I did not “climb my way out of insanity” and somehow gain “sanity.”

It might look that way to some people, but I had to clarify that the other day.

I didn’t become sane.

I simply stopped trying to prove that I wasn’t crazy.

That question, “Am I crazy or not?” stopped running my life. And when that happened, something loosened.

So the better question became, where did I learn that I was?

For me, that goes all the way back to when I was about six years old.

I was a violent little kid. I’m not saying that to be funny or dramatic. That’s just the truth.

When I got put into public school, I noticed pretty quickly that some kids got picked on. The bullies were methodical about it. They’d wait until they were out of sight of the teachers, then they’d go to work on someone weaker.

I didn’t like that.

I figured it was only a matter of time before they got around to me. They seemed to operate without fear, and they got bolder every day because no one stopped them.

So I made a decision.

I would follow the bullies around, and when one of them got out of sight of the teachers, I would do to them what they did to others.

Plus one.

Whatever you do, plus one, that’s what you get back.

I took it upon myself to be “law and order,” operating under my own version of justice.

As a first grader.

So yeah, I fought. A lot. And I never backed down.

Eventually, the teachers told my parents I was going to be kicked out of school unless they took me to a doctor to “see what was wrong with me.”

I didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t sick or hurt, so I didn’t really understand why we were going.

I remember being a little amped up when we got there.

The doctor looked at me, shook his head, and said, “This kid has ADD.”

I asked, “What does that mean?”

My dad barked, “That means you’re bat-shit crazy.”

The doctor shook his head again and said, “This kid’s going to have problems for the rest of his life.”

I remember those words like a death sentence.

My mom started crying.

And the meaning I made out of that moment was simple:

“I did that.”

“Because I exist the way I do, I made my mom cry.”

From that moment on, life went gray.

I didn’t just feel shame.

I was shame.

I became something to be ashamed of.

And I built a life around that belief.

I avoided real relationships. I kept everything shallow. Not because I didn’t want connection, but because I was terrified that if anyone got close enough, they’d find out what I already “knew” about myself.

That I was crazy.

And I didn’t have room for any more shame.

So I learned how to manage perception. I learned how to control distance. I learned how to stay just far enough away from people to avoid being fully seen.

All of the decisions I made came from that place.

And the life I built is the result of decisions made by someone who believed, at his core, that he was fundamentally broken.

Yes, I’ve done a lot of recovery work.

I have peace in my life today. I know what joy feels like. I know what love feels like. I’m generally a happy and content guy.

But that didn’t come from me finally becoming “sane.”

It came from me letting go of the need to solve that question in the first place.

There’s still a very real possibility that I’m a little crazy.

Honestly, after talking to enough people, I think we all are.

We’re just not all crazy at the same moment on the same day.

What I found, by being vulnerable about my own self-diagnosed insanity, is that I’m not even close to unique.

A lot of people have written similar stories about themselves, usually a long time ago, and then spent years trying to either prove or disprove them.

I see three types of people now.

There are people who can look at themselves honestly, take responsibility, and do the work.

There are people who aren’t struggling in the same way, but don’t judge those who are. In fact, they’ll help however they can.

And then there are people who are in complete denial, who reject any responsibility for the dysfunction in their lives.

I’ve been all three at different points.

Where I landed is this:

It was far more exhausting trying to prove I was sane than it was to just accept that I might not be.

Accepting, “Hey Larry, you might be a little crazy,” made life a lot simpler.

Not as an excuse.

But as an end to the argument.

Once I stopped fighting the label, it stopped having power over me.

And what was left was just… living.