"Crazy" is boiling a bunny. Can we just agree? Granted, this is a fictional example, but I think it goes without saying that obsession usually leads to poor decision making, and that is real. There have been many documented cases of real-life obsession, and this constitutes being "crazy."
Like driving from Houston to Orlando to kidnap your ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend, while wearing space diapers so you don't have to stop to go to the bathroom; like ex-astronaut, Lisa Nowak, did. Wouldn't want to miss your window of opportunity to pepper spray that new bitch in the face, bind her hands and feet and dump her in the ocean. Sometimes commitment to the cause means crapping in your drawers, and that is fucking crazy.
|Lisa Nowak Mug Shot|
Or climbing down your boyfriend's chimney. What? Is "boyfriend" too strong a label for a man you met on the internet and only went on six dates with? Eh, we'll give "love" the benefit of the doubt and say no. Is lodging yourself in his chimney whilst climbing down like Santa to spy on him a little nuts? Yes. This is certifiably crazy. Especially when he catches you up on his roof staking the place out a full two weeks before. (That's called a red-flag, but also: crazy.)
Is jealousy "crazy"? No. It's unattractive. How about insecurity? Nope. It just makes you look really fucking ugly.
There also exists such phenomena as: differences of opinion, misunderstandings, and miscommunication - all of which fall under the category of "being human." When I raise my voice, it's because I assume you can't hear me over the noise of the chatter online. When I cry, it's not because I'm on my period--
THE PERIOD. The expressway to crazy town. If you want to see crazy come out to play, boys, invalidate a woman's feelings by attributing them to her monthly cycle. That's a sure fire way to invite the real crazy to the party. If you want Hasenpfeffer stew for dinner, ask a woman if she's on her period while you're having an argument.
Listen, I'll concede that, in the heat of the moment or out of sheer frustration, we women have a flair for the dramatic. We can be a little "over the top." (We can also be cool, calm, collected and make kick-ass great arguments, but I'm talking about the "Crazy" mis-label here, not the "Bitch" one. That's a whole other blog entry.) I admit that I have come a bit unglued and have spiraled down the rabbit hole. But I'm not crazy, and I can say this with certainty, because despite the obscure - albeit true - instances of crazy that have made headlines, I've been up close and personal with crazy. I've seen crazy first hand, and it looks like this:
Crazy is delegating my grown son to place a tracking device on my estranged husband's car so I can keep tabs on where he goes. This makes it so much easier to identify where he parks at lunch so I have time to key his car. Repeatedly.
Pictures? Old keepsakes of our time together? Little mementos of the heart? Oh, they're taped under my toilet seat lid, so they can have the pleasure of smelling my ass as I defecate and face my pool of urine after I relieve myself.
Who am I talking about? My grandmother, of course! Sweet little old granny was fucking crazy. Crazy is a broken heart, on steroids, backed by action. Crazy is a bitter tongue fueled by alcohol and heartache.
Lazy is a blog, recalling all the tears I've cried and the hurts I've felt, offering up countless tales and admissions of my wrong doings, hoping someone can identify and relate so I don't feel so alone while searching for atonement.
So let's lay off the crazy talk, eh? Most of us just have a lot of scars, and we're trying to get by the best we can.