Crazy Is My Superpower: How I Triumphed by Breaking Bones, Breaking Hearts, and Breaking the Rules
Page 24
Trying to please everyone will appeal to no one. I was successful because I was willing not to be, in order to be true to my beliefs and myself. Being polarizing, giving people an extreme to connect to, that is where the magic happens. We all have extremes in our emotions and opinions; we just have to be unafraid in expressing them. And that is the gift being bipolar gave me.
I feel with every ounce of my body, and nothing can stop me from raising my voice. I do not fear fighting for what is right. I do not fear standing up, even if I have to stand alone. I am beautiful when I am confident enough to be ugly. I am stronger when I am vulnerable. And I will never apologize for any of that. There is endless power in giving zero fucks. There is endless power in being a crazy chick.
I was once told crazy was a bad word. Politically incorrect. Insensitive. Offensive. Closed-minded. Taboo. When I used it to facetiously describe my own mother’s battle with mental illness, I was met with scandalized stares. How could I be so casual about something so serious? What kind of human could joke about something so terribly tragic? So I removed the word crazy from my vocabulary. I trained myself to fear it, to be ashamed of it. Society taught me mental illness was a burden to be carried solemnly and, more important, quietly.
Then I asked myself—why? Was mental illness Lord Voldemort and it should “not be named” aloud? Would I be able to summon it into existence by saying the words three times in front of a mirror like Bloody Mary? Could it be caught as easily as the dreaded cooties virus? No. It is nothing to be feared or embarrassed about. But yes—it is a struggle.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in my early twenties after a lifetime of erratic, unexplained behavior. I had an answer to a long-plaguing question, but I struggled to figure out what came next. I fought to find the right path for treatment, experimenting with holistic methods and vacillating between being highly medicated to highly shrinked.
I lost sleep trying to accomplish the impossible task of finding the source of my illness. Was I born this way or was I made this way? Was nature or nurture to blame? I’m qualified for exactly three things: beating people up, remembering the entire “Pokérap,” and wearing the hell out of a pair of jorts—so naturally, it’s taken a while to come to a decisive conclusion on a widely contentious mystery of psychopathology.
Eventually, I made the decision to simply hide this self-discovery from the world’s judgmental eyes. Bipolar disorder is the villain of this story. It has been a source of pain, but it has also been a fountain of strength. So save the pity. I am not a victim to mental illness. I am the hero of this story and I do not need to be saved.
This disorder is a pain in the ass and it is work. At times it is a cross to bear, and at others it is just a piece of the AJ-shaped puzzle. It is a part of me, as natural as the color of my eyes, but it is not all of me. Bipolar disorder does not define me. And I refuse to let a simple word be used as a weapon against me. There is no arrangement of letters that can make me feel inferior.
It wasn’t long ago classmates called me a “nerd” in an attempt to hurt my feelings, and now that term is audaciously emblazoned on the front of T-shirts at Hot Topic. It is now a part of popular culture and it’s suddenly cool to be a fan of all things “geek.” Growing up I was mocked because I dressed “like a boy” and liked professional wrestling, and now we live in a world that celebrates the female athlete. Even so harsh a word as bitch has been adopted with a sense of pride by women refusing to let the world see their strong will as a handicap to feel guilty about.
It is my mission to demystify the world of mental illness. To show people it is not something to speak of in hushed tones. Mental illness is a bully and I refuse to let it intimidate, to give it power. I choose to drain its strength away. Stripping the stigma off of words like crazy and making them terms of endearment instead of hateful labels is my way of doing that.
Everything I was told should be my greatest insecurities, weaknesses, my biggest roadblocks—everything I’ve been labeled: SHORT, NERDY, SKINNY, WEAK, IMPULSIVE, UGLY, TOMBOY, POOR, REBEL, LOUD, FREAK, CRAZY—turned out to be my greatest strengths. I didn’t become successful in spite of them. I became successful because of them. I am not afraid to be called crazy. Crazy is my superpower. Changing society’s perception of the word is not going to happen overnight. But I’ve changed minds before. It took a lifetime to get here, but I know there are still miles to go before I sleep. This time I will reach farther. This time I will dream bigger. I am going to change the world, but first I’d like a nap.
If someone had warned me that writing a book was going to involve crying into my hair and stress-eating an almost deadly amount of carbohydrates on a daily basis, I would’ve phoned it in to a ghostwriter. (Or at the very least a Ghost Rider, which come to think of it would’ve been pretty awesome.) But it’s too late now, so I might as well just start thanking the people who inspired me to gain ten pounds in Thin Mints over the last few months.
Erica and Robbie, I wanted to dedicate this book to you guys, but I didn’t, so let’s move on. Robbie Rob, thank you for beating and peer-pressuring me into the person I am today. Thank you for serving our country and being the SuperDad to your twin daughters that all men should aspire to be. I think it’s poetic that your children look exactly like me and spend their days beating the holy hell out of you. Homeskillz, thank you for being a second mother to me, always believing I was capable of anything, and happily reading every shitty thing I’ve ever written. You are so beautiful and talented and I can’t wait for the world to hear the stories you have to tell. To my parents, thank you for allowing me to share our life together in print. Even though you did not give me permission and I forgot to ask for it. I love you both and I will always be your grouchy little baby. Thank you to the dogs who rescued me—Mugsy, Kagome, Señor Nacho Cheese, Pamela Beesly, and Larry Talbot—for teaching me that every life deserves a second chance, and for showing me what unconditional love should look like. You have all been bat-shit crazy, and I’m starting to think that maybe I’m the problem.
Papi, thank you for your butt. Thank you for loving my obnoxious snort laugh and snaggletooth and messy hair and boundless jokes about your being much, much older. Thank you for barging into my office several times a day, while I was locked away for hours writing this book, to let me know you were bored without me. It was superdistracting, but kind of adorable, and one time you brought me a grilled cheese sandwich, so we’re cool. You are hilarious, brilliant, and brave. On an unrelated note, while you were getting your driver’s license I was tracing hand turkeys with crayons in the first grade.
Thank you, Julie Klam, for the inspiration your work has given me as well as lending an invaluable helping hand to a perfect stranger. For your generosity and faith, I am forever indebted. Seriously, if you want my firstborn I think I legally have to give it to you. Lisa Leshne, thank you for taking a chance on a college dropout in short shorts and for holding my hand during every tiny, but very real panic attack I’ve had during this process. Thank you for your patience and guidance. You have both made me a better writer. Rob Guillory, thank you for your beautiful, moving, perfect art. You are insanely talented and I feel cooler just being associated with you. Thank you to my sisters from other misters, Jen Suarez and Kaidy Quiroz. Thank you to the amazing women who have been my partners in crime along the way, Jenny Quinn, Brittney Savage, Celeste Bonin Braun, Sarona Snuka, Eve Torres Gracie, Saraya Bevis, and Ettore Ewen. Thank you, Tricia Boczkowski, Mary Reynics, Jennifer Schuster, Julie Cepler, Tammy Blake, Christopher Brand, Jenni Zellner, and every badass at the Crown Publishing Group for your hard work and belief in my story. Thank you to each and every fan for your years of support. You have all helped me attain the life I thought was only possible for my Sim.
Buffy Summers, Dana Scully, Daria, Kahlan Amnell, Jill Valentine, Meryl Silverburgh, Princess Kitana, Misty, Faye Valentine, Jean Grey, Chun-Li, Yuna and Lulu, Sydney Bristow, Lara Croft, Veronica Mars, and Harley Quinn—you helped a once weak little g
irl find her strength. Without you, there is no me.
AJ MENDEZ BROOKS is a New Jersey native, Florida transplant, and Illinois resident who complains about being cold literally every day. A former professional wrestler with the WWE, she has won numerous wrestling awards and championships as well as inspired a generation of young girls to wear sensible shoes. She studied film and television production at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts before they politely asked her to go away. AJ currently works with several animal-rescue and youth-oriented nonprofit organizations. She has been the mom of numerous rescue dogs, and exclusively adopts the system’s lost causes, because she is attached to her stomach ulcers. She lives with her husband, their dog, and her PS4 in Chicago, Illinois.
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