The shocking, brutal murder of a NY psychologist on the Upper East Side has been all over the local news. Last week, a 56-year old doctor was attacked in her office with a meat cleaver. The killer left bags full of knives, womens' clothing and adult diapers at the scene.
People joke that NYers are nuts. Woody Allen didn't help our image, playing very anxious and very New York characters in his movies.
I don't disagree. Many New Yorkers are open about their mental health, and it's quite accepted to be seeking help. One of my bosses openly announces when he's off to his shrink. Sadly, not everyone who needs has enough funds or awareness to seek it. I've met people here who could frankly use some form of therapy.
Two such people lived in my last building on the Upper West Side, a small, five-floor walk-up. One woman seemed to have a persecution complex. She'd open her door just a crack if you knocked, and shout for you to back away from the door.
The other woman must have had a social disorder that made her walk around with a visor pulled over her eyes and carry a piece of paper directly in front of her face. Both women looked like they'd never had their hair cut.
Unfortunately, I got on the bad side of Crazy Woman II. She slid angry, hand-written notes under my door, accusing me of bounding, heavy-footed, down the stairs. Somehow she thought that I walked like elephants hurling bowling balls. She advised me to downsize the high heels I must have worn because of my petite stature, forgetting the 6-foot-6 giant that lived one floor above me.
At one point, Crazy Woman I and Crazy Woman II were angry with one another. I thought I'd witness a Godzilla-Rodan battle, but before the first crazy stone could be lobbed, Crazy Woman II moved out.
Anyway, the recent murder is terribly disturbing. After watching a news segment on the woman's funeral, Mark said, 'There are a lot of crazy people in this city.'