I used to be certifiable. Really. CWAAAAAZEE. Obsessive Compulsive, bulemic, anorexic. Name it. I was it. After 10’s of thousands of dollars in therapy I sometimes approximate sanity quite closely. I cultivate an air of serenity like some folks grow tomatoes in less than optimal conditions. Some who knew me way back when are thrilled with my progress. Some who know me know, but not then aren’t sure they see anything really wrong with me. They just haven’t poked far enough into the muck, and frankly they don’t need to. Polite conversation is enough.

I hide this side of myself more than I used to. Once upon a time many years ago I would flaunt my craziness. I wore a big diamond crazy tiara and paraded around town with my cart full of sad, sad stories of lost love and child abuse. I pushed many a shopping cart full of woe is me tales and detritus I picked up from every slight. I was a connoisseur of beaten down inner child, nobody loves me, my mother is a witch stories.

So I’m going along my orderly row of sanity. Pulling a weed of anxiety here, knocking some guilt off of the leaves there. I pour a little water on thirsty thoughts and dreams of creating lovely things. And then I fall in love. And my beloved, we’ll he’s kinda, well, he’s a nutter.

A lovable nutter to be certain. Full of love and passion and a hefty dose of himself. Never had kids. This makes for an interesting interaction when he’s particularly nuts. It’s painful, honestly, because I can’t help him peek out over the edge of the hole he’s in. And I’ve been down in that hole peeping out and I know it hurts. I PRETEND like I’m sane enough that I actually believe it. I pass for sane. I try to be a good support system, but sometimes the noises in the dark scary place are for me, not just for him.

Stay tuned

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