My sister must be sick of hearing me ask, “Do you think I’m crazy?” It’s usually followed by, “Crazy crazy, or good crazy?” just to clarify. The questions have come up a lot over the years.
I’ve always had this strange desire to be normal. I think it started in high school — prime time to start searching for a sense of belonging and see how you fit in — and at some level, it still lingers. Any deviation from a conventional life brings it back up and makes me feel crazy, because of all the angst and doubt and questioning that come along with it.
The other day, a wise man pointed out that I seem to equate normal with good. It made me wonder: What’s good about being normal? Although I may think it’s good, being normal doesn’t actually feel good to me. It feels… constraining. Confining. There’s no creativity in conformity.
And when I think about the times I’ve felt the most alive, they’ve been the same times I’ve felt… crazy. Happy. Free. Most like me.
My sister’s been onto me for years: “I don’t think you’re crazy. I know you are.”
So I’m just gonna call it: Crazy is the new normal.
And, for me, this is a good thing.