When I was a toddler, my biological mother was killed by a drunk driver. She was a passenger on a motorcycle with no helmet, and a drunk driver hit the bike with a car. Both drivers survived. My mother did not. When I was ten, my aunt told me they had to scoop my bio-mom's brain off the pavement and put it back inside her head.
I have one picture of her. It's a Polaroid from her high school graduation. You can barely even see her face.
My father was in prison for armed robbery. When I was four, he decided to fight the adoption proceedings and insist that I be removed from where I had been living since my mother's death and sent to live with his mother, who I'd never met or even talked to on the phone. When I was six, he signed the adoption papers because my adopted grandfather (who is biologically my great uncle) paid him $5,000. That's about all I know. I've never seen a picture of him.
I was adopted by my cousin who wasn't sure she could have kids. She kept in contact with my biological family, and I saw my bio-mom's sister occasionally when I was small. But then my aunt started acting weird, and started telling me some really messed up stuff that, really, who knows if it's true? She lies a lot, and she's known for being a little bit crazy. In my teens, I cut contact with her because I was just done.
I reached out to her in my twenties, and she tried to convince me to leave Big and go be caretaker of her apartment complex in West Virginia. She got really angry when I said no, and I haven't spoken to her since. I have enough problems of my own without adding in that drama.
I was a smart kid who picked up schoolwork quickly, so there was always a lot of pressure on me to do well. If I didn't get an A on my report card, it was the end of the world. If I got lower than a B on an assignment, I was in some pretty deep shit. At some point between eighth and ninth, I cracked under that pressure, and decided to just let the chips fall where they may.
I've never lived in any house longer than five years. My father was in the military. When I was a child, I'd make up fantastical stories to tell the other kids to make them think I was cool and dangerous. It was fun, and it didn't matter because back then, there was no such thing as the internet, and I was moving in a matter of years, so no one I was going to meet would know who I used to be, anyway. In reality, I was terrified they'd all figure out I was a nobody.
My parents put me in a private Church of Christ school for seventh and eighth, and I absolutely was a nobody. All the kids were upper middle class or rich, and they'd been going to that school since they were in kindergarten. Most of them had attended the church the school was affiliated with since they were born. Making friends was next to impossible. On top of that, I attended a Baptist church, which meant all of my teachers thought I was going to hell, and had no qualms telling me so.
High school was all about abusive boyfriends, sexual assault, suicide attempts, and drugs.
When I moved out of my parents' house, I spent a lot of time house hopping, couch surfing, and homeless, for various reasons, but mostly because my high school sweetheart wouldn't let me keep a job, and had no work ethic of his own so he was always losing his. There were often months where my ex and I weren't together, and I'd apply for jobs, but no one wants to hire a high school dropout who can't hold down a job.
My ex went to prison when I was in my early twenties, leaving me penniless and homeless and without any form of transportation in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere full of small town businesses that wouldn't hire me because of who he was. And I dove to the bottom of every bottle and bag of coke I could find. I never had to pay for any of it. Not with money, anyway.
I lost about six months along the way. I had a nervous breakdown, and I was committed to the local mental ward by the small town police, and I don't remember much of anything leading up to it besides trying to drown it all in drugs and drink. And then, when I got out, the guilt drove me right back to the edge, over and over, holding my head under water until I thought my lungs would burst, and I thought maybe I'll just let myself drown.
I saw a dual diagnosis counselor until we moved away, and then, for a while after we moved away, until she became overwhelmed, describing my life as an explosion. I got a job, and I rose in rank quickly. I began attending a pagan temple occasionally. I got married. I got sober. And I stayed fucking crazy.
Depression? Anxiety? Ffs. We're way beyond that. We're fucking crazy!
I wore my crazy like a badge of honor. Wrapped it around me like that old quilt your great-grandma made 75 years ago that's sort of stiff, but so soft, and somehow still smells like her even though she's been dead for eight years. Snuggled down into it and let it dictate my whole life.
Gotta go grocery shopping today but can't because I'm fucking crazy.
Gotta pay the bills today but can't because I'm fucking crazy.
Gotta get to work today but for fuck's sake, can't you see I'm fucking crazy?
Crazy is comfortable. When you're crazy, people aren't shocked by anything you do. When you're crazy, you're not shocked by anything anyone else does because you're crazy and how can you possibly expect people to treat you the way you'd like to be treated when they can't trust you to not be fucking crazy.
A few years ago, I realized I was using crazy as a crutch. I'm allowed to be mean, not keep my word, snub people who care about me for cracking a joke that hurts my feelings, whatever. I'm crazy!
When I realized that, crazy wasn't so comfortable anymore. It was holding me back, making me a really nasty person (not in the good way). And I was letting it. And that kinda grosses me out.
So, I've been trying to fix my crazy. And I feel like all the times before when I was trying to fix my crazy, I wasn't actually trying. But old habits die hard, and I still feel that tug. Who cares? You're crazy. Just be crazy. Crazy is fine. Crazy is comfortable.
But I know I can do better.
My world isn't upside down, anymore. I have a husband who loves me. I have a home I love. I'm rebuilding relationships with my family. I'm trying to move forward. I have no idea what I want to accomplish in whatever time I've got left, but I know that I want to keep moving. That's more than I've ever known. I think it's a good thing to know.
Comfortable. Way more comfortable than crazy.
💜
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