, I’ve been joking about being crazy.
The inability to go anywhere without a book as a security blanket.
The loud bursting into song.
The detailed plans that never actually go anywhere.
The spontaneous hugs and declarations of love.
The days I can’t stop crying.
The slights and disappointments that I seem to hold on to when everyone else has long since walked on.
The childlikeness.
The selfishness.
The obsessions and madnesses and fears that seemed unique to me.
I’m unlike my family.
I’m unlike my friends.
This year, my counselor told me why.
It hurt. At first.
All I knew about that was the hallucinations. The delusions of grandeur.
Jumping off roofs.
Taking on mountains.
The manic.
Then the depressive.
The institutions.
The therapy.
The treatments.
The crying for days.
The loneliness.
The isolation.
The crazy.
The crazy.
The crazy.
It’s not always like that, of course.
I’m no more likely to jump off a rooftop than I am to fly away to the moon.
But it’s still new.
It still hurts.
I didn’t WANT to be crazy.
I’m odd.
I’m eccentric.
I’m quirky.
And unique.
And every other special little unicorn snowflake word you can throw at me.
I jump up and down when excited.
I squeal like a little girl with joy.
I strongly want what I want, even if I know it’s wrong.
But I never WANTED to be a unicorn snowflake sparkling fairy.
Not really.
They stand out too much.
They are TOO unique.
TOO individual.
TOO quirky.
I wanted Ethel Mertz.
I wanted June Cleaver
I wanted
Oh How I Wanted
Laura Petrie.
Normal.
Safe.
With just enough excitement to spice things up.
What I got was misaligned pathways.
What I got were misfired neurons.
What I got were chemicals gone haywire.
What I got was NOT Laura Petrie.
What I got was Harley Quinn.
Wayne says she’s pretty.
And adventurous.
And has never met a stranger.
Wayne doesn’t live in my brain.
Wayne doesn’t hear the music.
Wayne doesn’t have the obsessions.
Wayne doesn’t wander around his room at three in the morning screaming to get out, get away, just gooo.
Wayne says it’s okay.
My counselor says it’s okay too.
Look at all the actresses who are bi polar, she says.
And THEY never jumped off roofs.
My counselor says, though, that it will take time.
The obsessions can become lists.
The lists can become projects.
The pacing will become self soothing and if I don’t sleep, at least I can rest.
My husband, a Sims through and through, will eventually understand.
They say it’s going to be okay.
I want to believe them.
After all,
I don’t hallucinate.
I don’t think I have delusions.
And surely they know what they are talking about.
But it still hurts.
You see,
I never really wanted to be crazy.
Not for real.
And it’s all very new.
And still very raw.
And I don’t think
I’ll wear pigtails to work
After all.