WHACK-JOB (OR WJ FOR SHORT)
Being a special brand of “mental”, myself, it’s easy for me to spot a fellow Whack-job. As a matter of fact, I have a gift for it. From where did I obtain this heightened level of whack-jobbiness, you may ask? Oh, several places really: the gene pool, a brain tumor, decades alone. Pick one, or all, even guess at a few more. (Yes, there are more but it’s late and I am not writing a novel, for Christ’s sake.)
The “Whack-Jobs,” are everywhere. In every walk of life. In every type of person. This week, I have dealt with several kinds, firsthand. Perhaps more encounters this one week than in many years. The type of WJs (abbreviating Whack-job saves me many, many keystrokes), varies in nature and severity. A job like mine that requires travel across many geographical areas, allows for more exposure than the average person might normally get, to experience WJs.
The assignment I am on right now is a sad one. It includes terminal illness, hoarding illness, alcoholism, pure fear, myopia, and helplessness. Of course, this is not all one person, it’s several, but they are all connected to this one assignment. Thus, the need to expunge my soul of these encounters through writing. My own personal way to purge.
Does anyone find the term mental illness odd? Being mental is a gift for me, but I don’t think of myself as ill. Unfortunately, I was not developed enough in my youth to understand it or help myself. I get it. However, the label of Mental Illness, kind of gets applied to everyone that does something, someone else thinks is “Off”.
If you meet someone who is so completely different from you, and it’s disconcerting you might say: “Geez, what a WJ” or “That guy’s mental” or “put that chick on meds”. I have heard these types of comments from people, whom themselves would probably qualify as WJs. Hell, I am guilty of these kinds of statements sometimes, too. We can all be judgmental.
One of my favorite studies, and I draw from it a lot when writing, was an analysis done of people who truly believe they do fantastic things or great work. Their brains are so differently wired, they have no clue about their utter incompetence. In fact, they do not believe anyone or anything that tells them they are wrong, or did not perform well. Even if provided with proof of their failure, they do not accept it.
Man, maybe I would like to have that wiring problem. Wait! Maybe I do, but I don’t know it, because my wiring is jacked. Wow. That’s something to think about, eh?
Today’s news on TV is a constant barrage of negativity and violence and yes, mental illness. WJs abound! The Tool’s mental fitness, or lack thereof, is well documented so there will be no more ink about him. This is about the everyday, run-of-the-mill WJ. They could be sitting next to you right now, or writing an article. (Ahem)
Once a person accepts their gifts, the barriers go down and the gifts are suddenly illuminated with an iridescent glow….no wait, that’s Lunesta. Oops. Well, joking aside, that sort of phenomenon happens for me. I can look at someone and somehow instantly know what’s happening with them on the inside. I can nail it. I don’t want to know, but it just happens. I see things, others don’t see. Here’s the funny thing though, I often don’t say a word. People just think you are crazy.
Having lived my entire youth, oblivious of what was happening to me behind my back, this pendulum has swung through both extremes. From completely naive to over-developed, in the span of sixty-plus years. When this gift was developing, I used to relish being able to help someone explain something they were struggling with, in a way they could accept or see, to be able to deal. Further down the development path, helping people got tricky. The better I was at this, the more threatening they perceived me. I have paid major prices for being right.
At this stage of my life, it’s so honed that I sometimes feel completely unaware. Like a plane on Auto Pilot. This week, the force of all that is happening, is like drinking water out of a fire hose. In fact, for the first time, I missed diagnosing the alcoholic. Key control player and huge miss for me. That realization is going to affect me for some time to come.
Does this big miss mean my gift is leaving me? Does this mean aging is winning the battle in my brain? Who knows? I can tell you writing this article is a blessing. It’s need to get out, actually woke me up in the middle of the night.
When it comes to this gift, the sad thing about is, I have never been able to use it on myself. Bummer.
