Normal, Crazy

Just words.

Normal, crazy.

But they are words that used to dominate my existence.

I cannot tell you how many nights these words kept me awake, how often they emptied my days, kept my mind from exploring deeper, richer places. I could have known so much, did know so much, but all that mattered was Normal, and all I was was Crazy.

People telling me I wasn’t crazy were no help at all, as good-intentioned as they were. I would just shake my head at them, because they didn’t Know. That dreaded word was imprinted on my brain, entwined around my soul. Normal was something I could see and not be. I longed to be those who didn’t seem to think, whose main concern was morning traffic or what color to paint the living room wall. But I had been thrown into the world of the Crazies, the ones who are consumed by those questions society buries deep, like who we are and why we are here, and what we should do. As a child, I felt almost betrayed. Promised a mindless existence and then denied. MTV and shopping malls and Christmas cards told me life was pretty whatever, something not to be taken too seriously, riddled by few concerns and ripe with opportunities to relieve the boredom.

Normal, Crazy.
Crazy, Normal.

My life didn’t stop revolving around this never-ending anxiety until last year. When an old friend shrugged and said, I don’t worry about that anymore. I’ve accepted my crazy.

This comment, said so nonchalantly, so casually, struck me dumb. The possibility to accept myself as am I had truly never occured to me. That I could make peace with my crazy, live with it. Maybe even use it to my advantage.

It may sound silly, but I finally felt free. As if someone had unleashed my shackles, unlocked my cage. Love my crazy. Live my crazy. Be my crazy. And be okay with it.

So I’m not normal, I’m crazy.

Crazy and proud.