A Wide Open Letter To: The Assholes Who Called Me “Crazy”

To those guys in college who said I was nuts:

Back in the days of my late teens and early twenties, I thought I had a lot of shit figured out. And now that I think back on it, I really did have a lot of things that I was (in the process of) successfully learning to do: how to pay bills, how to do my own taxes, how to make productive lists and how to have friends outside of an environment in which we had scheduled break times and locker numbers.

What I was learning the most about, however, were those estrogen-fueled emotions that I was constantly ridiculed for.

I tried too hard; I cared too much; I was too available. I was the worst. I had to play it cool. I had to play the game! But I still had to be interested… or did I have to be interesting? Or both, maybe I was supposed to be both? I forget. But I had to be a lot of things, and it was a kind of “hey, you don’t have to play, but it’s like the lottery; if you don’t play, you can’t win.”

And when I got all caught up… just when I thought I was winning!… I was dubbed the crazy girl. Because I thought the game was over! I had seen the finish line! It was time to drop the “I don’t care” facade and totally be myself, and actually text you when I wanted to talk, and ask you to hang out if I was free, and invite you to do stuff with me. Right? Right?!

Well, it was odd, at that point. Because suddenly, I was just way too into it. This was college and that meant I was not allowed to be serious about anything. I couldn’t care about anything. Oh, and the best part was: when I cared, and suddenly you decided that we were just “hanging out”, you weren’t the asshole one… I was the crazy one.

And this didn’t make any sense to me!

So I would say that. “This makes no sense.” I would send super long texts to the guy who disappeared without a trace, or to the guy who ignored me to maintain some kind of control over the situation… and I wouldn’t get a response.

And I was still the crazy one!

How was that right? How was that fair? I wanted an answer! Give me some peace of mind! Tell me you were lying, or tell me you don’t give a fuck, but tell me something!

And of course, these moments are the ones which are provided as examples when proving the craziness of a girl. Nothing is ever noted about the Houdini act pulled by the immature college manchild who suddenly decided he wanted a buffet at the cheap Chinese restaurant by that gas station in the back alley rather than a pretty appealing, and refreshingly flavorful steak at the Texas Roadhouse by the highway.

So to those assholes who called me “crazy”, shake your heads all you want and say this letter is just further proof. But note that I never cared about you; I cared about me. I cared about how well I was at playing and winning this stupid game that I finally realized was unwinnable. You either lose the game by caring too much, too visibly… or you win the game by being a person that is probably galaxies away from your own, juicy, Texas Roadhouse-like self. I just wanted to be liked; I wanted the bragging rights from winning the game.

So to conclude, I did end up winning… by losing… or something like that. And it wasn’t until long after college that I realized that while I was learning to balance check books and budget groceries out of a paycheck that needed to go to massive amounts of student loan debt, I was also learning something else: to not ignore my feelings, because they matter.

Also, y’all suck, and I appreciate you dropping off as quickly as you did, and telling your bitch friends I was nuts, because I didn’t want to deal with them either.




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