It is easy to ask why I have a mental illness. Why me? Why do I deserve it? Why should I struggle? Why should I be labelled?
But I would rather ask why do I constantly want to know why a bottle is called a bottle, to the point it keeps me awake at night? WHO decided that it’s name is bottle? WHO decided that that person got to decide that it was called a bottle. And why?! Why do I get SO angry when my cat stares at me waiting for me to open a door that she herself can open? I mean seriously. I get so irate about it! Like it’s a personal insult. From a damn cat!! Why do I hear the voices I hear? I know why I hear voices. But why do I hear these specific ones? Who decided that I am the crazy one. And not everyone else?! Who decided that therapists and doctors know it all and us patients should stand in line and do as they say?
And more importantly. Why can’t I laugh at myself? I constantly laugh. My son, who is six, named me “the village Crazy Lady” Ayer hearing the phrase in a recent film. And he is SPOT ON. If I am not extremely anxious and depressed. Hospitalised. Or asleep on sedatives. I am either eating a cheesecake for breakfast and then emailing the company who made it to complain, that the box states “serves twelve” but it only served me (honestly!) or I’m telling my Facebook bubble that ring fat is good because I conserve water. Because my hips touch the sides of the bath, making it seem a lot deeper when I get in. Meaning I do in fact save water. Takes less to fill my baths! Go me! Lol!
So here’s my blog. And all my questions. Some of my answers. And a lot of my humour.