“She’s Crazy, But in a Good Way.”

Yes, I deal with mental illness. But please don’t call me crazy.

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Photo by Timothy Paul Smith on Unsplash

“You’re the least crazy person I’ve ever dated.”

It just felt right. Easy. I loved who I was with him: competent, adventurous, clever, sexy. Anything was possible.

“You’re the least crazy person I’ve ever dated.”

No, I told him. No. No. No. I’m definitely crazy. How do you not know yet that I’m crazy?

One year later, I had a panic attack while snorkeling off the coast of a deserted Thai island in the Andaman Sea.

Just that month, we’d gotten engaged.

I fancied myself as Clementine in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

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Photo by Valerie Elash on Unsplash

Too many guys think I’m a concept, or I complete them, or I’m gonna make them alive. But I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s looking for my own peace of mind. Don’t assign me yours. — Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Crazy meant I had literally made plans to kill myself. The possibility was inside of me, and it was something he needed to know about.

“Yeah, she’s crazy. But her crazy’s beautiful to me.”

I’m married to that guy now. Five years ago, I promised him I wouldn’t kill myself, as a condition of having a kid together. I’ve gone to therapy. I’m doing really well.

“ Her day starts with a coffee
And ends with a wine.
Takes forever getting ready,
She’s never on time, for anything”

I’m rolling my eyes and, as usual, trying to imagine how much my kid understands, and how much I’m screwing her up at this very moment.

“Yeah, she’s crazy
But her crazy’s beautiful to me”

Wait, what?!

Yeah, she’s crazy
She’s crazy
Yeah, she’s crazy
But her crazy’s beautiful to me
Her crazy’s beautiful to me

We don’t get any good clues about what makes his beloved so “crazy.” I mean, coffee in the morning and wine at night sounds like the definition of basic.

  • She says, “Let’s stay on the couch and watch TV.”
  • She falls asleep on the couch.
  • She wears her heart on her sleeve.
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Clearly crazy. Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

My husband doesn’t call me crazy.

I can call myself crazy all day and night, but I don’t want him to. It’s a sure way to hurt me. The few times he’s said it, out of anger, one pointed look from me has been enough for him to immediately apologize.

“Do you still think I’m the least crazy person you’ve ever dated?”

I ask my husband. We’ve been together 9 years now, and he’s seen it all: the slew of meds I went on to handle my post-partum depression and anxiety, and, even worse, the withdrawal I went through when I decided to go off them.

Written by

Empathy for the win! Published in Gen, Human Parts, Heated, Tenderly —Feminism, Sexuality, Veganism, Anti-Racism, Parenting. She/They darcyreeder.substack.com

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