Crazy

Photo by Gabriela Velasco

It is man’s defining synonym for women they feel they owe no justice to: crazy. She’s crazy. I have heard many a man describe a woman as “crazy” in my life, and I have had many a man describe me as such, maybe because they don’t have the time to tell the truth. Or maybe, they just don’t have the guts to. From my own father and every father figure I’ve ever had to nearly every ex-boyfriend I’ve ever had, the men in my life pass these judgements on women, doling out diagnoses like awards to the least liked women in their histories. 

The C-word, after being labelled as such, turns a woman’s life onto the path of disenfranchisement, turning the mention of her name into an invitation to gawk and promoting the masses to the judge, jury, and executioner of her reputation. Perhaps it’s harsh, but I’ve stopped giving people the benefit of the doubt. I’m a college sophomore and to this day I hear new stories of how I’m being labelled a slut thanks to one high school accusation or another. People talk and wonder til the day they die. After they call you crazy, people like to speculate why, to fill in the blanks with the fumbled quotes of one person or another down the line. After a man calls you crazy, certain people listen and will count you out. 

Inevitably, after I’m called crazy by a man, I like to walk and talk like everything is normal, and then think about every single thing I’ve ever done wrong in my head. I start to think that I deserve it, to justify their words. Even now, I think about some of the things I’ve done and think, “Well that was pretty out of line.” I have diagnosed BPD and Bipolar, am I crazy? 

In true think-piece fashion, I could draw you in, chuckle and say, “It’s not that simple.” But the reality is that it is exactly that simple! I’m not crazy. And neither is my Father’s fiancé, or any of my ex’s exes, or all of the nameless women that have been talked down upon in my presence at any point in my life. If you’ve been called crazy, because you likely have, I’d like to confirm what I hope you already suspect: you’re not. 

For some reason, it never occurred to me to start writing off entire people, entire relationships with two highly stigmatized syllables. If only it could be so easy! It is the brain’s nature to classify, to separate and organize, and I suppose I understand why one would want to one-off the messier things in life in the pursuit of comfortable classification. But I don’t forgive. 

“Crazy” often feels like the modern day equivalent of female hysteria to me. When a woman speaks or behaves in a way that a man cannot understand and certainly cannot tolerate, she must be ill. Emotions, sensitivities, natural reactions are all written off as symptoms of a greater defect within the woman. And while it is flashy and all to cry wolf and have the woman burned at the social stake, I think it’s more than a holler for the sanatarium. It’s a fucking cop out. 

If one had used empathy, if one had put proper thought into the different perspectives of a situation, if one chooses to take any level of personal responsibility, crazy would not be a word in their vocabulary to describe people of difficulty to them. And let’s face it, nobody becomes crazy alone. Especially in the case of the relationship, no one individual can be blamed for everything, and everyone must hold themselves accountable for their actions. To call a woman crazy is to admit that you will not be taking any blame, and you most definitely will not be holding yourself accountable. 

I think about conversations I’ve had with men in the confidence of beds, beaches, cars, and restaurant tables, divulging my struggles with mental health and trauma. Blue eyes with long lashes reassuring me that they understood and would never judge me for that. All the smiles and firm touches telling me that I’m so much more, only to turn away down the line and pass that judgement anyways. To preach it to people who don’t know me. I’m so eager to convince everyone that I’m not what they say, that it is a conversation I will have again and again in my life with anyone who will listen. It’s no longer a matter of, is this important to who I am? It’s important to protect myself at this point, to safeguard against being reduced to a single word ever again. Or so it feels like. 

I became more disillusioned to the world when I got older and realized that my truth will never be told. I can write and write, bitch and moan, and still forever be that girl. I became apart of this world on the condition that others may judge my character and actions as they please. I can accept that. But what I cannot accept is having my existence diminished because a man decided to cop-out. I don’t want it for any woman. 

I want to kick myself for every time I listened to a man call a woman crazy and believed it. I want to grab myself by the face and scream, “Don’t listen”. These days, I don’t trust men who do it. I don’t date men who talk down on their exes. When his lips curl up and blurt out the C-word, I ask questions. 

My solidarity is with the women whose sides are not heard. With the women guilty of shattering their idealized forms in the minds of men. With women who disappoint, misbehave, and commit any other sins of personhood. It is not a burden to ask to be understood or respected, and I pity the men who could not carry that weight and give you justice.