[Don't] Call Me Crazy: 33 Voices Start the Conversation about Mental Health

by Kelly Jensen

And while all those words might be useful for cataloging my behavior in one given circumstance, they would not and could not define me completely. Because we define words, not people.

Define words, not people. Define “depression,” but don’t define others by it. Because we are people and we defy definition.

To me, impostor syndrome is excelling at something or having good things happen in my career, paired with the sneaking suspicion that my good fortune will end because, ultimately, I don’t deserve it.

The diagnosis was a relief. I wouldn’t say it was like coming to a finish line in a marathon, because illness is endless work, but it was like running for a long time and finally coming to a water station.

Sometimes I wonder if having a mental illness is supposed to be visible. Am I supposed to bear the scars—both physical and metaphorical—of my disorder like a flag, like a warning? Do I wear a sign about my neck that reads: Here Be a Real-Life Crazy Person—Tread Carefully? What do people expect of me, once they know?

Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s dopamine. But despite this natural affinity for madness, I’m pretty sure I’m doing it all wrong.

That’s what I wanted: a vacation. A vacation from myself. That was essentially what I was looking for every time I got drunk or high, but those escapes had stopped working. Now I wanted a vacation from that failed vacation, and I wanted to play guitar and read novels during my getaway.

ME: I’d just like to be somebody free. Somebody . . . normal. (This is the truest thing ME has said in ages. It empties her to admit it.)

“He wanted to be committed,” an older lady beside me tells her friend. “Did you know that? Can you imagine?” Yes. And yes. (Self-Portrait at Level 9.5.) “I just don’t get it. His life doesn’t seem so bad,” the friend muses. I imagine all the portrait lamps craning to put a spotlight on me. I’d tap-dance for these ladies, singing like in the finale of All That Jazz: “That’s not! How it . . . wooooooorks!”

Nine times out of ten, the catalyst is something out of my direct control, but adjacent to it, close enough to the line to make the boundary feel porous.

There is such an extreme stigma about mental health issues, and I can’t make heads or tails of why it exists.

Mental health check-ins should be as routine as going to the doctor or the dentist.

“Okay” isn’t flawless, but it signals trying. “Okay” isn’t a cure, but it’s a measuring stick. “Okay” isn’t perfect, but no one is. Here’s to the power of being “okay.”

I write sad stories for teenagers because young adults need to see that there is no such thing as a happy ending when you’re that age.

Getting help for your crazy will make your quality of life significantly better, and it will allow you to find the clarity of thought and calmness of being that allows you to get on with great and important things in your life.