CRJ200 Random Thoughts

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom. She isn’t perfect. She’s done some things and those things have fucked me up.
Whenever people get into that old “my mom is crazier than your mom” debate I pretty much always win. It’s not even a close contest. I win to the point where everyone’s newfound sympathy towards me is a steamy hot comforting dish I can taste.
But calories are calories and that shit will make you fat if you’re a fan of eating your feelings. Plus sympathy is hard to swallow. Fear Factor animal nuts covered in flies hard to swallow.
Other people like to tell their cute little department store wrapped package stories about their “crazy” moms. I giggle politely at the funny punch line part.
Straight up though, no one wants to hear about how your mom took you to the gynecologist at age nine because you gained 10 pounds in less than six months and she was convinced you were pregnant. No one wants to at all hear how she asked you repeatedly for weeks before the visit if anyone was “touching you or making you do things you don’t want to do?” No one wants to listen when you mention that she threatened to take you to the doctor because she was convinced you were “lying to her to protect someone.” No one wants to know that the gynecologist refused to give you a vaginal exam because he didn’t want to be the one to break your hymen. You should know that I gained that weight because we moved across the country and I was binge eating out of boredom and probably depression. I was nine years old though. My inner monologue was pretty basic and definitely stupid.
So I pretend that I don’t have a dog in the crazy mom fight. My mom didn’t make me crazy. No doubt I’m fucked up but I’m not crazy. She did the best she could with what she had and that’s totally more than some people get from their parents.
I don’t think you can make a person crazy. I think some people are born with chemical abnormalities in their brains like my ADHD.
I don’t know anybody that doesn’t struggle with mental health in one way or another and I applaud everyone who makes the decision to get out of bed every day. I know how hard it can be to do sometimes. I love my bed a butt ton and I think about it sometimes during the day when we can’t be together. I don’t like it when people try to talk to me about my bed. My relationships are private and what happens between me and my bed is nobody’s fucking business.
Fine. Maybe I’m a little craycray. I get it from my mama.


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