These days, a New Orleanian in a good mood is, as often as not, somebody who just had the straps on their straight jacket loosened. I'm almost not kidding.
Crazy:
When we get together, we usually find ourselves playing amateur psychiatrist, observing with an eye toward the other's mental health. An unfailingly sunny disposition can mean only one thing-- you got good drugs before they let you out of the padded room. If you are constantly on the verge of tears, you are closer to the norm, but really need to get (several) prescriptions, meditate, go to a faith healer, pray, and/or run away from home from time to time, to reassure yourself that you have not entered an alternate universe. However, if you walk around with that deer-in-the-headlights expression that remains even after you close your eyes (believe me this is possible), you are either me or another Katrina survivor.
Uh-Oh!
Most of us have become accustomed to the physical landscape, which can change in the blink of an eye. You go to the very normal looking areas uptown, in the French Quarter, Garden District, Lower Garden District, and Magazine Street, and see people shopping, biking, and generally going about their everyday business. But when you venture outside of your comfort zone, the other reality washes over you in a flash nearly as overwhelming as the first levee breaks. But you can't stop looking at what used to be that neighborhood. It's like seeing yourself in a mirror first thing in the morning--exactly at what point during the night did you turn into a warthog? Still, you pull up your chin--I use a little duct tape--and move on.
Suddenly Sybil:
It's the emotional landscape that's hard to get used to. One minute, you are driving and thinking about that noise your car is making, when you spot a buggy driver pointing out something across the street. When you turn, you see he has highlighted a FEMA trailer on Prytania Street as part of a tour, and somebody is sitting on the makeshift steps instead of on their own front porch. Before you know it, the invisible current of normalcy that has kept you afloat suddenly disappears, and you come crashing down on a zephyr of despair. This also happens when you call your doctor, hairdresser, or grocer, and find that he/she/it "ain't there no more, "or when you pass by a deserted house, an abandoned business, or other evidence of debris left by "The Thing." We have replaced mood swings with complete personality changes. You may have heard our mayor a while back channeling Flip Wilson. And if your grandmother suddenly turns into Norman Bates, you don't suspect Alzheimer's. You just realize Granny's plumber didn't show up for the eighth day in a row.
Mental Health:
But honestly, we worry more when we can't remember what day of the week it is, or how many children we have, or exactly where we are at any given moment. The inability to concentrate is epidemic. I can't walk into another room anymore without forgetting why I went there in the first place. And anxiety? We don't recognize it when we see it--doesn't everybody crouch under the table in the fetal position when the weathermen drop the phrase "tropical depression?" By the way, they might consider changing that to "tropical manic depression." You cope with this by making sure that you have a stash of chocolate, a "lovie" comfort blanket, and a bottle of Jack Daniels within arms reach at any given time. When driving, you have to settle for the chocolate and a Disney CD.
I think it's because our trauma is ongoing, and there's no way to escape from it. Oh wait, I just thought of something.
Beam me up, Scotty!
