Was I ever crazy? Maybe, or maybe life was. Crazy isn’t being broken or swallowing a dark secret. It’s you or me amplified. –Susanna Kaysen, Girl, Interrupted

There once was a petite brunette named Kate, whose anxiety grew and grew. She had once heard a little rumor that it was because she had crazy, frizzy curls; that the crazy started from the inside of her head and just spiraled its way out. A crazy mess of curls fit together perfectly with this crazy mess of a girl.

Let me tell you a story: I grew up in a normal enough family. My mom, an avid Cubs watcher, grew up on a farm for the majority of her life, on the southeastern outskirts of Chicago. She lived in this tiny little town in Indiana, the town where I would be born many years later, the town where John Dillinger escaped from jail. My mom’s cousin even started a museum dedicated to it in The Square.

My mom had normal parents and a normal upbringing. She was from a big, German family that is to this day, primarily Republican, pro-gun, and probably pro-life, although we don’t much talk about such things. We’re too busy drinking beer on the back of my mom’s tailgate, watching the cars fly down her newly paved road, and trying to let the electric fireflies land on our sweaty thighs.

My dad, on the other hand, was born in New York City and raised on Long Island. His parents were nice enough, I suppose, but probably much colder than I have become accustomed to. They treated him well and made sure he had clothes on his back and food in his belly, even when things were tight, but I’m not sure he felt safe in the way that a child really should. He was from a big, Italian family, a lot of them immigrants, a lot of them fighting for every morsel they had, and a lot of them working for Jimmy Hoffa because it was hard for Italians to get jobs in an Irish neighborhood. Although we don’t usually talk about such things; we’re too busy sitting around my grandmother’s antique table, drinking wine and listening to Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra.

But because of that upbringing, I think my dad made it a point to overcompensate with my sister and I. We had everything we could ever want because my dad grew up inconsistently poor and remembered eating mustard sandwiches when they had to wait for their welfare check. We went to fancy dinners in big cities as children, wore fancy clothes and frilly socks, were kissed and hugged insatiably by my parents, and told everyday that we were great children, that we had potential, that we would go very far if we worked for it.

I had an extremely uneventful childhood because I had really good parents. My dad still babies me and holds my hand; my mom still calls me “baby” and runs her fingers through my hair when we’re in public. I was raised in a warm, kind and caring home with parents who wanted me, who worshipped me, and who taught me how to be moderately successful in life.

But I am a freaking weirdo.

Sometimes I perspire a little bit when I’m nervous, sometimes my cheeks get all red when someone pays me a compliment, and sometimes, what I think is even more embarrassing is when my breath leaves me when I’m trying to act cool. I’ll be talking to someone I really value or find interesting and attractive and it’s like I just ran three miles when all I really meant to say was, “Thanks for the invite,” or “Oh my gosh, I love Archer too!” Social anxiety is a real thing, friends. And for whatever annoying reason, I have it.

Like, really, really bad.

But I can hardly sit still. I keep fidgeting, crossing one leg and then the other. I feel like I could throw off sparks or break a window. Maybe rearrange all the furniture. –Raymond Carver

My husband is pretty relentless about poking fun at me for being awkward. We’ll be at the grocery store or out somewhere in public and I just freeze up like a freak when people talk to me. Once I was out with my cousin for drinks and I saw someone I knew from work. I could tell there was a little bit of awkward tension because I have this weird way of introducing people I know (for example, “This is Colleen; she does Irish dancing!” or “This is Tiffney; she’s an honest to goodness lingerie model, you guys!”) but I used to think my quirkiness was endearing and cute. Now I think I just make people uncomfortable.

After that aforementioned introduction between my co-worker and cousin, my husband said, “You seriously just made that so awkward, Katie,” and I was kind of taken aback because sometimes I’m unaware of the reality of my awkwardness. I think I’m Tina Fey from 30 Rock but I’m actually Tina Belcher from Bob’s Burgers. “Yeah, super awkward, Kate,” my cousin echoed. I could tell the truth was literally killing her to say because she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.

I mentally went through how many drinks I had had just to make sure I wasn’t doing something embarrassing that I couldn’t recall like breaking out into a Bette Midler song or telling someone how much I really love them. (I did that once, when I was out with a friend of mine. They probably don’t remember but I just kept touching their shoulder and telling them how much I loved them. In my head it sounded totally appropriate and to be fair, I meant every word in a non-creepy, I’m going to cut off your skin and wear it to my next birthday party way. But the next day, one of my girlfriends from work said, “Oh my gosh, you just kept saying it!”

I don’t know, you guys. I guess I’m just an awkward AF weirdo. I’m sure I’m not the only one out there.

But then, then I had a child. Oh my gosh, talk about an awkward AF weirdo. Where is the smack your forehead with your hand emoji because I need like forty-seven.

A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or others crazy? –Albert Einstein

See, what happens when you have children is your language changes. All of a sudden you’re saying things with feeling to get a reaction out of your kid. You’re saying things like “God bless you” and “Thank you” like you’re getting paid for it on Broadway. You’re listening to Toy Story and Despicable Me in the car instead of your previous repertoire of Eminem and Rihanna. And let’s not even discuss how you’re willing to go out in public.

So naturally, what happens is you get more and more awkward because you start conversing with less and less adults. Where you used to get excited for $25 all you can drink Mimosas and Bloody Marys, you now pray for the chance to even make yourself a cup of coffee before eight. Your life changes plentiful and in my case, at least, your awkwardness goes up like a billion degrees.

… and I wasn’t so great in that department to begin with. *again with the slap your forehead emoji*

Moral of the Crazy: One day recently, I was working my part time job and I heard someone sneeze. I’ve always been super thoughtful in public and always say “God bless you” to people when they sneeze or “thank you” to the car that lets me pass when I’m crossing the street. Well on this day in particular, this aforementioned someone sneezed and very dramatically, I looked at them and shouted “BLESS YOUUUUUU”, like I do to my daughter about fourteen times a day. I sort of didn’t understand the look of confusion until I heard it repeated in my own head.

Oh my gosh, I thought to myself, my ever present Bella from Twilight blush rearing its ugly head, why did I just do that?!

Like I said, guys, awkward as effing f.

The truth is that I haven’t gotten a lot worse since I became a [for the most part] stay-at-home mom. Sure, I never had much swagger but now, I mean, it’s like I never had any. But the thing that I’ve really tried to tell myself when I see all these awesome Tampa Bay influencer posts on Instagram is that it’s okay if that’s not me. I mean, for one, it’s okay that things have changed for me. I had a kid; that’s what should happen.

But the other thing that I realized recently, and the things I’m trying to embrace more and more since I have little eyes watching me, is that you know what? It’s also okay to just be yourself. In fact, it’s more than okay. It’s a necessity. Because trying to be someone you’re not is just exhausting.

So you know what, you guys? I am obsessed with Alicia Florrick and Will Gardner shippers. (Ships? I’m still learning the lingo and that’s really exciting to me. It makes me feel like I’m moderately technologically educated.) You know what else? I get chills when I listen to really good music. Not many things move me like a super, soulful song. Also, I freaking hate processed food, fast food, and eating in the car. I find cooking extremely soothing and there’s something really comforting about having consistent leftovers in the fridge.

And you know what else? I worry. A LOT. About a lot of things that probably will never [hopefully] happen and that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with being thoughtful, there’s nothing wrong with being sensitive, and there’s nothing wrong with crying at the end of Coco. (In fact, I DARE YOU not to. Good luck. Let me know how it goes.)

Sure, A is for anxiety and awkward. But you know what else it’s for? AWESOME.

Stay weird, my friends.

Doesn’t matter what you want. Once you’ve got it, you want something else. –Lord Baelish, Game of Thrones