They Call Us Crazy

He likes me when I’m on mute. When I agree and nod, letting his stories bolster a self esteem we both know doesn’t exist. He likes me swallowing pills. Regulated by their chemicals, delicately balancing forth the rage and upheaval created in memories. I don’t have the control over the memories. The tiny shrapnel stuck eternally in my crevasses.

I couldn’t stop what happened to me. My voice went weak, blackened, it couldn’t shout “NO!” I didn’t have the understanding to know in these instances that the acts being committed to my body were wrong. Those memories have shaped me. They’ve pierced a thousand holes in my soul, and they left me constantly seeking.

PLEASE LOVE ME. PLEASE TELL ME I’M GOOD ENOUGH. PLEASE.

He can’t love me.

He doesn’t love himself.

His words lash out saying the usual diagnosis, “You’re crazy”.

“Out of control.”

Am I?

Women aren’t born with defects in our emotional residue. We aren’t happy princesses suddenly turned into evil step-mothers bearing forth rotten fruit. Society has forged in us the struggling in having to survive.

I scream back, “I didn’t ruin our home. I didn’t bring another woman into our bed. I didn’t cheat for the entirety of our relationship. You told me you would take my son away, only allow me supervised visits. You allowed our son to be a pawn in your endless abusive game. You used little girls who trusted you to scoot leaves over your wrongdoings. You asked them to lie for you. Had them messaging me saying they were sorry. A student, a 16 year-old girl, apologized to your wife for your affairs. You violated the power which is granted to you when you were hired into a public school system. They unwittingly didn’t know the predator they hired. They let you get away with not just one inappropriate relationship, but several. And you tell me I’m crazy.”

No.

Crazy would not be recognizing the lion in the henhouse. Crazy would sitting back and not speaking  the truth. Crazy would be to stay silent while what happened to me comes back around in a new generation. I understand it’s the love I never had which made me seek you. I chose the closest thing I could find to a father. I needed approval from a man.

Both of you are the the demons I’ve faced my entire life.

Lessons repeat until they are learned.

This isn’t crazy. This isn’t out of control.

This is stepping out of the dark and into the light.

The minute I stay quiet, I become your accomplice.

I CAN’T STAY QUIET.
I WON’T STAY QUIET.

I’ve stayed quiet for my entire life. I let the puss build in an infected boil. Festering a knot knowing something is wrong with you. Something has always been wrong with you. But I wanted to be loved, so desperately. My fear in never being loved overruled my common sense. Men like you are the perpetuators in making a sane woman into a so-called labeled crazy one.

It’s only your label. What does your words actually mean? I’m the one with a degree in Psychology. Beatings, sexual abuse, and emotional turmoil brought on by a man who claimed to be a father. I’ve had to spend over 20 years in studying my own mind. I’ve spent more time in a psychiatrist’s office than I did on a playground throughout my youth. I completed intensive therapy for the PTSD caused by men. I rationalized why I let you in my life, why my heart trusted you, why I wanted to love you. And yet, you think I’m going to let you label me?

Crazy is hurting the people who loved you the most. Crazy is believing words over actions. Crazy is allowing a man to think he has something on me because he knows how to deflect his wrongdoings. He knows how to persuade children into believing he is something special. Crazy is all the things I thought I knew when in reality, I’ve had to reconcile how I married a monster. Crazy would be accepting the monster and allowing him to hurt one more woman other than me. I can take it. I’ve taken your absolute worst, and maybe for a day I broke. I cried. I hurt. I remembered what it felt like to have every man I wanted to love me use me in self-serving ways.

My child is not your pawn. I gave you a family. I gave you unconditional love and trust. I gave you a life and happiness. I moved you out of a basement into a home. What did you do in return? You violated every ounce of trust I placed in you. Then you call me crazy. Lectured me about respect.

“I’ll give you as much respect as you given me.” Your words, not mine.

My reply: “Respect is earned, you lost all my respect when you went behind my back and cheated on me and had a student coming to my house and was trying to meet up with her behind my back while I was at work. The second time I caught you being inappropriate with a student. You lost my respect when I caught you web-camming with your dick out. And you blamed that same student who was coming to my house. Respect was lost when you changed your story once CPS became involved. Respect was lost when you had me put on Prozac because of your lies and actions. I lost respect for you when you didn’t complete any individual therapy. I lost respect for you when you couldn’t stop bringing whiskey in our house. I lost every ounce of respect I could ever have for you when you had a woman in my house and in my bed not even an hour after I left.

Don’t you EVER lecture me about respect.

I respect my son enough to give him a better life.”

In the last two years, I’ve tried to understand how a person could hurt two people with such disregard. I’ve tried to rationalize.

Then I realized something, I cannot rationalize crazy.

The sound has been turned on. You can’t mute wrong. You can’t bully or have little girls lie for you. You can’t hide. You can’t drive me to insanity. I’m not afraid. I’m a hurricane, one which took 36 years to build. I am the thunder booming from all little girls who have been forced to stand in the rain. We are yelling.

And we are not crazy. We are tired. We are angry. We have no more sympathy for devils like you. We were little girls, and men like you hurt us. You stripped from us the love we desired and innocence. Then you called us crazy.

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

Leave a Reply

1 Comment on "They Call Us Crazy"

avatar
  Subscribe  
Notify of
Chantel
Guest
You aren’t crazy. Crazy is putting up with it for so very long. I know because my ex-abuser insisted I go on Prozac too. When I couldn’t stop crying, when I was at my weakest, that’s when he loved me the most. Bullshit. I never needed medication, I needed a big, fat EXIT sign and when I walked through it, my “depression”, the “cancer”, left. I didn’t have any children with him, that makes it harder. You are strong. You can rise above this. You already have. Much love & respect your way.
%d bloggers like this: