"It's not me, it's YOU."

                I discovered something about myself while I was living at the homeless shelter. It wasn’t the fortitude with which I faced my circumstances, the unflappable faith that things would turn around, or even the reserves of inner strength I’d tap into to dig myself out of it all. No, what I found out was this: I am catnip to crazy people. This continues to be true today.

                Maybe I secrete bacon-scented pheromones that only folks with untreated schizoid personality disorders can smell. Maybe they just like the gleam of terror in my eyes. I don’t know. What’s clear is that hordes of the severely deranged invariably, inexorably, make their way to me. And there they set up camp. Why? Because I don’t have the heart to shoo them away. Wait, scratch that. I don’t have the backbone to set reasonable, healthy boundaries with people. I am often frozen, wide-eyed & wooden-grinned, nodding fervently while someone warns me of the surveillance devices found in dental fillings, shows me letters from the raccoon in the television, or accuses me of being in cahoots with the fish-man who stole her baby. My husband has had to pull me out of situations like this all the time, glaring at me all the while. He has that amazing ability to disengage with or without grace when it’s time to hit the road. Me, not so much. At least, that’s how the story reads most days.

                She's nutty. The specifics aren’t for me to say and, though entertaining, they don’t have anything to do with my point. I answered the phone and there she was: self-pity, guilt trips & accusations screeching through the airwaves. I hung up & turned my phone off & regretted that choice as soon as I did it. It’s not how I wanted to communicate. Then my friend Jeremy’s phone rang. HER. Looking for me. He covered for me. A temporary solution. I called my friend Erik and talked it over, and texted her this: “I’m sorry, I’m overextended. I have made myself appear more available than I am willing to be. Good luck with your problem. I’m sorry.” Which is as close as I could get to the real truth without generating more trouble or hurt. She got the point. She blustered, whatevered, and finally asked if I wanted her to erase my number. “Yes.” I replied. She must have gone through this before. She sent a “Thank you” and went on with her life. Maybe there’s a lesson in here somewhere.