I hate the designation of mental illness. Loathe might be a better choice, yet I’m forced, for lack of a better term, to use it. Those two words, “mental illness,” hang around my neck like a millstone. The cynic in me even prefers “crazy,” but I’ve never truly settled, truly felt peace with a way of speaking about myself that is both comfortable to the heart, to the ear and requires little in the way of explanation. So as odd and as easy as it rolls off the tongue, I find myself most at home with crazy. It just seems a bit more honest, less contagious and it suits me just fine enough that I can live with it, though I doubt that you’ll find me introducing myself as crazy, as entertaining, and as oddly truthful as that might be. No, I take that back, you probably will find me putting out a hand one day at church with a “Hi, I’m crazy” slipping right out.

Continue reading “Me and My Crazy Self”