Please Don’t Call Me Crazy

Photo Credit: Yoann Boyer via Unsplash

Where All The Craziness Started

Looking back, I came by it honestly. My mother had every diagnosis from schizophrenia to depression to adult ADD when I was growing up. People called her crazy, but instead of letting it get her down, she spoke openly about her mental illness and later in life became a mental health advocate. She taught me it was nothing to be ashamed of and that it was just another type of illness like diabetes or cancer. It just happened to be in our brains.

When My Situation Became Crazier

As a “crazy” person sometimes does, I carried the label into my next relationship with the man who would become my second husband. He was abusive as hell, and he called me crazy more than any other person I’d ever met. It was a way to keep me down, to doubt my own decisions and become totally dependent on him. I tried to leave him several times, but all he had to say was, “You’re too crazy to make it on your own or find somebody new,” and I’d go running back to him where I thought I was safe.

Fighting To Reach The Surface

Mental illness still plagued me as I tried to get myself together. My medication worked, but only up to a point, and I didn’t yet have the strength to pick up for its losses. I still made rash decisions and let the slightest disappointment bury me for days. Even though I was no longer in physical danger, I feared what was happening in my mind and that I would lose control again.

My memoir, “When I Was Lost,” is available now. Stay in touch with me at www.glennagill.com

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