Chronic Schizophrenia

What could possibly be more terrifying than losing control of your mind, and knowing you had... and know that you couldn't ever get it back? From all accounts, Wesley Willis was a friendly and genteel soul who relied extensively on music -- creating it, listening to it, talking about, writing songs about other bands and songs -- to ease his often-derailed, aggravated mind. My friend Galen attests that Wesley, who enjoyed pancakes a lot, was the nicest guy you could imagine. My meeting with Wesley involved him refusing to let me buy him a soda until I'd said "rock," then "roll," then headbutted him. This happened nine times. Do you see that bump in his forehead? It feels like the stone inside of a peach. Imagine a peach pit crushing itself into your forehead with great force, your skull grinding against another human's. This hurts a lot. But this was a pretty rock 'n' roll salutation, and I endured this for Wesley, who ended up getting frustrated near the end of his set, leading to him swearing and yelling at his audience. There was no visible provocation for his outburst, but it is pretty clear that what was going on inside his head was tormenting him all evening. He seemed a bit dour even when greeting me, his brief smile flashing through the cast of worry and fear making his face at the moment I told him that I hoped he'd play some of my favorite songs. I named each of them. His grin widened, then fell, and then he mustered, gravely, "Say 'rock.' Now say 'roll.' Now head-butt me. Do it again."

Wesley's songs are known for their outlandish storytelling -- whupping Batman's ass, breaking out strangers' windshields, being best friends with musicians he's never met -- but can also tell very sincerely heartrending stories about life with a chronic mental illness. This song lays it bare: he can't escape the voices, they mock him and call him names, and he "start(s) raving" in public places, embarrassing himself, unable to hear his music above the chattering calumnious din of abusive voices in his own mind. This song and "Outburst" offer a painful glimpse into the life of a man not only ill, but pained by his symptoms and his awareness of how he seems to others. I have to wonder how it was for him to have smirking hipsters come up to him at shows, giggling about his songs. Say what you will about Wesley Willis's musical talent, but every song was him putting a piece of himself into the world, opening a window into his life for us to peer through. Some of us laugh at what we observe, but he was quite courageous for letting us see. My friends, what I see in these sadder songs scares me quite a bit. I can't imagine what he must have gone through, even with his matter-of-face recounting of his symptoms. This is, I suppose, because he eliminates any description of his emotions around knowing that he was ill. Perhaps those would have been too painful for him to make into art, even if he could have done so. Maybe he did write songs about how he felt about his illness, but chose not to share them with the world. I feel, though, that an empathetic listener can easily imagine the fear, hurt, and alienation he must have experienced during his most lucid moments. Imagining how that must have felt, dear reader, is more terrifying to me than imagining anything like vampires or zombies, possibly because I think those things cannot happen, but this could happen to any of us.