There’s a man with schizophrenia who lives across the street from me. He stands out on the sidewalk screaming angrily at the top of his lungs. Just complete fury and vitriol. He’s a big guy, so it’s quite frightening. The police come sometimes, but they usually just get him to go back in the house.
Lately he’s taken to sitting at the windows and staring all day long into ours. He watches my husband very carefully when he goes out on the porch to have a cigarette. The other night my husband swears that he was out there singing a song about him.
I have empathy for the guy, but I’m also frequently scared or annoyed by him. I don’t think I would ever try to talk to him. When I think of crazy I think of people like him, and not me. I guess that makes me feel kind of bad, like maybe I just might look down on this guy a little bit in comparison. I don’t know. The whole thing makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s hard when people are really, really sick and have little insight. I guess I’m just thankful that’s not me.