“Crazy,” the spiky-haired boy whispered after he’d rubbed his greasy forehead against my blossoming breasts. He and his friends snickered as they ran off. Stunned with fear, I could barely move as my classmates squeezed past me in the bustling hallways of a hellish middle school.
I’d earned this label, and apparently the sexual harassment as a bonus gift, because I’d confided in a friend that I had obsessive-compulsive disorder and was in treatment. An ultra-religious type who was angered that I’d narrowly escaped joining his cult, this “friend” was quick to spread the word far and wide that I was “crazy.”
Ever since then, the label followed me, stuck to me like toilet paper on my shoe. Sometimes, it was completely unfounded, as when I called out a boy for cheating on me in the middle of a crowded bar. While all the women were on my side, I heard the whispers of “crazy bitch” from the men.
Sometimes, it was justifiable but cruel, as when my depression reached critical levels as I mourned a rough breakup and my roommate told me matter-of-factly that she thought I was “difficult to deal with” and “unstable.”
Sometimes, it was torturous, as when my abusive ex-boyfriend manufactured crazy situations then held me responsible for them.
