I was born on the cusp—last day of Taurus, first day of Gemini—so, if you know anything about astrological signs and personality traits, you can imagine that I’m a bit of a handful. I’m stubborn like a bull, indeed, but the twins side of me makes me like 12 people wrapped up into one. Maybe even more like 15. I’m the city girl with swagger, I’m the country girl who rides bikes barefoot, I’m the subtle, eyelash-batting flirt, I’m the read-between-the-lines womanist. And in the context of a relationship, I’ve been the dinner-serving domestic chick, the take-charge independent woman, and even though I hate to admit it, the crazy revenge lady when things didn’t go right.
Honestly, I thought that part of me was dead, her ashes sprinkled across days long gone when my first love had me on some Jazmine Sullivan program of revenge more than once or twice. When she bubbled up, I didn’t even recognize myself. One time in college, during a particularly rocky period in our us-ness, he answered the phone feigning a groggy voice and explained that he was going to bed. He was so tired, he said, and was on his way to sleep until I rudely interrupted him with all of my calling.
I apologized and put the phone back in its cradle, then glanced at the clock on the desk. It was 7:00 in the damn evening. And no dude on no campus is taking it down at that time of night unless he’s drunk, sick, resting up for a party, or about to get some lovin’. I had a feeling it was the latter.
That was the first time my crazy lady had to come on out. And she had an entourage, too. In an Incredible Hulk-like transformation, my face flushed, my fists clenched, and I half-bawled, half-screeched some words into the phone that three of my ride or die friends (who are still ride or die friends, by the way) understood as trouble. They stood outside of their dorms outfitted in Timberlands, sweats, and camoflauge pants for the showdown, ready to join the tiny band of temporary thugs, and we went blazing over to his room to set it off.
The rest of the night is a fleeting memory, but there was a girl—she’s a whole other story in and of herself but an innocent party she was not—there was a confrontation and it is, even to this day, a piece of my personal history that fails to be my shining moment but very possibly my realest one. After several similar bouts, a breakup, and many self-reflective years later, I realized how unhealthy that relationship was and chalked it up to knowing better for the next time around. It brought out ugly parts of my personality that, up until that point, I didn’t even know existed. And that temper? Ugh. No thank you, ma’am. Put that away.
So I happily put a moratorium on the appearances of my crazy lady alter ego and threw a headstone on her grave. But every so often, just every once in a while, especially when matters of the heart are involved, she tries to poke her head up and make a reappearance. Thank God my good sense keeps her in check whenever I feel that old familiar sensation surge back up, like emotional acid reflux, to make irrational thoughts dance around in my head about driving cross-state in the middle of the night or leaving work early to set the record straight. Love is no excuse to act crazy, I know. I think we all know. But knowing and feeling are two completely different things. And that’s where crazy lady finds her in.
Was there ever a situation that made your inner she-beast come out for a visit?
Image via Έλενα Λαγαρία/Flickr