My name is Elaina J. and I am certifiably crazy. By definition on Dictionary.com – crazy means
I don’t do drugs (well, without a prescription note), yet some of you call me “Crazy.”
If you knew me well you would know that I like to sleep in, that I wash my hair every other day, and that I savor friendships. I am an amended-chip-o-holic (though sometimes the potato and salt get to me). I like good wine. I like good friends. I like good relationships.
Today – at the salon, online, everywhere it seemed – people were talking about “crazy” people. I am one of those people. My mind doesn’t work in the regular way your mind does. That does not mean I am dangerous. (I reassured my hair stylist I was stable). We, with mental illness are not scary, or need not be. We are “mindfully different.”1.
I met someone today who has a schizophrenic brother in an upstate institution. We spoke about what that might be like for him – a 35-yr-old. Seems he falls into the trap so many of us mentally ill fall into: I am better. It is not the medicine, it is me that is making me well. I don’t need the meds. I am well.
The truth is you are not well. You are still dealing with an illness and, perhaps, the only way you made sense of this is through your illness.
I want you to thrive. THRIVE!. I don’t want to be reading sad, sob stories.
I want you to live!
So, if you want, claim “crazy.” I do. I told my former partner that I had dibs on the crazy and within my family I am the “crazy” one.
But believe that following doctor’s orders and taking medication and going to therapy make you a little less “crazy.” I know I am better off for it.
- I claim that phrase [↩]