Marya Hornbacher is better known for her memoir ‘Wasted’, which she wrote, no, published, at the age of twenty two , and which went viral, in which she spares no gruesome detail of her frankly horrific ‘altercation’ with anorexia and bulimia, and in which she drops to just 52 pounds, almost dies (hmmm, obviously), but emerges triumphant (well, barring infertility, osteoporosis and some other organ failure residuals, I forget which), to beat the disease, finish off college and publish a book, did

Marya Hornbacher is better known for her memoir ‘Wasted’, which she wrote, no, published, at the age of twenty two , and which went viral, in which she spares no gruesome detail of her frankly horrific ‘altercation’ with anorexia and bulimia, and in which she drops to just 52 pounds, almost dies (hmmm, obviously), but emerges triumphant (well, barring infertility, osteoporosis and some other organ failure residuals, I forget which), to beat the disease, finish off college and publish a book, did I say, at the age of 22? I am woman, hear me roar, eh, eh?



But thats not all. This woman is definitely not a one pony track. Erm, a one track pony? Or was it trick? Uh, fuggedaboutit. What it is is, anorexia and bulimia is just one of a whole host of party tricks Hornbacher has up her sleeve. There is also, it emergeth, alcoholism, bipolar (type I) (the most serious type, apparently), connected with and connecting to paranoia, nymphomania, addiction, shopaholicism, and basically all kinds of other fodder for future memoirs, not just Madness. Which, frankly, she needs to churn out because her medical expenses are astronomical and none of her three insurance companies are prepared to stump out. (Bastards. Come here, Marya, the NHS will see you alright).



Marya Hornbacher seems to exist in two states: hyper mania during which she is incredibly creative, sociable, productive and positive, and hospitalised, in a catatonic cum zombie stasis. All of which is described eloquently, poignantly and heartbreakingly.

Well, she can describe and scribe and shout from the mountain tops till the cows come home, but I don’t understand a thing. Now, if I had read this book in say June, I would have understood everything (Dunning-Kruger effect) On some level I resonate here: I’m a high functioning mad woman myself. The problem is, I’m just a different kind of crazy from Marya, notwithstanding the fact that we share a fair number of addictions and personality traits. Does one alcoholic resemble another, for arguments sake? If no, why not? Marya drinks, and the space-time continuum goes into warp overdrive. Whole days, weeks, even months fold into themselves and disappear: in a black hole, in a rabbits hole, whatever: she’s suddenly shacked out back and engaged to the local wino, subsidising the bartender’s annual Disneyland vacation, nary a care in the world, as time is ‘Matrixed’ in between binges. The thing is, she can ‘let go’. Now, I’m not necessarily extolling the virtues of an alcohol crazed pandemonium, but, I am, in fact, extolling it: because I’m jealous, so there.: jealous. In my deepest, most profound succumb-to-ness, I have never known surrender: no amount of alcohol has ever been enough to wrestle the mantle of reality, and responsibility, from the repressed recesses of my mind. A binge has only ever achieved my temporary physical surrender, whilst my mind remains trapped in its harness. I never manage to lose time: its there to greet me the day after the night before, as I haul my wastedness across town to the Floor. I have, despite my very bestest efforts, never managed to lose even a single day. So. If Marya laments total loss of control, I lament the lack of. No matter what I do, I can. Not. Escape from myself. This is why Aritha Van Herk and ‘Restlessness’ strikes such a cord with me: someone, finally, who understands. Marya wants to ‘find’ herself, find the equilibrium where she can exist, whereas I just want to ‘lose’ myself. This is how our goals differ. I have found myself already, and its not enough.



Lets talk about madness. If two crazy people meet, would they click? Even Marya says no. You have to be crazy in the same way for it to work. When she hooks up with a buddy, Sean, they spend a relatively ‘calm week’ in the Badlands like two psychos on a bender would, before madness incompatibility kicks in. Each lunatic thinks the other is just too crazy, and they have to part ways for the good of the planet. Hah.. In John Cassavetes ‘A Woman Under The Influence’, Mabel and Nick, and in Kudes’ Somnambuul, Aetla and her father. madmen rubbing shoulders but existing in parallel universes, because each is mad in their own special way.



I ran into a couple of bonafide high functioning psychos just recently and for the first time: . this is the one where initially think you are dealing with a normal person. Things happen. You think YOU are losing YOUR mind. And then you find out you’ve been had by one who flew over the cuckoo’s nest. This is the abridged version of a fairly traumatic experience, which made me question the reality of reality and my understanding of any other reality which is ultimately not my own crazy reality. (I’ve only now been able to put it behind me). Afterwards, and resultantly. Here is what happened : a charity which I have been supporting (as a NED) for ten years deals with accommodated housing for mentally ill people. I joined this SME all this time ago, I will admit, not for purely altruistic reasons. I needed a stepping stone into paid portfolio work and took this pro-bono directorship because it was right here, right now., thank you very much. Things have moved on since then (considerably), but I retain myself on this meagre Board all this time without pay, my only altruistic endeavour (ironically), now, because it grew on me: the trials and tribulations, the financial crisis, the mergers, the tenders and bids: the lives of these people matter. But on 10 August I resigned. I felt morally obliged to do so, having realised that I was only paying lipservice to the whole issue of mental illness; I did not understand it, I was scared by it, I was a fraud: imagine campaigning the cause of mental illness when I truly, really, madly, have no idea whatsoever what its about. What was I thinking? I only know my own madness, and its...personal. Here is what happened. On 11 August the CEO of the Charity gate crashed my front drive and staged a Mexican standoff: I rescind my resignation or he’ll just make camp on my driveway: till I do. Here is what happened: He don’t give a damn about my moral quandary, because here is what happened: without me there to audit their accounts, sort out their HR issues, Company Secretary issues, merger contract issues, tender documentation issues, name your issue issues, all kinds of fucking issues, all gratis, he’s got a QE issue. Here is what happened: What to do? What would you do? I’m worth over thousands to this charity for services rendered, dead or alive (ok, alive). Come see Ruby Wax, he said. Here is what happened: I did. At the Red Lion on 15 August. Here is what happened: I came out more fucked than when I went in. Paranoia? Bring it on. Ruby Wax is insane but she’s not my kind of insane. What if these people damage ME beyond repair.? Should an unengaged clueless individual contribute to charity fraudulently? Is this mitigated by the fact that the charity is benefitting regardless of the intentions of said individual? If bad intentions reap good results is this OK?. Here is what happened:

I read this book. My bid to understand, to relate, to connect. Now I know, somewhere, on the spectrum, I’m pretty mad myself. Mad and mad and alternating between the two, but in a candle burnt out in the wind way, not a lying cheating, hallucinating, highly functioning insane kind of way. Not that these people, not that Marya, is lying to ME when she fugues out: I understand thats not the intention. Its by lying to HERSELF that stokes up the trouble. When a person lies to themselves, they appropriate a false reality, which they project to those around them as fricking gospel truth. The sincerity and forcefulness of the message is enough to throw anyone within a mile radius off kilter. In a mania, this woman is unstoppable, no feat is too small, and her sundry achievements belie the price she will be imminently paying the piper: the inevitable crash. But its pretty much unknowable stuff. So, what was I gonna do with this charity?



Here is what happened...

