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You know how I say I'm crazy with pride? Well it depends on what crazy I'm referring to. The crazy that's me, that's always been me, the me dancing in weird places to make the clerk laugh or driving like a mad woman, that's a crazy I'm proud of. The diagnosis crazy, the stuff that's new to me, not so proud and highly embarrassed.

I also know not only what it's like to take care of crazy people, I know what it's like to be crazy.

When I take care of my nephew, I want people to know he's crazy. He's a handful. He's difficult. I want people to know because it IS difficult to raise him. I earned it dealing with the crazy. I want you all to know for sympathy and an occasional pity party because I need those things to get by and keep me going. Everyone enjoys a good pity party once in a while. Don't even pretend you are immune to that. Even more, don't be the asshole who is all, "shut the fuck up, stop bitching, and live your life about it," because we all know you cower like a little bitch too on occasion and need a poor you minute.

I know I'm not the only one. I read blogs of moms of special needs kids, and most do the same thing. It's so difficult to raise this kid. It's almost impossible at times. There are issues that have no solutions. These are things they actually do experience. Things they want the world to be more understanding of because of those people who say, "Suck it up it's called parenting."

One time I was on a facebook group, and a mom of a kid with down syndrome went ape shit over someone calling a mean person retarded. I understand the word offends her. I understand her need to advocate for her son and release her inner pity party, but she went too far when she is offended that someone called someone else retarded because she believes her son is retarded. It makes him appear special needs more so than he already is to people.

Yes, we are flipping the picture here. As the person who is crazy, I'm sick of people treating me as such. Here's the deal. I have a diagnosis that should land me in a long-term care facility for the rest of my life. I'm not there. Instead, I'm at home cleaning the house, taking care of my kids, raising my kids, cooking meals, planning doctor appointments, handling all the finances, taking the kids to school... I'm still the person everyone calls when shit hits the fan, "Hey Michelle, tears, I don't know what to do, I need to pay my water bill and I don't have the money." Ok. I'll help. "Hey Michelle, come get me now before I kill my mother." Got it kid. I will pick you up mid-meltdown with all 3 kids with me, calm you down, and make you spaghetti. "Hey Michelle, I can't bring this kid lunch because I'm busy here at work, do you mind dropping some off?" Why not? I'm the crazy one right? Nevermind my life, what do you want me to cook for him?

Now that I've more than proved I'm more capable of life than most non-crazy neurotypical people, then they follow it with:

You can't make clear decisions because of your diagnosis.
Nobody will take you seriously in court or in your kids' school because of your diagnosis; your husband will get instant custody of the kids in a divorce because of your diagnosis
Your advice that will make things easier on you in the future when I come at you to fix my problem is something I can't follow because you are crazy and therefore have no credibility; and when you come at me later with, "I told you so," I'm going to believe you are making it all up because you are crazy.
You can't say crazy things like "she's gonna regret the day she pissed in my Cheerios," or "Patti has no idea her pet unicorn, Lord Burgess Atwood, loves to dance to showtunes from Rodgers and Hammerstein," because of your diagnosis, people will take it wrong.
You are making excuses for your crazy, in response to things like, "I'm running late because I overslept, and then the kids flooded the bathroom and one peed on the floor on our way out the door and I had to change her clothes and clean it up, and then they wanted food..." As if real life doesn't happen to me anymore because some Freudian Wannabe wrote something about me on paper.

Let's not even get into...

Did you take your meds?

I hear this question every time I disagree with someone who knows my diagnosis. Heaven forbid I have my own opinion and it's not the same as yours.

The one that really gets me. I'm not entitled to emotions anymore. If I have a feeling, it's somehow part of my crazy and a sign that I'm getting worse. Just because I am pissed at someone for pissing me off doesn't mean I am crazy. In fact, if I responded with a poker face, that would be a sign of a mental problem. When you respond to fight or flight mode with calm logic, you are fucking crazy, like kill the population by talking them into drinking bleach crazy. If someone stabs you, pain is a normal response. If someone you love calls you a cunt, pissed off is a normal response. If a stranger calls you a cunt, a little pissed off followed by, "Do I look like your mama?" is a normal response.

From a crazy person to another. From a person who handles crazy person to another. Do not assume the crazy are incompetent. That's mean. Calling me retarded over a diagnosis is bad enough, but to take the extra steps to SHOW me that's what you think no matter how you word it? Now that's fucked up. Look at people for who they are.

If I'm sitting here telling you the world is going to end on December 5, you need to stock up on water, first aid kits, chicken blood to ward off the vampires, and wear this aluminum hat until then so the aliens can't see you, ok then treat me like I'm retarded enough to need your help and that my advice might suck. If I'm telling you, "I thought about driving off a bridge yesterday," Ok, red flag. That doesn't mean I don't know what we should eat for dinner or that my advice on making a crazy person see a shrink is bad advice, but it is definitely a red flag. IF you see me in my bedroom for days without sleeping or eating and just crying, lots of crying, and I didn't take the kids to school or clean the house, hospitalize my ass. But if you see me taking my kids to school, cooking meals, worried about coming up with money for picture day (hey multiple kids, that shit is not cheap), you know, being responsible and shit, don't treat me like I'm drooling on myself plotting to lick the windows.

I'm not saying you are not entitled to your pity party for putting up with my ass. If I make you stop what you are doing to come over here and help with the dishes, by all means bitch that you had to help me with the dishes. But don't bitch about shit I'm not. Don't do that to any person with a diagnosis. Don't treat normal or unusual but safe things like it's part of the diagnosis because it really hurts the person you supposedly advocate and love.

Judge a person NOT by their diagnosis, but by the things they do. If they are fully functioning or damn near close enough like you, don't treat them like they aren't. We all have moments of insanity, and just because someone had one long enough to get diagnosed doesn't mean they are always that person. If they aren't fully functioning, those who aren't actually caring for the individual really shouldn't have an opinion of them. By actually caring, I don't mean being nosy up in their business. I mean you wiped their butt and cooked their meal.

All people are crazy. Some of us are diagnosed. The people who don't know their crazy enough to give it a name are the ones that are dangerous. And all of us, crazy or undiagnosed, need to realize that we all may be different, but we are still equal. Crazy people are entitled to bad days, negative emotions, strange opinions, bad behavior, and shitty excuses just like you are.

PS. I have never licked a window, but I have licked people and poured salt on them and then licked the salt off before doing a shot of tequila. You don't even want to know what I do with the lemon afterwards. Mmmm. Body shots.

If for whatever reason you licked people for salt and you like my blog, you know, you can subscribe to it.

You can also find me under these rocks...