So here I am again. Twice yesterday someone called me “crazy”. All in good fun of course, but my brain shuts down on me and goes Are you crazy? Is that what they really think? Unfortunately for me I’ve played along and made jokes my entire life about how “crazy” I am.
Here’s the definition of crazy.
ˈkrāzē informal adjective
mentally deranged, especially as manifested in a wild or aggressive way “Stella went crazy and assaulted a visitor” synonyms: mad, insane, out of one’s mind, crazed, lunatic, non composmentis, unhinged, mad as a hatter, mad as a March hare;
Extremely enthusiastic “I’m crazy about Cindy” synonyms: passionate about, (very) keen on, enamored of, infatuated with, smitten with, devoted to;
adverb NORTH AMERICAN I’ve been crazy busy”
noun NORTH AMERICAN
mentally deranged person
(Sorry about the spacing for some reason it won’t fix.)
Well I’m not. I’m not crazy, crazed, cray cray or the like. I’m your friend, your daughter, your niece, your cousin, your wife. I’m a mom. I have been though a lot of things in my life. A Lot. That would make anyone feel and act differently. But I’m not crazy. I stand up for myself. I fight. I yell. But I’m not crazy. I’m a mom, I’m a chaperone, I’m a dishwasher. But I’m not crazy. I’m a cook, a maid, a singer, but I’m not crazy.
I have a mental illness that effects my ability to control emotions. But I’m not crazy.
I have bad days, and good days and mideocore days. But I am not crazy.
I don’t know why it’s now that this bothers me. But it does. It almost hurts my feelings when it’s said. Trust me I know that no one else means it the way that I take it. I know they are using “crazy” as a form of fun. It’s not.
So in conclusion. I’m not crazy, and I’m pretty crazy about it.
Hugs – kuddos and kiddos