Yeah, She's Crazy

by Noah Clay

  “Yeah, she’s crazy.”

  Noah Clay

  Thank you to my parents who have always believed in my writing and my heart.

  Also, thank you to my younger sister who inspires me (and pushes me) and to my husband who means far more to my story and myself than any words I could ever put here.

  Mostly, though, I thank God, who gave me this story and loved me through it.

  Author’s Note:

  My peers will tell you this story isn’t true.

  They will call me a liar.

  But, I’m not.

  And, I’m not crazy.

  This life is real, but so is love.

  Prologue

  This story is mostly true, altered only for privacy and by constraints of human memory. Though there are some who will deny its contents as anything resembling honesty, the truth remains. It is an account of a life changed by bad, by good, and by grace. Through it, I hope that you, too, will come to know the depths of God’s mercy and the reach of his love. You are not alone, no matter how hard you may try to be.

  One of my favorite places to travel is an afternoon at a book store. While not a traditional vacation to the mind of many, there is no way to travel farther or more wonderfully than through the pages of a book. So, I find a comfortable space, a delicious hot beverage, and sit down for my next adventure. Sometimes, that adventure is a magical one to a world of wizarding or following tiny little men searching for treasure. At other times, it is a sad journey through madness and chaos. But, such is the tale of humanity itself. So, how could it not be the tale of our stories?

  Several years ago, I picked a book up off the shelf of a book store I was visiting for the afternoon. It told of one man’s struggle through addiction and recovery, claiming to be an entirely true memoir. I enjoyed the story but knew this simply couldn’t be both true and complete. It may be claimed as one but not concurrent with the other. And, the reason for this is that life is much more intricate and extraordinary than the same words I might use to describe accidentally dropping an open tub of glitter.

  I can’t possibly place the complexities and nuances of this life and God’s grace in it into a box with a maximum capacity of one million. Further, I can’t expect them to be something I can carefully collect with my hands or vacuum with an industrial machine. They can’t be held, contained, or manipulated. And, often, they can’t even be known until after.

  This is what makes life so beautiful. Yet, it’s also what makes life so scary and so overwhelming. It’s what holds me in bed at night crying to God "MAKE IT STOP!" as I experience my second anxiety attack of the day. And, it’s what brings me back to tears at His feet when He does. Life is more than any number of anything I can comprehend.

  It’s unimaginable. It’s beautiful. It’s beyond measure.

  Part One

  Chapters 1-4

  The goal of this section is to introduce you to me, that you may know a real person. I want you to experience who I am and who I was so that you understand who God says I will be. As cute as I was as a child, it's very hard for the average individual to put him or herself in a place of relating to someone's experiences of learning to walk, talk, and so on. Though a shared experience, it does not connect us at the core of who we are. We are designed for community and connections.

  So, let’s skip forward a bit to a time when I was much older and wiser.

  Chapter 5 (-ish)

  When I was five (I think?), I was at my entire extended family’s annual Christmas gathering. It was a huge party that almost every member of my mother’s entire family got together for. I felt like I was the star of the show, and that it was my night to shine. This event had happened before and happened a few times after. But this particular year, I was at the top of my game.

  It didn’t occur to me that people might want to do things other than be entertained by my antics, and I didn’t question being the only one in the room to win the infamous "what the heck is in that sack" game. For some reason, I didn’t find it even remotely odd that the only other person able to identify an orange by feeling it from the outside of a closed paper sack was my significantly older cousin who was hosting the event. I was the star, and these were my fans.

  Being a spirited five year old wasn’t a gig I could keep up forever, though. In fact, it wasn’t even a gig I could keep up through the night. I didn’t handle the pressures of fame well and spiraled out of control as the night finally began to come to a close. While I like to think I was a delight, I know that I’d become ridiculously hard to handle by the time things finally started wrapping up. Tired from my first gig and the added pressures of being five, I started to worry I might miss my big break.

  Sensing the impending loss of my sole fan base, I began to act out even more. I ran. I squealed. I demanded attention. No one could stop me. I thought.

  It was right at this time that my supercilious great aunt scuttled her way over to me. In the way that flustered older relatives do, she took it upon herself to reprimand me in front of everyone to maintain her control and reputation. She did it pretend-quietly (don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about), though, so it would look classy. With those beady eyes she looked into my very soul and asked me, using my middle name of course, when my bedtime was.

  Responding instinctively from my recently touched soul was the only way I knew how. So, with caution thrown to the wind, I stood my tallest and shouted my loudest. With my eyes fixed entirely on hers, I shrieked:

  "HALF PAST MY BEDTIME!! MEEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWW!"

  Completely floored and unable to stutter anything else, she gave me a customary "hmph" and scuttled away as quickly as her short, elderly legs could carry her. Of course, I was unfazed by the encounter and ran off. In my memory, I went on to create more merriment and joy for the remaining party-goers, crafting what surely has to be the highlight of their lives to this day.

  My mother will disagree.

  Chapters 6 through 12

  At the age of “somewhere around five,” I wasn’t afraid of anything. I was fearless and bold, with nothing to hold me back. I knew I had a story to tell and a life to live. I believe in God and that he had put me on this Earth for a great purpose. So, I practiced.

  I practiced piano, reading, academics, and all other skills that I thought would make me well-rounded. There was nothing and no one that could hold me back or convince me that I was anything less than the vision I held in my mind. I was strong; I was courageous. So, imagine my disappointment when I learned I was also wrong.

  Chapter 13

  I was blessed with attending the same school where my mother taught. I was never afraid of anyone, because my mother was there to protect me. When I was sick or hurting, my mom was there. When I did something embarrassing, my mom found a way to help me recover. When I passed out multiple times from watching people get face paint, my mom was there to pick me up, dry my tears, and assure my teachers that we didn’t plan to sue them or the district.

  ---I know what you’re thinking, here. So, I’ll go ahead and answer your questions. Yes, I do still pass out at even the detailed thought of face paint, tattoos, spray tans, or anything else that could enter or dry onto my skin. No, we don’t know why. Yes, I saw a doctor. No, I am not in any real danger. So, let’s keep moving, shall we?---

  So, maybe I did grow too comfortable. Maybe I was too outspoken. That’s certainly what society would have me believe every time I look back, every time I remember. Or, maybe it was all in my head. That’s usually what our world tells the broken.

  Regardless of the cause, I found myself recklessly approaching the ripe old age of thirteen. By this point in my life, I had abandoned any insecurity plaguing my classmates and truly didn’t understand a life that I would no
t be fully in control of. My mind truly could not grasp the idea that something might not go my way or that I might not come out on top.

  You may call it vanity, but I called it confidence. So, I bottled it all up and carried it with me to my thirteenth birthday. And on that morning, I packed it very carefully in my bag. I was going to need it with me today, because it was a special day. I was thirteen now, and that is the age where you are certified a woman, according to twelve-year-olds. I could think of no better way to show that I certainly belonged in this new club of women than to “get the guy.” After all, I had everything else already in my mind.

  So, I put on a brand new shirt, some sweet denim capri pants and flipped the ends of my hair up so high only God, himself, could reach to push them back down. I even had on lip gloss, because nothing screamed irresistible like a little bit of clear lip gloss that had rubbed off as quickly as it had gone on. In other words from the early 2,000’s, I was hot.

  So, I took my attractive, confident self right over to the boy I’d had a crush on. I wasn’t alone with these feelings, as almost every girl in my class also “liked” this boy. But, he was still twelve. So, I was a mystic unicorn of majesty and womanly grace in his small, primary-colored video game world. He wouldn’t know what hit him and would have no choice but to succumb to my otherworldly charm.

  I knew he would probably be too much in awe to actually approach me. So, I took the responsibility of our first date on myself. I had already decided that I would profess my feelings to him, and he would have no choice but to abandon his boyish game of not-even-real-baseball at recess and follow me into a lifetime of happiness. Really, I’d made it remarkably easy for him. Everything should have gone off without any problems whatsoever.

  Unfortunately, though, all that came of this was, in fact, a giant problem. When I approached this young sir, I said to him, “So, [mutual friend] said that, maybe, you kind of, you know had, like, well, you kind of liked me.” Really, the delivery was flawless. I’m sure the stammering helped to make my case that despite all my excellence, I was just an ordinary girl.

  So, naturally, I was appalled with his response. “Well, [mutual friend] lied like the fat man he is. Now, leave me alone. I have to bat.” And, just like that, I had tasted heartbreak.

  Chapter 13b

  I had never known loneliness before that day. But on that day, it was the sharpest knife through the weakest heart. It was the darkest night on the coldest day. It was the mushiest macaroni in the runniest cheese sauce.

  You see, loneliness isn’t a feeling. It isn’t a thought or an emotion. It can’t be measured or transferred. It can only be felt as a biting, jarring, weakening state of mind and being. As hard as you try to mask it, you come to realize you are only masking yourself, because loneliness isn’t seen. Only you are.

  So, you start to think that that you’re crazy. After all, you continue to allow yourself to suffer with an affliction no one else can see or feel. No one else can validate this state, so it must be in your head. That’s what they tell you anyway.

  So, you stomach the pain and shoulder the burden. The body that betrays you must now carry you forward, some way to somewhere. But every part of you being pulled forward is fighting to stay back. Those parts of you are all still clinging to a place that, at one point, knew happiness through fulfillment.

  And, that’s what loneliness is. It’s a depth none can sense – an expanse none may travel. In this darkness, you find yourself. But, when you’re the only one there, you begin to wonder if you really are. Is this life real? Are you real? Am I real? You don’t know.

  In fact, the only thing you do know, that you can know, is that no one else is in that space with you. You don’t hear the voice of anyone coming to save you, because they aren’t. They never know you left. But, you know, and you know they never will.

  And, that is loneliness.

  Part Two

  Chapter 14

  I spent the remainder of my thirteenth year and the first quarter of my fourteenth year trying to prove to the idiot that broke my heart that he was just that. I may not know who I was, but he sure would. I wasn’t willing to let anyone knock me down and forget it. I was a fighter; I was a star.

  So, I put on my best khaki Bermuda shorts, Christian band shirt, shell necklace, and pink striped Adidas tennis shoes. I let my wild hair do its thing. And, I got ready to work my magic on a high school that had no idea what it was in for. The second those bus doors opened, I turned on the charm and set to work.

  As with any good disaster, though, I’d already created my own downfall before I had a chance to fly. I was quickly branded as a “whore” by my best friend when I wanted to ask a second person to a dance after the first person said no. So, that really set the scene for the rest of high school, and I’m honestly shocked I didn’t catch on sooner. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. So, let’s start where everyone else started.

  I tried really hard to make friends, but more than friendship, I craved acceptance. The friends I entered high school with wanted to belong in other groups that were larger and more popular. We stuck together, because we knew each other so well. But in a lot of cases, our physical proximity was the extent of our closeness.

  So, I had to find new friends. And contrary to the façade I was putting forth, I began to start thinking deep in my heart that maybe I wasn’t a fighter or a star. Maybe my star had already burned out, and I was its dust floating through the galaxy. As this outlook took its hold in my mind and my life, I became less confident that people would come to me and more desperate that I had to find them.

  I quickly befriended two boys in one of my classes. I texted back and forth with one frequently about how I wished I was doing the same with the other. The other (the true object of my affection) was nice to me, and that was the problem. Being nice qualified him to be chosen for my new squad, but he had already chosen another and its leader was his queen.

  As anyone who knows anything about queens historically and within the animal kingdom can attest, the queen does all she can to protect her people. While the king rules and governs, it is the queen that forges relationships and advocates for the citizens. Even the king looks best when his queen makes it so.

  And like an idiot, I decided to take on the queen.

  I continued to talk to the first boy who I’d become quite good friends with who was just way too polite to me. Looking back, I really needed someone to knock some sense in me, tell me to quit being a moron, and find a hobby. Don’t forget too quickly, though, that I picked this friend for acceptance and approval, not accountability. This friend did not disappoint.

  He, as the other’s trusted sidekick, told me, the lowly peasant, that the other not only found me an excellent friend, but a potential interest beyond that. So, I spared no time, expense, or effort and did exactly what I can now firmly recommend no one else try, because it’s literally the worst possible idea anyone in this situation has ever had. I started a newsletter.

  This wasn’t just any newsletter, though. No, I couldn’t just do this for the sake of entertainment, because I had way too much going on in my life for everything to not have some purpose. So, the purpose of this newsletter was established to help everyone else understand what I thought I already knew.

  In it, I assigned code names to everyone of any interest to me. And, I wrote about them as if they were merely pawns in a much larger chess match I thought I was playing with God. In retrospect, this was weird, and I see why it drew people away from me. At the time, though, I thought it would draw people to me, because they would finally understand what I was too afraid to say out loud.

  As they say, hindsight is 20/20, and I’m not at all surprised that my classmates thought I was crazy. I am surprised, though, that they saw this as an excuse to bully me. We were kids, and kids do stupid stuff. I just wanted to be liked, to be accepted. Instead, I realized I’d quickly become the most polar opposite.

  Realizing where I’d gone wrong the first time,
I set myself on a more viable option. I decided to throw myself at someone I knew already liked me. I felt that if this boy already liked me, even more than in a friendly way, I couldn’t go wrong. I mean, really. I was just enabling him to do what he already wanted to: accept me.

  This sounded like a foolproof plan at the time, and in retrospect, it wouldn’t have gone as horribly wrong as it did if I had the information I do now. You see, I had based this entire plan on what I thought were the facts. However, these facts were actually lies being fed to me by my classmates to see how far I could bend before I snapped.

  As it turned out, a classmate had been telling me the boy I now had my sights on had a huge crush on me and wanted to date me. So, I believed him. In fact, I did more than believe him; I revered him as an expert. I asked this boy for advice and guidance on how to approach the situation, receiving answers only when deemed entertaining. And, I held on to every single word.