If you’re a female human being living on planet Earth, there are two things you learn to fear from an early age: Being fat and being crazy. As someone who’s been called the “crazy girlfriend” by my ex, I will address the second one of these fears.
I would characterize my last relationship as full of discomfort and fear. I can easily imagine my ex telling the story of our relationship to his friends between sips of an overpriced cocktail, calling me a crazy girlfriend. “Yeah, she just went nuts.” I’m good enough at visualizing such day-mare scenarios that I can make myself blush with shame just thinking about it.
We only dated for six months. In hindsight, it should have been for one or two. From the very beginning, he showed disinterest at best, and disdain at worst.
Because I was insecure and plagued with self-loathing when we met, his ambivalence only encouraged my passion. The resulting relationship (if you can call it that) was a predictable misery.
One night after a sleepover, he suggested I take a different route to the subway because he didn’t want to walk together. Because I’ve got this weird thing where I want the person who puts it in me regularly not to overtly hate me, that stung. (That said, this guy lived in his ten-year-old flip-flops. So if anyone should have felt embarrassed about being seen with anyone, I think we can all agree it should have been me.)
I never felt safe or comfortable with him. I confused the anxiety caused by being with the wrong person for the thrills and butterflies of being with someone new. But those nerves never went away. I constantly fretted: Would he call? Would he text? When would I see him again? Would I ever see him again?
Every message I sent or date I arranged felt like a desperate plea for him to like me. I can imagine his face, blank to the point of iciness, looking at each message and weighing his options as the minutes and hours ticked by.
Logic would indicate that in a situation like this, talking about what was going on would be the order of the day. But here’s the thing: I didn’t want him to think I was crazy. We didn’t talk. Or, rather, he didn’t.
I would try talking and found myself met with a concerned tone of voice. “Are you okay?” You know, the way you’d address a naked woman in her mid-80s you spot wandering the aisles of your local grocery store. Clearly, I was the crazy girlfriend.
There’s nothing worse than someone taking your feelings and invalidating them because to them those feelings are scary or hard to understand. Every time a guy calls a girl crazy, that’s exactly what he’s doing: Shifting the blame.
A guy who says he had a “crazy girlfriend” for calling him twice in a row? That’s a deeply rooted feminist issue, y’all. The patriarchy should, frankly, drive us all to madness.
As my romantic partner, I should have felt safe enough to tell him my worries. But I didn’t. I didn’t want him to call the men in the white jackets and whisk me off, presumably to treat me for “hysteria” in a sterile, sadly vibrator-free environment.
I didn’t even know what he thought about me aside from being his “crazy girlfriend.” Terror overtook me when I thought of asking and his conversation never went any deeper than his contrarian takes on Blockbuster movie releases and his deep and abiding passion for tacos. Verily, a god among men.
Eventually, my fears became reality when one day he just vanished. Thanks to social media, I knew he wasn’t dead. What I didn’t know was why this person I spoke to daily and shared a bed with thought so little of me that he would end our relationship without a word.
Months later, he would reach out in a chatty text message. He talked about his move across the country to live with his mother. Baffled, I watched the dots flash on my screen. Then, he composed a missive dedicated to his everyday activities as if nothing had ever gone wrong between us.
I weighed my options and crafted a thoughtful reply. “It’s cool that you seem to want to be friends, but I think you owe me an apology.” His response was lightning-fast. “I can’t pin down my feelings for you so easily. And a full-frontal attack won’t get you the answers you want.”
Months ago that would have left me reeling, but a lot has changed since then — me, most of all. “This guy,” I said to my roommate, “is totally insane.” She nodded like I had pointed out that the sky was blue.
The only thing crazy about me was the blinders I had on during the time I spent with my ex. There’s nothing remotely insane about having a feeling and wanting to talk about it. And there’s nothing insane about hurting and feeling scared or lost. Finally, there’s nothing insane about wanting to love and be loved.
Moving across the country and icing someone out because you’re so scared of feelings (your own and those of others)? Now that, my friends, is what we call bats*** bananas.
Originally written by Rebecca Jane Stokes on YourTango
