Sometimes It takes the Lesson a Few Times to Sink In

I know all of the cool kids talk about how crazy they are. If you want to be hip and edgy, you talk about all of your crazy bits, sometimes you even try to out crazy other people. There is an entire internet genre of Sylvia Plath bloggers, journaling through their pain on blogs. Sometimes they try to put some sort of persona or spin on it.

I also know I am one of them. At any given post, I will start going on about one aspect of my crazy or another. I don’t do it  because it is en vogue or in hopes of bringing in readers. I write about it because it is what I am dealing with at the time. I write about things because I am trying a crazy journey thing in self-acceptance, and I write about real life because it is what I do well. I write about my crazy because paying for web hosting is a lot cheaper than therapy. It helps me, and maybe someday it will help someone else.

I have been having a back and forth with my friend Renee about going to a convention for Oklahoma music teachers this weekend. I miss all of my music teacher friends, and I know I would have fun. When Renee called me to ask if I was serious about going with her, I had to admit that no matter how much fun it sounded, it sounded too scary.

I made a couple of jokes about being crazy. I started to say that I used to not be like this, then admitted the truth, that I was, but I drank to cover it, and I was more in practice with dealing with it. I remember that first semester of college, though. This is nothing compared to that.

Renee didn’t even blink. She told me she understood and offered other plans to get together in much less intimidating circumstances. After we made some tentative plans, I told her that I am continually amazed at how lucky I am that my friends know about my crazy and love me anyway. I told her that I knew anyone who knew me for years knew I was nuts, but it still surprised me.

“Selina, you never have to explain with me; you just have to tell me what is on your mind.”

I immediately started to cry. With that simple sentence, I felt free. I can’t fully explain why that sentence meant so much, but it meant everything. With that sentence, I felt safe.

It is difficult to reckon being very social and loving social interaction and being completely terrified of large groups of people and fearing new social situations.  I have to fake a lot of bravery to get me there.

To be completely honest, the only safe person I had until Renee said that, was Tina. I would have never made it through Blizzcon if Tina wouldn’t have literally let me hold on to the straps of her backpack and put up with me telling her that she was going too fast or too slow.  Any time we go somewhere, I know Tina will know when something is wrong with just the slightest signal. It is one of the many reasons I have undying loyalty to Tina and her husband Dave. They both care so much and try so hard to make me a part of their world. It really is an astounding openness and sharing with their lives that helps me understand the world.

Renee’s statement made me realize I have many other people who are willing to be safe for me. I knew it intellectually. Cynthia came to Chickasha for frell’s sake.

So here it is: if you mention doing something with me or invite me and I say I really want to go or that I really miss you, I do. I have these group of people I care deeply about, and I hope you know who you are. I should probably tell you more often. When I flake out, or make an excuse, it is because the idea is too stressful or scary. Instead of flaking out or making an excuse, I will be honest and tell you that it scares me. I am going to make a conscious effort to push myself again, because I do miss so many of you. I am going to trust that if  everything does get to be too much, it won’t be a big deal.

I know I have amazing friends. My friends know I am crazy, and they don’t care. Let us see if today’s lesson sinks in this time. If not, I know you guys will be there again.

I really am a lot like Sheldon Cooper without the genius part.