Calling women crazy is lazy 20w

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I showed up to a NYC bar in my purple pimped out coat. It was around 2000.

My guy friend checked out my outfit- lord only knows what I had on underneath - and looked horrified. We’d known each other a long time. And I’d gone through a lot of fashion phases. But apparently this was too much for him. 

I like expressing myself through my clothing and hair. The only thing I’ve always been certain of is that I don’t want to be the same next year as I was last year. 

My friend was too polite to call me crazy but I could see it flash across his face. 

I can't count the times I’ve been called crazy by a guy. 

First of all, let me be clear about something: it’s rude to people with serious mental health issues to use the word *crazy* - I’m using it in this post to make several points and this is one of them. So let’s use better language moving forward.

Second, it’s lazy for dudes to blurt it out about women. 

It’s an old, tired trope. I read an article yesterday about how Hollywood needs to stop with the *mysterious woman* narrative. Then today, my friend lamented that her guy friend complained that he *always dates crazy women.* HE IS 50 YEARS OLD and still blaming his relationship problems on this made-up trope!

I knew what I would write about tonight!

Why lazy? Because it’s absolving oneself from personal responsibility. Instead of thinking “hey maybe something I’m doing - or our Patriarchal culture - is frustrating her. I’ll ask some questions and learn more instead of jumping to conclusions.”

Sure, some women have issues. Maybe serious ones. But then it’s even MORE uncool to point and say *crazy*. Either way, it’s a gross thing to say.

Or maybe she just had a bad day. 

There’s a scene in the show Mom with Anna Faris where she’s been treated shitty by men all day. And one of her restaurant customers says “smile.” It's the last straw, she is LIVID. Her male co-workers say she is crazy, OF COURSE. But if you witness her entire day, her anger makes complete sense.

Yeah, it’s absolutely bananas to want to be paid the same as men. For not wanting to be groped, or treated as an object.

Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I’m not.

The truth is: my mental health status is none of your business. That’s between my counselor and me. 

In fact, if I were to hear it from a guy now, I’d recognize what it means:

He blames others instead of taking personal responsibility for co-creating whatever dynamic he is in. 

He isn’t examining his own behavior and asking “am I doing something to piss her off? And can I do better?” 

He isn’t wondering: “why don’t I like her reaction to what I’m doing / saying? What is that telling me?”

I’m learning that blaming others is not the road to self-improvement. 

I know because I did it FOR YEARS. I complained about others. Or tried to fix other people instead of working on myself. 

Now, when I have the urge to call someone something, I try to check myself (sometimes I fail!).

Because if I’m quick to call somebody else something, it usually means it’s something I need to examine in myself. 

A few years later, I met up with my old friend and his wife for dinner. He looked at me and said “you’re wearing a black puffy coat!!” I was like “yeah ok so….” He went on and on. I couldn’t figure out why he was tripping so hard.

It wasn’t until later that night that I remembered my purple coat! I wore it in NYC AND Vegas which is where this photo was taken!!

In his mind, I’d been put into some category as the crazy-coat wearing lady. But I guess the black coat meant I was sedate and mature??? (haha, as if)

Nope. I’m still just Jules underneath whatever coat I’m wearing. 

I tried. I really did try to squish myself down into some acceptable version for awhile. 

I just can’t. Trying to fit myself into the round hole the Patriarchy expects of me makes me feel like I’m losing my mind more than the pain I feel when my intestines are twisting.

It’s that bad. 

More and more, I’m finally getting comfortable in my own skin. It only took 46 years and four cancers! 

I feel like I FINALLY no longer have to apologize for being a wild, punk rock, neurotic, nerdy, sensitive, quirky, outspoken artist/activist. Who just might wear a pimped out purple coat in public with a maroon cowboy hat (!?!?!?!?!?!!?).

Call me whatever you want. 

This is who I am. 

Take it. Or leave it.

I finally have zero fucks left to give. And it feels GLORIOUS.