I'm not high, seriously!

I don’t know who I am. Not really. Am I even real? Are my thoughts my own? Do other people think the way I do?

It’s hard to know how to define ourselves. Maybe that’s because we shouldn’t. Maybe we defy definition. Maybe we’re so much more than the human mind can grasp. Maybe.

I have so many thoughts. Some seem logical and sane. Some seem overly emotional and slightly off-centre. But then there are some that just completely fly in from out of nowhere and make me think I must be in some sort of deep well of crazy. Or, maybe not crazy exactly, but more just “not normal.” Does that make any kind of sense? My guess is no, but I needed to ask anyway.

My therapist assures me that I’m not crazy, but sometimes I think she might just be saying that, so I don’t freak out and lose my shit. Are therapists allowed to do that? Can they lie if they think it’s in the best interest of their client? Maybe. I don’t know, I’m not a therapist. I thought about becoming one once, but my grandmother told me I was much too sensitive for that line of work. Too sensitive. Maybe that’s the answer.

I’m not crazy, I’m just too sensitive. In all fairness, I should point out that the same grandmother who said I was too sensitive, also used to call me a lunatic. She said it affectionately, of course, but the word still implied that she thought I was super cray cray. You know, the funny thing is that I’m reaching a point in my life where I’m not sure if I care whether I’m genuinely crazy or not. I mean, does it matter? So, what if I am? I imagine there’s a lot of us running around or, in my case, sitting around.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I need to find my people, my kind of crazy people. I’m not sure where to look for them or how I’ll know if I find them, though. Maybe all the crazy people on earth are completely crazy in their own unique ways and none of us belong to any one group. Maybe we’re all meant to come together in some sort of grand puzzle, each bringing our own unique and necessary piece to the mix, ensuring that the result is something vast, complex, and colourful.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that I’m tired of trying to fit in, I’m tired of trying to be normal, and I’m tired of trying to keep my brand of crazy on a leash. No more. From now on, I’m letting it loose. So, what if I become the crazy old witch in the dilapidated house at the end of a dead-end street in the middle of Nowheresville? Whatever. I might like that, in fact. Heck, I’ve been dreaming about being abducted by aliens, so why not? And when I say dreaming about, I don’t mean I’ve been having night dreams about abductions, but rather that my dream – or want – is to be abducted by aliens. I think it’d be cool. Scary, probably, but cool, nonetheless. It'd definitely be a break from the norm, which would be awesome, at this point.

You see, I don’t want to live in the world. (No, I’m not suicidal and will not be killing myself. Not on purpose anyway.) I’m just finding it increasingly difficult to wake up each morning only to learn that I haven’t be transported to a different time or a different life. The crazy thing – of course there’s a crazy thing – the crazy thing is that I don’t hate or dislike my life. I just feel like I’m not where I should be and I’m not who I should be. Now, before you ask, no, I don’t know where I should be or who I should be, which is part of the problem. I feel like a fish out of water. Although, fish aren’t all that intriguing to me, so let’s call me a mermaid out of water instead. I can work with that, I think.

Some of you may be wondering if I’m high on something. I’m not. This is just my crazy brain taking the lead. Some days it’s crazier than others. Today is a bit higher on the crazy metre than usual, but it's still not nearly half as crazy as I usually get or can get.

Either way, I’m certain that I’ll never be normal, whatever that’s supposed to look like. I also know that I don’t feel like I’m “less” because of that. It’s just who I am. The thing I do regret or worry myself over is the fact that my brand of crazy has, at times, negatively impacted those around me, my loved ones, most especially my ex-husband and my children. I feel remorse for that. I can’t go back and be better or less crazy, unfortunately, and I can’t stop the crazy now or its impact on the people currently in my life, like my parents, sister, roommate, and coworkers. All I can really do is warn them – be on alert, as I’m nuttier than a fruitcake. (It's really best not to take anything personally!)

With that said, I should point out that this also means that when I love someone or something, it’s generally all or nothing, and it’s never conditional. I think that’s one of the good things about me, maybe. For others, not for me. I seem to get the wrong end of the stick when it comes to love but I’m not sure that it really matters in the end. I think maybe we’re enriched by the love we give, not the love we receive. Receiving love is a bonus, not the point or purpose of giving love.

I feel like I should have a point to make with this writing, but I really don’t. I’m just writing. Just because. And I’ve decided, that’s okay. Read it or don’t. That’s okay, too, but I will leave you with is this – what does crazy even mean? It’s a judgement. A societal creation. Maybe, I’m not crazy. Maybe, I’m just me, and me is different than you. Maybe different doesn’t mean crazy for one and sane for the other. Maybe we're all just uniquely separate pieces in the one all-consuming puzzle of life.

Crazy. Different. Weird. Lunatic. Nuts. Strange. Whatever. It's all good.