I like to think that I’m not alone when I say I’ve asked myself this question more times than I can count. “Am I Crazy?” I feel like those of us with mental illnesses ask ourselves this question almost all the time. Whether it is simply concerning an action that is to be made in the next few moments, that you cannot decide on; or if it is a reflection of a mistake in the past that current you believes to have discovered the correct course of action you should have taken back then. There are many uses of the word crazy in the mental health world, most, if not all, are of negative connotations. So naturally, hearing all the ways that crazy is a bad thing, when we ask ourselves this question, it is most certainly a dig to our self confidence. We ask ourselves are we crazy for only using the same bowl and fork for every meal. We ask when we only use a single towel for everything that a towel is used for. We ask when we have to double check that the footsteps we hear down the hall are not heading in our direction. We ask when we blow our hard earned paycheck on ridiculousness, rather than our bills. At least for me, this is something that I ask myself nearly all the time. I mean, it’s usually preceded or followed by a “What the f**k am I doing?!”

It certainly isn’t an easy thing to deal with. Especially when we saw every representation of mental illness while growing up, as some psycho mass murderer or crazy hobo wearing a tinfoil hat. This was how we’ve been represented during the late 90’s and early 2000’s. During my formative years anyways, I always tried to convince myself that I wasn’t crazy because of the way I felt. Especially since my father was, is, a bonafide “man’s man”. You know, the kind that doesn’t believe men should show any emotions, doesn’t believe in doctors or medicine, thinks physically disciplining his kids, so long as it doesn’t leave a mark, is perfectly within reason. Though when he did start leaving marks, it was always somewhere that would be covered by clothing. Though I despise my father for other reasons entirely, and that’s a talk for another day. But this kind of upbringing corrupted my mind. Even after I nearly died and ended up in an inpatient facility, I vehemently refused medications because my father felt that way, and I didn’t want him to think less of me. Yet, I still asked myself, am I crazy? What the hell am I doing? How am I going to get better without meds? I mean I nearly successfully killed myself, that ain’t normal! But if I was crazy, then what kind of crazy would I be? A “unique” serial killer? Somebody who smears their own crap on the wall and laughs? An absolute loon that is always talking about conspiracies and aliens? I mean, those were my real thoughts. I couldn’t accept that I was crazy, because the image of crazy in my mind was just so manufactured, I wouldn’t believe it. But who in their right mind takes a bottle and a half of sleeping pills because they got shot down by a girl they liked? That is top tier level crazy right there. Still, I wasn’t crazy, I was just sad and shy. That’s what I told myself.

Truth is, we’re all a bit crazy in our own respects. And I don’t just mean those with mental illness, every single person on this planet is crazy. Just because we are a different flavor of crazy shouldn’t mean that much. Sure we might have to lock the door and check 7 times to make sure it’s locked, but other than our intricacies, we are just regular old people with a screwy brain. So when you ask yourself, “Am I crazy”, you should respond with an “Of F**kin Course I Am!” And that is okay, because crazy is, most of the time, manageable or even fixable. Make sure to seek out help, now matter how wimpy you think it is. Take your meds, even when you’re sick and tired of pills, because they help more than you might think. Talk it out, with a pro, or a friend, a parent, sibling, anyone who will listen without judgement, it really does take a load of your mind. Be your own advocate. Because if you won’t fight for your own crazy ass, then who will?