Crazy is as crazy does

I have officially diagnosed myself as crazy. I am not a diagnostician nor do I have any credibility, merit, or degree to my diagnosis, but I still believe it to be true. I sit there in my classes like abnormal psychology, theories of personality, families in stress, and I can’t help but wonder how on earth I am still alive for one thing, or why I’ve yet to be committed. I suppose as far as crazy goes, I could be much worse, after all I’m not having conversations with auditory hallucinations and I’m not hauled up in my bed living in my filth… yet.

“So Noelle, how are you crazy?” You might be wondering. I am crazy in many things and I realize it more as of late than I have before. Its crazy that for so long I thought of myself as normal and mellow, which I am anything but. I am analytical to a fault. Thinking things through might seem a fruitful and acceptable attribute, however I find more often then not that I spend so much time thinking about what might happen, that I forget to let myself enjoy what is currently happening. This over analyzing has caused much more misery than it has saved me from, which is somewhat ironic. I am neurotic and paranoid, often believing that any suffering is warranted by some universal crime or another that I have inadvertently committed. Also I have tendencies to feel things in a heightened sense and then turn around and express those feelings with even more intensity than desired. More or less I am a walking basket case.

The more important question is not how I am crazy, but why I am crazy. I remember as a kid my older brother used to be really mean to me, which is pretty typical. Older brothers tease their little sisters, at least that’s how I knew it. There are two problems with this equation in regards to my situation, however.
The first problem is I was (and still am) a tender hearted person. As much as I wish my heart was this impenetrable force to which nothing could gain access, it is quite the opposite. It is like a sponge that just soaks up everything that is thrown at it, be it love and kindness or disapproval and rejection. Being teased by my older brother was not something my young little heart was capable of enduring. Most of the time I had it in my head that he was a mean, nasty boy, but the fact remained that he was still my older brother… I think I sought his approval, much like any younger sibling would and the way he teased me had me believing that I was just this appalling human being.

The second problem of this equation is that my older brother was some what relentless when it came to his tormenting of me, which was something my mom was not capable of controlling, to which her solution was always the same. My older brother was mean to me about something, I cried, and then I was sent to my room… at 24 I understand why this had to happen. My mom wanted to send him to his room, but it never panned out. I’m sure Nanny Joe would have a solution to that but Nanny Joe wasn’t around when I was a kid. My mom was just trying to protect me. I understand that now, but at 5? At 8? At 13? I didn’t really understand what was happening. I just wanted to get a snack in the kitchen, and here I was being punished… then the thinking began… why was he being mean to me? Did I do something wrong? Did I look at him the wrong way? Did I say something wrong? Was it because I didn’t say anything? I MUST have done something wrong because now I’m in my room…

So intrigued by my self diagnosis, you might also be curious to know more. Let’s see… along with this innate core fear of rejection that pervasively dictates my life, I’ve also stumbled upon some rather ineffective life long appraisals and coping mechanisms. In some senses they are circular causal in that my poor cognitions and attributions land me in situations where I need a coping mechanism, but then my ineffective coping mechanism fuels even more negative self loathing thoughts.

Oh what’s this? You’d like an example of said poor coping mechanism? Possibly mentioned in previous blogs it is learned that I am one to beat a situation to death until I feel as though I’ve exhausted every possible option. This is to say a situation where things haven’t necessarily gone the way I would have liked. Just for the sake of explaining things, we’ll say I liked a boy that didn’t like me. Instead of accepting the situation as “it is what it is,” (because let’s face it, that would be far too mellow of a reaction for someone as neurotic and overly analytical as myself) I need to know why. I MUST know why. I need to know why he doesn’t he like me. Is there another girl he likes more? If so, why does he like her more? Does it have anything to do with my physical appearance? Was I too clingy? Was I not clingy enough? Maybe he thought I wasn’t interested? Maybe I wasn’t clear on my intentions? What could I have done differently that could have made him like me? And the list goes on of about 100 more completely whacked out questions as to why this fictional boy could possibly not like me. But methodically asking myself the questions isn’t enough, at some point I’ll usually start to pester the poor guy until I can squeeze some sort of justification out of him as well. This is poor coping because while I might get some sort of answer, it doesn’t leave me feeling satisfied. The answer as to why isn’t a cure all to future potential run-ins with similar problems. The pain or the stressor is not alleviated, and beyond that in my quest for answers I have also damaged what could have been a good friendship.

Clearly I’m not stupid. With hindsight I am able to retrace my actions and see where they have lead me. I can look all the way back to when I was a kid and see why that might have a profound effect on me today. I’ve studied my coping strategies (or lack there of) and evaluated their efficiency. I am not stupid because I am aware of what is happening… but I am crazy because I do nothing to stop it.