To be called crazy is one thing. As an individual you can process that word however you choose; maybe relating, maybe feeling misunderstood offensively or defensively, or maybe just indifferent. But when called or referred to as crazy when you are a mother, there is no contemplating the word, you are simply hyper accelerated into a next level category loaded with stigma.
I am a bit sensitive to this word these days. I have displayed antics over the past couple of years that are worthy of a raised eyebrow, at the very least, and definitely a topic of conversation for mutual friends to discuss over drinks, or dinner, or group texts. I don’t deny that if I were on the outside looking in, that I would also indulge in a conversation about me. As a matter of fact, I find myself so interesting I am constantly trying to find ways to put myself on blast so that I can shoot this thing out for the world to gobble up, regurgitate, devour again, and so on. Being an openly sexual woman, telling my true and fictional stories including erotica, embracing BDSM as a legitimate outlet for some’s mental stability even my own, and hoping to create a community of like-minded individuals, is not for everyone. I am not offended by that.
I believe in projection, that what I put out into the world bounces back. I think that if I want to be an honest person willing to reach down deep inside, so that even the ugly is beautiful enough to expose, that I will attract the people I really want in my life, which means it will be filled with love.
I know, I know…that’s soooo crazy. It is crazy…feeling…when you are ending a 12 year union (8 married), with two beautiful, young children that are like our spirit animals, while undergoing a frustrating and clumsy transition in career, and living in the most beautiful city that we can barely afford to live in. This does feel crazy, believe me.
My mother must have reached this place. Once, or thousands of times, she must have been here wondering if her wants are strong enough to disrupt what IS, and knowing her convictions would have to be strong enough to turn into realities. Can she do it?
My mother did not leave with her convictions and create new realities. She did not leave and create a space that suited her better where she felt she could be herself and thrive as an individual. As her daughter, I did not get to see my mother bloom her fullest bloom, or dance her personal dance with all her best moves. I understand her sacrifice staying married, what she sacrificed of herself, what she never got to know. Maybe self-doubt was the cloud that took the light from her, I don’t know, but as her daughter and now a mother, I believe that she could have used some support. As her daughter I don’t want her sacrifice to live in vain. As her daughter, I would like to give her sacrifice some honor by becoming a woman that chose to live full of life.
To my mother, who I have called crazy, who I have misunderstood, whom I was disappointed in and maybe have disappointed, I understand. I’m crazy, too. Maybe even crazy enough for us both.