This whole barrista-blogger-writer-role-player-health-nut-human-being thing hasn’t been working out for me lately.
I have a part time job that is a full time job, a part time job that ought to be a full time job, a blog that no one is reading hanging over my head, at least 4 role-playing sessions that wobble between never updating and always updated, I live with my parents, struggle with chronic depression, and suffer from this bizarre emotional white noise that might be caused by too many connections between different parts of my brain. Oh, and I still can’t use the middle finger of my left hand. (Though I can touch stuff with it today.)
And there are people I know who have the gall to deny that I’m crazy.
I think everything would be all right if someone aside from me would admit that I’m just a little bit cracked.
Okay, maybe not “all right.” “Better” anyway.
But no – there’s some sort of stigma associated with being a nutcase. “Insanity” gets reduced to “stress” or “disorganization” or, my personal favorite, “mental disorder.” Chronic depression? Mental disorder. Bipolar disorder? Mental disorder. Multiple personalities? Mental disorder. Paranoid Schizophrenia? Mental disorder. Criminal sociopathy? Mental disorder.
Is it possibly we’re both cushioning the severity of language and not differentiating enough?
In some ways, though, it’s not the reduction of the severity of language that gets to me. It’s the fact that no one believes me. I say, “I’m crazy.” Everyone else says, “No you’re not – don’t say such things.” Like I’m lying. I’m not. I have the medical bills to prove it.
Yet everyone but me seems to be in denial.
Now here’s the real sucker punch:
The saying goes: “Only crazy people think they’re sane – sane people know they’re crazy.” But if you say you’re crazy and everyone around you says you’re sane, are they crazy or are you?