Observation: One of the strangest joys of doing these for 270 days now is the revelations in the “What the flub?!” moments—the places where the mind slips, stumbles, and something sparks. This morning, because it’s Sunday, I accidentally called my My Life in Balance series my “Series of Self.”
For a second, I caught myself—How vain, always thinking of yourself!—and then realized that voice wasn’t mine at all. It was auto-generated by the haters, the baiters, the master-(de)baters. Well, screw that. They don’t get a loop in my head. I know what I know: the quest is to keep myself in balance. If only they’d listen, they might even learn a thing or two.
Here’s something more revealing: since the local toxic bros started calling me “crazy,” “insane,” “schizophrenic,” etc., I’ve become hyper-aware of how often I casually call myself “crazy.” That habit was formed early, when as an exceptional young woman, I realized I needed a defense mechanism—a pre-emptive shield, a wink-and-nod to disarm petty, fragile men. The same kind of men who historically have used the word like a cudgel because they cannot believe a self-actualized woman might decline to eat their shit, professionally or personally.
I’ve been holding back from embracing “My Crazy” because I didn’t want to give them “ammunition.” But today, mid-sentence, it clicked: I don’t need to be afraid of that word. One, I’m not crazy. Two, I’m not going to let these clowns strip away an integral part of me—the part that understands we’re all a little crazy, and that’s exactly what makes each of us us.
I don’t care what they think of me, because I surrender to the truth: I cannot control their behavior. I cannot control what they think or say. I cannot control them. They refuse my guidance and teachings. The only thing I can control is me. And I choose to keep them out of my consciousness.
I am free. Free to be me—wild, wise, whole.