Thoughts on ‘Crazy,’ and crepes

Holy SHIT, guys, this month has been crazy. Big assignment after big assignment, continued problems with my laptop (I’ve been on and off the crappy Italian one I had to buy in Firenze when my hard drive crashed and burned since the semester’s start), health issues, dating scrapes… just, ever’thin goin’ on. However, a silver lining: I FINALLY have my laptop back, hopefully for good this time.

So, like the plethora of randoms I’ve been juggling, so shall I toss a couple unrelated odds n ends your way:

Aside from the obligatory obsession with school (this semester includes papal tombs, the hand-and-eye symbol and its cosmological implications, and the pro and cons of the digitization of museum collections), I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of ‘crazy’:

I have had many a guy friend bemoan the ubiquity of “crazy girls,” and how they can never seem to steer clear of the black hole that is the “borderline schizo” ex. Before dispensing with my (occasionally sought after) advice, I first ask, “Well, did she have the crazy eyes? Ya know, the ‘caged-tiger-about-to-strike’ eyes?”

However, this isn’t always the case. Sometimes, I know the ex in question and am fairly certain the “crazy eyes” tag doesn’t apply. So, my next question usually is, “Was she really crazy? Or did ya make her crazy?” Much like George Carlin’s astute observations regarding the delicate nuances of male/female relations, I always want to know if there was beaucoup mis- or non-existent communication. I can’t tell you how many times I heard my line cook guys complain about “crazy bitches,” only to discover later (because I come from a small town where everyone knows everyone else, eventually) that these girls were actually pretty normal. Sometimes you collide with a person that brings out the worst in you, but that doesn’t mean you deserve the nutball moniker.

Personally, I don’t think I have the crazy eyes. I suppose that the label “crazy eyes” is a bit subjective, but at most I’d say I’ve got perpetually tired or mischievous eyes. So, why have my last two romantic trifles blocked me on any and all social media? I mean, this is an avenue I’ve never personally been down before, and frankly an avenue I had thought strictly relegated to the mentally/potentially dangerously unstable folk. At first, it really messed with my head; it made me feel… well, crazy. I couldn’t understand how I fell down that rabbit hole… and even worse, did it mean I belonged in that psychological cesspool? Granted, no one had ever induced so much vehement rage in me like these guys did. Coupled with an intense need for some kind of catharsis, my normal stoic silence in the face of a break up morphed into actual venomous words. I didn’t slash tires or stalk their houses or bully their friends, but I did give them a piece of my pissed-the-#$%*-off mind. More than once. And so, in the aftermath I worried. Holy shnikes, was this really me??

In the weeks following the break up with Mr. Red, I chewed and chewed and chewed over it, especially since it felt as though this had become an inevitable trend. I voiced my fears to a friend over beers in Gainesvegas…. and this is one of many, many reasons why my friends are amazing: “L’s, you realize you’re not normally like this, right?” She said. “These guys, they brought out the worst in you, they turned you into something you’re not. And all that proves, is that neither of them was right for you. The right one, he’ll bring out all the best.”

I let that simmer for a few days. When I came back to it, I remembered my days on the other side of the fence, hearing about all those “crazy bitches,” and defending them to their agitators. Don’t get it twisted, I don’t mean to place all blame on one side or the other. The thing about dating is, it’s a two way street. Each person is an active participant in the beauty or the bullshit, however it ends up. It’s the collaboration that I want to stress. Too often breakups have a myopic effect: you come away either convinced you did no wrong, or you’ve melted to the floor in self-loathing despair. The emotional volatility of these interactions (or rather, the destruction of them), makes it exponentially more difficult to look beyond your own damages. So, the farther away I get from that period of my life, the more I can objectify it and resolve some complicated, negative emotions: Those people were not right for me, but that does not mean I’m “crazy.” They did bring out some of my worst, but it’s not like I didn’t invite it or participate in it. I wasn’t crazy; I was very, very unhappy, and I didn’t know how to fix that on my own. I kept mistakenly relying on someone else to pull me up, but the only person that could drag me out of the hole was me. It was a big lesson, one that the universe clearly needed to beat me over the head with repeatedly, and it’s not until now (after much, much denial and trial and error) that there’s finally some retention happening…

Part of me is still worried that I will never find that specific kind of happiness that I crave. I don’t know if that part will ever totally dissipate. The die-hard romantic in me has actually died a little bit, but maybe that’s a form of self-preservation. Reminds me of a line from the song “Satellite” by Rise Against: “You can’t truly love until you’ve given up on it.”

…And, because my mind can never stray too far from food, I’ve had crêpes on the brain too:



In sum, crêpes are delicious, and my grad-school-wifey understands the ridiculous notion of ‘band-huzbands’ and always responds appropriately.

Lastly, some parting words for you, gentle readers, from my always insightful aunt: “Soon, you will feel better. Everything you love can help you. When in doubt, choose love.” So I choose love… just not that kind. Not right now.

Current Jam: “Satellite” Rise Against

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