I’m learning how to be crazy without acting crazy

I’ve run out of ways to perform okayness.

And I know I’m not the only one.

For months now, I’ve been walking around with too much information. I’ve consumed so much, observed so much, that I’ve reached this weird tipping point where I know too much to function normally. I’m not in denial. I’m not naive. I’m not even hopeful in that cute, socially acceptable way. I know what’s happening out there, and I know what’s happening in here—inside me. And that’s become a problem.

Because knowing too much without a container for it? That’s how you start to feel like you’re going crazy.

And what’s wild is, I don’t even think I’m “crazy.” But I do think I’m at the point where if I don’t release something, I’m going to implode. I’ve acknowledged too close to the sun. I’ve lost the ability to delude myself in a way that makes things feel light and manageable. There’s a certain level of spiritual safety that comes with ignorance. But I don’t have that anymore. I traded it in for wisdom. And wisdom doesn’t let you lie to yourself.

So now I’m at this crossroads. A lot of people come here. Where you either pick structure or you pick spirit. Stability or liberation. Control or truth. And both options are scary. Both demand something from you. But one of them asks you to disappear. The other asks you to rise.

And I’ve chosen me. I’ve chosen to rise. Even if it means losing what kept me “stable.”

Because the truth is, I’ve been grieving a version of myself that I now realize was never fully mine. She was a survival tactic. A projection. A patch job. I used to trust her because she kept me alive. But I can’t keep trusting a foundation that was only meant to hold me through childhood.

That’s what I’ve been wrestling with—how to build new trust with myself after breaking old patterns. You know how people stay with a cheater and try to rebuild the relationship from scratch? That’s what this feels like. I cheated on myself. I lied to myself. I’ve betrayed my own needs just to stay afloat. And now I’m trying to reintroduce myself to myself.

That’s the real work. Not “fixing” myself. But learning to trust this new version of me who isn’t performative, isn’t polished, and isn’t interested in shrinking.

And what sparked all of this wasn’t some perfect epiphany moment. It was a random Tuesday. I was sitting outside my favorite cafe with my laptop, trying to write. It was loud. There was traffic. Life was doing what it does—being chaotic. But I didn’t mind.

Then I saw this man yelling in the street. I couldn’t tell if he was having a breakdown or a breakthrough, but he was just… going. Talking out loud. Ranting. Rambling. Releasing.

And I remember typing in my document, real-time: “There is a man yelling in the streets about the realities of life. I wish I could come join him and yell to the top of my lungs too.”

Not because I want to be out here spiraling publicly. But because I get it. There is something deeply human about needing to scream. To say “I’m not okay” in a way that’s loud, messy, and unapologetic.

And even if I’m not going to stand in the street and yell, I can admit that I need an outlet for everything I’ve been carrying. I want to be crazy in a way that sets me free. Not in a way that destroys me. Because this world is already trying to destroy me. I don’t need to do the job for it.

That’s why I’ve started leaning into my own version of craziness—something more whimsical, more unruly, more passionate. I’ve been too structured. Too self-contained. Too worried about seeming okay. But honestly, I’m not okay. And pretending I am has only delayed my healing.

And somewhere along the way, I started comparing my life to the lives of people around me. I’ve been out more lately. Observing more. Watching family dynamics, parents with their kids, couples holding hands, little things. And every time I do, it reminds me of the grief I carry from cutting off my own family. That wasn’t a small decision. That was a survival move. That was a “this will save my life” move. And it did.

But it also delayed some things. Because when you don’t have support, you have to be your own everything. And I’ve had to be my own everything for a long time.

So if I want to move forward, I need to trust the decisions I’ve made, even when they cost me. Because they were still the right ones. Not “the” right thing. But the right thing for me. And that distinction matters. What’s right for me might not be right for someone else. But I have to honor my own wisdom. My own timing. My own map.

I’m going to start living a little louder, a little messier. Because I’ve been quiet long enough.

And part of what pushed me into this space was something that happened at St. Regis. I went there recently to work on an article about cigars. Yes, I’m a cigar enthusiast now—don’t judge me. It’s something that brings me joy. It’s how I’ve been connecting with people, expanding my understanding of culture, taste, conversation. It’s part of my hospitality brain. It’s fun. It’s mine.

So I show up at the bar. The bartender’s great. I head outside to the patio to enjoy the vibe and get into writing mode. And I’m completely ignored. No one greets me. No water. No cigar service. Nothing. Other people around me are getting served. And I’m just sitting there like I’m invisible.

This wasn’t just bad service. This was intentional. I felt it.

I was subjected to deliberate exclusion that made feel disturbed and quite humiliated… misogynoir will do that to ya

And ima be real with yall for a sec… I know I don’t post myself often but I’m a young, attractive Black woman sitting alone in a luxury space. Heels on. Outfit on point. Confidence intact. I don’t move timidly. I walk in rooms with my chin up and my stride certain.

So yeah. I got profiled. Looking like me is a stigma. They probably assumed I was there (as an escort) for reasons other than what I was actually doing—writing an article about them.

These institutions be so male centered and worried about dick sucking more than I do LMFAO like damn I honestly should’ve cussed that bitch out but I digress cause as ridiculous as that experience was I realized I’m going to be judged no matter what I do. So I might as well do what I want without apologizing or trying to fix their perceptions.

Being yourself is always going to ruffle feathers. But it also confirmed what I’ve been feeling all along—if I’m going to be crazy, I need to do it on my terms. I don’t have to act out the stereotypes. I can channel this chaos into something productive. I can be wild and disciplined at the same time. I can be honest about my brokenness without letting it break me. And I can do it all while holding space for the fact that life is messy and painful and beautiful all at once.

So yeah. I’m learning how to be crazy without actually acting crazy. How to let the madness live inside me as fuel instead of a threat. How to rebuild trust with myself like it’s a new relationship after a betrayal. How to choose passion over polish, honesty over performance, and growth over comfort.