“Don’t point your fucking finger at crazy people!”
I’ve always had an unexplainable fondness for the brainsick. The kind that you somehow relate to, but find it difficult to admit. I believe there’s a loony in all of us. To some degree — and I use the term very loosely — a sociopath.
Christ, how I miss Angelina’s grittier roles. Girl, Interrupted has always held a special place in my heart. What is there for a girl not to love? I pop in the DVD, relate to the women in true chic-flick spirit, then turn it off, look around, and thank my lucky stars for being “normal.” It’s like a drug.
Science’s habit of creating a definition for every facet of the human personality (or lack thereof) never ceases to amaze me. I like the term sociopath. I am intrigued by the fact that it was called “Moral Insanity” in the 19th century, “Psychopathic Personality” in the beginning of the 20th, finally settling on “Antisocial Personality Disorder” in today’s medical dictionaries. Pore over a list of psychiatric disorders, and you’ll discover one that befittingly describes that busy little head of yours. A few more clicks, and you’ll then discover a pill that treats it. How convenient. You see, we’re all miscreants in the Story of Life, one way or another. We are labeled “crazy” by the even “crazier.” Balderdash. Shelve those pills.
The film closed with Susanna’s revelation:
Was I ever crazy? Maybe. Or maybe life is… Crazy isn’t being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It’s you or me amplified. If you ever told a lie and enjoyed it. If you ever wished you could be a child forever. They were not perfect, but they were my friends…
I suppose I embrace it. If not for our shortcomings, what else would there be to write about? Ever? Crazy people. America’s favorite antagonist.
