Here is another installment of my writing pieces. This is a definition essay. I am defining that I’m not crazy, did you get that memo? Enjoy!
I’m not Crazy!
I am not crazy. I am not someone who is running around without clothes on and screaming out the greatest song of the ‘70’s. I am not living in some sort of housing building and have to rock as I speak. I do not holler all night long for some dead relative who have been dead longer then I have been alive. I am not lithium or risperdal. I am not someone who listens to the voices in my head. I do not believe that the government is going after me because I am know too much. But I am not normal. I do not with my parents. I do not follow the normal news stories. I do not use proper grammar while I am speaking to my teachers or to my boss. I did not grow up with normal parents. Matter of fact, I did not even grow up with my parents most of the time. So, what am I? I am me, end of story.
Crazy is defined as mentally deranged; demented; insane; senseless; impractical; totally unsound. When you put it that way, I am crazy. I talk to myself, I don’t make the smart decisions in life, I am not practical, I waste my time and most of all, I am no where being sound. I don’t think the human body make that much sound, only the vocal cords make sound. I am not complete deranged, only when I go crazy. But aren’t I always crazy? By many standards I am crazy. But why? I do not understand. I babble, I do not wear dresses at fancy dress events and I babble at those events. I am a woman. I am a redhead. I am a young adult who really is confusing about why life must suck so much and I am wondering why the hell I was in such a rush to be at this stage?
I also know that I am not normal. I had a mother with bipolar disorder with borderline personality disorder. My father has paranoid schizophrenia. My grandfather (who I lived with) has aspergers. My grandmother really didn’t like children. My other grandparents where just as crazy. My other grandmother didn’t know how to handle or speak to child (she had three children) and my other grandfather let my read Stephen King and the Brothers Grimm as my first reading books. I could tell you stories about things I learned and things that I figured out early in life. You never disturb someone who is yelling about the government and is waving around a knife. You do not buck someone you just listened about baseball for four hours. You do not ask your mother about being fat while she is in the “evil mommy” mode. You learn that you are not as important as the television and the reruns. You learn that being a redhead is just another curse and that people will touch your hair all the time. But overall, you will learn that your life will give you great material for a sitcom and it is great to scare away nasty looking boys.
Again, I will repeat myself that I am not crazy. I am special. I am Steph. I am woman. I am a redhead. I am smart. I can be a smarty-pants! But I am not crazy. I am not crazy. Again, I am not crazy. I just know things that you don’t know. I dealt with things that you haven’t dealt with; I have funny stories that you don’t. And most of all I know I am not normal.