The worst part of being crazy is that I know I’m crazy. Crazy cause discredit in the mind, The source is no longer reliable. An unreliable source is hearsay, gossip, contrived and brushed away like crumbs off a white linen tablecloth.
Crazy is also an identifier that society feels comfortable blocking me into. I am securely sat in the realm of “crazy” for longer than I care to remember.
I can be written off. Like most women, people of color, trans folk, and any/other other subset of culture. I’m crazy. Right.
He left because she’s crazy.
She lost that job because she’s crazy.
So-and-so thinks so, but I hear the bitch is crazy.
Just to expel the rumors, it’s true. I am nuts. Completely, totally, off-my-rocker, grade-A, choice-meat, psycho.
I want freedom and abandon. I want child-like innocence and wise-mind results. I seek out adventures, experiences, and lessons in my life. I pay the Iron Price. I make cheap GOT references. (Deal with it!) I want to breathe deeply, and have it ache when all the air departs my body, and for the split second I am starved and dying, for the microsecond it takes for my body to inhale again. I want to highlight that instant, and fall into it again and again. That place between sleeping and waking, while Julia Roberts as Tinkerbell will always love Robin Williams as Peter Pan. I want that. And I have, my whole life.
When your whole life is a shade of brown, white and black look so clear. Really, don’t we all suffer the same, longing across next door for what our neighbor takes for granted? His eyes trained on our forsaken prizes, grass always turning greener around the septic tank…we don’t know what we want. And the minute you think you do, you’ve lost a grip on your own piece of mind.
But as I grow older, I do learn more about what I want. It is still based in what I do NOT want, but it narrows over time. I want laughter, in abundant amounts. I want challenge-intellectually, physically, emotionally. I want Eddie Izzard, lost generation literature, zombies, South Park, Plato, and shots of tequila all on the same night, commingling as good dinner guests would. I want my friends to embrace each other as mutual friends, which I mostly have already.
I have more of these than I notice. I’m sure.
Life steers us however our winds blow. I blow hard and hot, and then sailors are trapped in the doldrums for months at a time, passively floating from one wave to the next, hoping a strong gust will blow a difference through.
Maybe I need more horror movies. My mind is scariest thing I see these days, and that’s never good for me.
Maybe I should’ve stayed in New England. Or at home, for that matter.
But I can’t regret my heart. I didn’t think, and I (as I so often am apt to do) regret my mind, but my heart chose correctly. Life is more than my job and my house and my car, isn’t it? It’s the cliched quote of the week, and should mean more than the summary of what comprises a livelihood from our existence. It should be that very existence. That raw moment between, when words don’t soothe and touch feels foreign. That singular, solitary quality that is life as an adult. The realization that we’re alone, and surrounded, at the same time. The official notice that it doesn’t get easier, it just gets easier to fake.
If I had the choice, I’d do it all over again. But I’d try to enjoy it more. Even when the good is short lived, it’s still good. And it’s never the last good you get. All bad preludes good. The worse it is, the better it will be. It has to be. Or else why are we here?
Make it be. Make all the awful better. Make your life better, your self better, and your world better. Someone needs to.