Crazy.

My friend is out of town and he connected with me to check on… Stuff. He had a Christmas party complete with open bar and strippers. He’s feeling it. I had a Christmas party complete with tutus and a dirty Santa gift that is the envy of … Well no-one but whatever. He’s been a great friend and I find myself connecting with him over and over. Years ago before I got hurt and became more guarded and became an expert at pushing people away, before life kicked the shit out of me, when I was optimistic and dreamy, I met him. I remember sitting on his couch telling him about… Stuff. He said “You are my kind of crazy”.

Just enough to keep you on your toes and make the sex fantastic but nobody calls the cops. I’ve slowly learned to control my crazy. Mostly. I talk less, listen more. I have a filter with most people.

A memory recently floated into my mind and stuck there. My mother in law was accused of being “off her rocker” and people called her crazy behind her back. She said quietly to me once “I’m not crazy. I will never forgive this.” I understand her now. I wish I did then. She wasn’t crazy. She was tired. She was tired of being fed a line of bullshit and expected to smile while eating it. She was reactionary and passionate. She was fierce and loyal. She wasn’t crazy. The men in her life told her she was crazy. What they actually mean is “You aren’t quiet and doing what I say. You are challenging me and it makes me uncomfortable so I’m going to discount and discredit you.”

I’m so tired of being called crazy. I’m not crazy. I’ve seen crazy. I can show you crazy. I am tired, not crazy.

So he sends me a text checking in. We talk about… Stuff. The banter slides across my screen easily and I wonder if he still thinks I’m crazy.

It would be too much work to convince him I’m not, and I realize how much I don’t care.