What Batsh*t Crazy Looks Like

Bat:  any of an order (Chiroptera) of nocturnal placental flying mammals with forelimbs modified to form wings
Sh*t:  feces
Crazy:  full of cracks or flaws

being out of the ordinary                     

Some phrases in our culture have derogatory meanings or references but are used commonly without most knowing that it is rooted in some ugly, awful part of our history.  I admit, I am fond of the term “batsh*t crazy.”  It is humorous, cathcy and beyond logic when you break it down into what each of the words alone means.  Literally, to call someone batsh*t crazy is to say they are a nocturnal placental flying mammal with forelimbs modified to form wings full of cracks or flaws and being out of the ordinary slinging feces.  Now, if you really think you are a nocturnal flying mammal this may qualify you as mentally unstable (aka crazy).  That’s a whole other blog complete with a diagnostic manual to help us figure that out. 

This doesn't make any sense.  People are not so stupid to refer to people as flying mammals. This led me to research the origin of the phrase.  According to a very “reputable” website (aka Urban Dictionary which also enlightened me to the various meanings of the term “double stack” one night as I worked a case involving an overdose of a double stack of ecstasy.  Let’s just say don’t look up “double stack” if you are eating).  According to Urban Dictionary:

The phrase has origins in the old fashioned term "bats in the belfry." Old churches had a structure at the top called a belfry, which housed the bells. Bats are extremely sensitive to sound and would never inhabit a belfry of an active church where the bell was rung frequently. Occasionally, when a church was abandoned and many years passed without the bell being rung, bats would eventually come and inhabit the belfry. So, when somebody said that an individual had "bats in the belfry" it meant that there was "nothing going on upstairs" (as in that person's brain). To be BATSH*T CRAZY is to take this even a step further. A person who is batsh*t crazy is so nuts that not only is their belfry full of bats, but so many bats have been there for so long that the belfry is coated in batsh*t. Hence, the craziest of crazy people are BATSH*T CRAZY.

This seems more plausible because when my illness is not under control my thoughts run around my head like a bunch of bats often bumping into each other and some jumping right out of the belfry into the things I say or do.  It’s a real mess up there at times. There are plenty of anecdotal stories of me being “out of the ordinary” and “full of cracks and flaws.”  Obsessive relationships, an impulsive and risky first marriage, tattoos that were not so well thought out, mountains of credit card debt (thank you to my AMAZING husband for climbing that mountain with me and effectively destroying it in just a few short years), verbal outbursts full of hurling insults and screaming for no reason, uncontrollable urges to jump out of car and beat the crap out of the driver who just cut me off, hiding in my closet for hours to avoid hurting anyone else with my out of control emotions. I have three hospitalizations under my belt from age 18 – 25 because I was dangerous.  Some of you have firsthand accounts of my behaviors for which I apologize.  Most of you have stuck by me through these less than fun experiences which made me able to pull through some of the darkest times. You literally saved me life. Some people are afraid of bats and walked away because it was just too difficult to handle.  I hold no ill-feelings towards those who walk away.  In fact, I thank you for being brave enough to check-out when you knew you didn’t want to on this journey with me. 

Unfortunately, baby bats have inhabited my baby’s brain since he was about 4 years old.  He was always an active baby with a smile on his face. You could tell from an early age his heart was warm and his emotions pure and strong.  The terrible twos brought out the mischievous side.  There are stories of a dog covered in syrup and a piggy-bank heist leading to a chase through our house with the end result being a shattered piggy bank and the beginnings of a tumultuous brotherly relationship.  Then came the f-cking fours which made us long for the days of the terrible twos.  Misery engulfed our family.  People were giving us all kinds of parenting advice.  I questioned if I had done something wrong and felt tremendous guilt for not being a good enough parent.  He was the child who never outgrew the temper-tantrum stage.  In fact, his tantrums grew longer and with more intensity than I could have ever imagined.  The moment I realized we had more going on than age-typical tantrums and poor parenting was when he went into a rage and tried to destroy his bunk bed at age 4 and attempted to jump out of the car on the interstate.  He would go from an uncontrollable rage to maniacal laughing several times within the hour.  Days would pass where he had only slept a couple of hours each night only to wake with seemingly unbound energy.  The tears would follow, both from him and us, as we struggled to find some peace within our family.

Little did we know we had yet to see the full extent of what his batsh*t crazy looked like.  We trudged between doctors hoping to find some relief from this disease that was torturing his brain and his soul.  By second grade he was dangerous to himself and others.  We moved him to a self-contained classroom for children with emotional disabilities.  It was one of the hardest things in my life to accept because it meant he was not healthy and happy.  It turned out to be essential to his road to recovery.  The teachers deserve medals of honor for what they went through with him.  During this time, we tried a homeopathic approach combined with psychotropic medications.  Nothing was giving him relief.  He believed he was a werewolf.  In a store one day he announced loudly that his mother let him hunt and eat raw meat by tearing it with his teeth.  He stuck his head out of the car window to howl at a full moon.  He woke his brother by howling out of his bedroom window.  It was hard not to laugh at these things but the laughter was only to ward off the tears.  The absolutely lowest point came one night after a long rage when he attacked us and tried to jump off the balcony saying he wanted to die.  Sitting on the stairs, I held him close in my arms when my heart shattered.  He was clawing at his skin, begging me to make it stop and asking to die.  To this day I cannot think of that moment without tears streaming down my face.  To be feel so hopeless and helplesss at 8 years old....wow.

Our journey continued, with both he & I having symptoms that made us nearly impossible to live with.  My husband and oldest son have scars from those years.  They lost long periods of time of having a mother, a wife, a brother and a son because we were both so ill we were not safe for human consumption.  I will always carry the guilt of not being the best I could be because I wasn’t healthy.  I had been treated for depression since I was 18 but it wasn’t until I was 33 that a new doctor finally diagnosed me with bipolar II disorder (bp II is when people have hypomanic or “high” periods without incredibly dangerous behaviors followed by episodes of depression.  It is a pendulum of emotions that never quite swings out of control but gets close enough to the edge to make it scary).  A new medication regime was introduced and my life changed with a few days.  I am now able to use the coping skills to manage the hiccups in my emotions because the medication takes out the huge upward and downward swings.  The first time my oldest son told me I was easier to deal with was a victory to me.  I can be the parent I always knew I wanted to be, something he was deprived of for many years because of a missed diagnosis. 

We began seeing a new doctor for my son as well.  The homepathic treatment was stopped and an aggressive psychotropic medication regime was started.  We saw improvements almost immediately but weren't out of the woods yet.  He no longer wanted to die or do dangerous things but school was still a huge struggle.  After several tweaks in medication, he hit his stride last spring.  I received a call from the teacher after 4 weeks of school asking who the kid was who showed up to 6th grade because it wasn't the same kid who left 5th grade.  With relief from symptoms finally setting in, he made the honor roll for the first time in his life.  I sobbed tears of joy for him and he celebrated his accomplishments. 

This year will mark the first holiday season since 2005 with everyone in our family healthy and happy.  There have been no threats of revoking presents or the need for consequences for outrageous behaviors in school.  I am almost skipping through the stores as I shop for presents without the fear of the holiday being ruined by my irritability or elaborate fits of rage from my son.  I am fully present and accounted for with both of my children and my husband.  Above all else, I’m happiest that my son is healthy and happy.  He feels good about himself.  He is smart enough and been through so much that he understands the nature of the disease.  He has stopped blaming himself and accepted it as a medical condition.  He knows when he needs a break to take care of himself and when he needs to see the doctor for adjustments in medication.  He tries to educate others about mental illness (sometimes to strangers so he may have a future in advocacy and public health education).  He has been through more in 11 years with bravery and resilience than most people go through in a lifetime. 

Even if we never have another holiday season of good health and happiness for everyone in our family, this one season will always be in my heart.  This is what recovery looks like.  This is what batsh*t crazy looks like.  We will always have bats in my belfry, but now we know how to clean up the mess.