Don't Call Me Crazy, I'm Just Not For You

Don’t idealize me. Don’t romanticize me or criticize me or make up stories about who I am.

Don’t make me into that girl — that crazy girl — the one you secretly wish you could reign in. Don’t make me the girl without a soul or, perhaps, too much of it.

I was born with mud under my toenails and flowers in my hair. I like to sprawl out in the grass. Bits and pieces of God-knows-what often get lost in my tangled tresses. I bow to the trees. I’m not too timid to howl at the moon.

We met when I was still yanking at a miniskirt and burning my hair with a flattening iron. I was wide-eyed. Self-conscious. Naïve. You found me endearing. I liked that at a time when I didn’t know what I liked.

It’s not your fault that we’re a mismatch. I’m just not meant to be a docile wife or doting mother or even work a regular 9-5; but that’s not my problem. In fact, I don’t find it to be problematic at all.

I’m not crazy. I’m just not for you.

I chant. Out loud in my room. Sometimes at 3 o’clock in the morning. My soul doesn’t understand time, so it chooses odd hours to come out and speak. I have tattoos and, yes, I am still able to secure a job.

I practice Yoga, but my attire consists of whatever is clean — a paint-splattered t-shirt or a pair of old spandex. I like to think I glow from the inside out.

I drink fair trade coffee with almond milk. I don’t do it because it’s trendy, but because Compassion is my religion and no creature will be harmed in the making of a beverage that costs $2.13.

I collect philosophies — you know, those slips of paper that come from fortune cookies, and I eat chocolate at midnight.

You think I’m afraid of love, but I know better. I’m a woman learning to love herself, and this requires extensive training in a self-induced course that lasts the span of a lifetime. It’s titled How to Live My Truth 101. No guidebook. No trail markers. Limited experience. I’ll figure it out.

Does this scare you? Don’t project that fear onto me. I want love just as much as the next person — but I don’t want it the way you do. And that’s what makes us different. That’s what makes me crazy.

I don’t want to be domesticated — not by another person, anyway. I’m sure the day will come when I’ll be ready to rest my wings for a while and possibly make tiny humans, but that day is not today. I only want to be pregnant with new ideas.

After enduring labor for years, I’m exhausted. But, I’ll never give up on birth. My projects are getting there — I think I can see a head. I’m a creator. I sweat blood. And this life is not for everyone.

That being said, I’m not crazy. I’m just not for you.

I hope you find her — that stylish, witty woman who combs her hair and wants to build IKEA furniture with you. I’m too awkward for that life. I would probably break something and you would get frustrated and I would laugh.

I won’t apologize for that. I can’t apologize for not becoming the person you envisioned. I can only be what I know and what I know is original, messy and free. The only person I know how to be is me.

So, don't call me crazy. Only I'm allowed to do that.