There came a season where I stopped letting people tell stories about me, not just for me.
I don’t mean the usual mess folks toss around when they're hurt and don’t know how to name it. I mean the whispered rewrite, the sly chuckle at brunch, the “girl was wild” tale shared like folklore by men who couldn’t hold my truth without folding under its weight.
They’d speak of me///or women like me, with a half-smirk and full revision.
Not as full beings with context and conscience.
But as mood swings. As warnings. As plots gone off-script.
And the favored word in their toolkit? “Crazy.” But let’s uncoil that, shall we?
I wasn’t “crazy” when I asked clarifying questions about mismatched intentions and behavior.
I wasn’t “crazy” when I took his sweet nothings literally. because he said them with his chest.
I wasn’t “crazy” when I remembered everything he said and refused to act like I’d forgotten.
What I was…Was inconvenient to his performance. And as I’ve talked with more women, listened deeper, I found I wasn’t alone in this.The “crazy ex” label? It’s code. Not for illness.
But for any woman who dared to name the thing he refused to face.
The “Crazy” Code: How They Dismiss Us and Hide Themselves
Calling a woman “crazy” is not about her mind. it’s about his comfort.
It’s a spell of erasure, a sleight of hand that trades nuance for distance.
“She wanted too much.”
“She got attached.”
“She flipped on me over nothing.”
No, beloved. She felt too much for your bandwidth.
She saw too deep for your disguise.
She asked for what you pretended to offer and wouldn’t let you off the hook for not delivering.
Emotional Gaslighting: The Soft Kill
I’ve lived through it.
Men who’d compliment my intellect, then weaponize it when I started connecting dots they didn’t want connected.
Men who flirted with my depth until I swam too deep for their shallow masks.
Men who poked at my softness until it bled, then scolded me for staining the carpet.
“You’re overthinking it.”
“You’re being sensitive.”
“You’re making something out of nothing.”
No, baby. I’m making meaning out of contradiction.
I’m making sense where you were hoping for fog.
The Five Words That Haunt Women Loudly
Let’s name the conjuring:
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Slut – For the ones who dare to own pleasure.
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Bitch – For the ones who dare to set boundaries.
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Ugly/Fat – For the ones who dare to fall outside the factory settings.
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Crazy – For the ones who dare to feel and speak in a world built on their silence.
These are not just words. They’re leashes.Tethers. Smoke grenades men throw to escape accountability.
Let’s not forget.“hysteria” wasn’t born from science. It was carved from fear. Fear of women naming the unnamed.Our ancestors were sedated, institutionalized, silenced for their intuition.
Diagnosed not with illness, but with noncompliance.
And now, centuries later, the diagnosis lingers.
You speak too clearly? Crazy.
You react too fast? Crazy.
You ask for consistency? Crazy.
You raise your tone? Bitch.
You cry? Unstable.
You don’t cry? Cold.
You forgive? Fool.
You remember? Problem.
I Am Not Your Rewritten Villain
Let me be precise:
I’m not the wild-eyed ex he tells his friends about with a head shake and a laugh.
I’m not the “lesson” he learned from—I’m the mirror he couldn’t face.
I’m not unstable. I’m unbought.
Not volatile. Just vivid.
What they called chaos…
Was a woman unwilling to be convenience.
To my sisters:
We were raised to second-guess ourselves before we even finish a sentence.
Taught to give grace. to sit still so others wouldn’t feel threatened. taught to apologize for having needs. But your feelings are not wild. Your boundaries are not mean. Your clarity is not crazy.It’s their world that trembles when you stand still in yours.
My Declaration
I no longer accept apologies wrapped in erasure.
I don’t decode cowardice as chemistry.
I refuse to carry the burden of a man’s unprocessed conscience.
If I feel deeply, it is not a diagnosis.
It is data.
If I see patterns, it is not paranoia.
It is protection.
If I walk away, it is not abandonment.
It is alignment.
And if you label me crazy for it…
Then may every sane woman unsettle you the same way.
Let this be record: I was never your warning tale. I was your reckoning unspoken.
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