Be More Crazy. Please.

I only have so much more John the Baptist energy left in me before I break.

Maybe I was born with it. Maybe it’s *Justice Sensitivity.* (jazz hands)

“justice sensitivity causes you to perceive unfairness and wrongdoing in the world more frequently — and to feel it more acutely — than do neurotypical peers.”
- Additudemag.com

I gots the ADHD. And for some of us, it comes with this fun little friend that causes us to FREAK THE FUCK OUT when things are unfair, cruel or tilted. It’s not virtue signaling (though what exactly is wrong with having virtues, I’m not sure).

I also struggle with CPTSD (Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a severe mental health condition that develops after experiencing prolonged or repeated exposure to traumatic events) from a history of institutional betrayal trauma (the psychological and emotional harm experienced when an institution fails to protect, support, or uphold the trust of its members).

The TLDR of all of the above: I’m built different. I get BIG MAD. I recognize toxic patterns. And I am really good at not shutting up about it.

The Road from Prophet to Threat is a 180

I once belonged to a faith community that told me I had a “prophetic gift.” They nurtured my desire and ability to “speak truth to power.” Until it was their power. When my justice sensitivity was pointed in their direction, I was no longer a straight shooter, but a “loose cannon.”

I often feel very lonely. I have genuinely great family, friends and community around me. But I’m always on guard. I am loyal to authenticity only. But the second I get a whiff of hypocrisy, cover-up or duplicity…I skedaddle. Like a cat backed into a corner with its claws out—it’s not pretty. The whole “scary when I’m scared” thing and all that.

I wish I could just be *this* kind of crazy, the fun kind.

The thing is, when the time comes, I will say the thing. I deeply align with the words of (RIP) Mandisa’s Born for This (Esther)

There’s a time to hold your tongue
Time to keep your head down
There’s a time but it’s not now

I Get it From My Momma

A few days before my momma took her last breath, her face cradled in my hands, she said these words to me: “Speak the truth.”

It was one of the last coherent things she said to me. She also called me a “peckerhead,” but that was really out of character for her (but HILARIOUS), so that doesn’t count.

She was fierce. She was powerful. But also unassuming. I didn’t inherit her calm demeanor. (My dad was a king of chaos and I am definitely his daughter.)

“Despite her still-fresh and unimaginable grief, Janet stepped up, speaking with passion and compassion, over and over again, to anyone who would listen…” -Remembering Janet Patterson, David Clohessy

While my mom and I don’t share the same cause, the pain is the same—watching your child be sacrificed on the altar of power by abusive systems.

Up in Back!

I used to have this joke where if someone said, “Down in front!,” I’d turn around and yell, “Up in Back!” It’s not really funny anymore though. I keep looking around, at our country absolutely screwing everything up, and wondering, “Why isn’t anyone stopping this?!” I was later to the party than some in speaking out against the Orange Menace, but it’s been 10 years now.

Too many are silent. Too many are in denial. Too many are trapped in cognitive dissonance. Too many are complicit.

My husband said to me recently,

“You’re like that crazy guy on Independence Day that kept trying to warn everyone, but they wouldn’t listen until it happened.”

Damn. I’ve never felt more seen.

I could shut up if you would speak out. Until then, mother truckers, I’ll be out here in my camel-hair tunic, eating locusts, screaming into the void. UP YOURS!