Normies Can Be Scary

Yesterday was my first and last day of jury duty. Beforehand, I had profound anxiety over the usual suspects, including the fear of 1) being inappropriately dressed, 2) getting lost, 3) getting dehydrated, 4) having to use restroom constantly 5) being restless and twitchy, and 6) seeming foolish in general or in specific. After all, there is nothing so ghastly in my mind as being obviously symptomatic or even slightly inappropriate in public, even while just doing one's civic duty with the mainstream of America. As one who has one foot in the bipolar fringe, the mainstream of America can be scary.

T. was kind enough to drop me off at the Hall of Justice, and so all that was required was the airport-esque security measures. I had to pull up my pants to show that I wasn't toting a knife. Then I got spewed into the Jurors Lounge, again, reminiscent of an airport, only much quieter. I took up residence at one of the few little round tables in the back, across from a young woman with a laptop. We were soon joined by two other women.

Over the course of the day, the four of us became "jury friends." To my left was the divorced mother of one, a charter school teacher now dating a Border Patrol agent, and across from me, an after school program administrator who moonlighted as a pet massage therapist, ran marathons in her spare time, and maintained a boyfriend in Orange County, and to my right, a graduate student in clinical psychiatry with attractive diamond facial piercings, single, with a cat named Carrie Bradshaw. In short: normies.

Two of the gals brought in some gossip and fashion magazines that became the centerpiece of the conversation. I was definitely the pop culture novice, and although I was responsible for the ice-breaking of the group in the first place, I began the slow spiritual retreat which so often accompanies the feeling that one is different. Yet I paged through "my" In Style magazine with feigned exuberance, until I found one advertisement that I genuinely found interesting. There was a nude model facing the viewer holding a ten foot long albino snake posed to cover her saucy bits. It was a fascinating photograph which I immediately shared with the group.

The girls recoiled in horror. Physically recoiled. Their responses resembled that of a cartoon. Conjecture ensued about how much money they would need to be paid to pose with said snake. The psychologist-to-be said she would need to be paid $500,000. The nudity part would not bother her, she said...and she paused ominously.

And this is a woman who is supposed to help people work on their inner selves and overcome their issues? My judgment reared its ugly head, and inwardly, I scoffed. I scoffed again.

In that moment, though, I realized that there are crucial difference between bizarre hangups like the fear of snakes, and the anxiety that is a manifestation of bipolar disorder, that is, fears that interrupt the daily acts of living. Once again, I became resentful of the illness. These other women seemed so...well-adjusted. After all, they didn't stress over getting here. All they are afraid of is a silly snake in a magazine.

After waiting, waiting, and waiting, the people waiting in the lounge were excused, so there was hooplah at our table as everyone packed their things. The pet massage therapist happily passed out her card. As she smiled her radiant smile, I realized that my feelings of alienation, about the whole day in general, had, as usual, been amplified and exaggerated. Nothing but positive things occurred. My feelings of anxiety were basically unfounded, and I emerged unscathed from the bureaucratic machine.

Not to mention, normies aren't so bad.

So Help Me God

Right next to me is the letter informing me that I need to report for jury duty this Friday.

I have already arranged my transportation with T., who is going to give me a ride to the courthouse early in the morning, as I have a profound fear of parking problems, particularly downtown. The preferred solution to the jury-duty-downtown-parking-issue would theoretically be to park at Horton Plaza--a nightmarish place to begin with, with parking levels distinguished by fruits and vegetables--but I just can't handle it. Once more, my phobias outweigh "common sense," and thus, I am getting a ride.

I'm semi-surprised that I even got a form to report to jury duty this year. Last year, I asked my therapist to write a letter with all the reasons I was unfit to serve. He took a page right out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Psychiatric Disorders, Version IV, known simply as the DSM, and faxed it in. The letter contained a list of bipolar symptoms, so heinous that just one would have gotten me excused. I think "poor judgment" serves as an example.

But knowing the bureaucracy of our government, naturally, that letter never impacted me getting on the mailing list again.

Now, the question is: why am I going? Why not have my therapist send another letter?

For most, jury duty is simply an onerous civic duty. But for me, it makes me question the level of my disability. After all, now I can sit still; I can concentrate; I can evaluate in an unbiased manner. In the final analysis, what this means is that I can tolerate boredom just as much as the next person, so help me God. I won't claim that I'm normal, but for the purposes of jury duty, there's a chance that I might be normal enough. I won't know until I go.

Now, I have another pressing question...T., are you going to pick me up?