Stand Your Ground: Why You Should Stop Tiptoeing Around Crazy B*tches

by Zara Barrie

Personally, I adore the word “crazy” and have deeply identified with the term since I was a kid.

When deemed “crazy” by an outside entity, I take it as an unabashed, spectacular compliment.

A crazy girl is gloriously wild, irresistibly sexy and spontaneously free -- she lives her colorful life free from the painful shackles of oppressive rules and does whatever it is her liberated heart desires.

There is a distinct difference, a not-so-fine line between being a fabulously crazy girl and a bat-sh*t insane crazy bitch.

While a crazy girl is a groundbreaking force of nature that is both madly fascinating and ferociously alluring, a crazy bitch is unnervingly unpredictable and turbulently dangerous (and not the exquisitely "sexy dangerous" like Angelina Jolie).

We don’t come across a bonafide crazy bitch very often, but the earth ever so slightly tilts when we find ourselves in the hyper-elevated presence of one.

We can feel the penetrating energy of a psycho bitch long before we are able to physically pinpoint her in a crowded space.

Something in the environment shifts, and an unsettling sense of uncertainty hangs heavy in the air the moment she enters a new orbit.

A crazy bitch emits troubled beams of energy into the universe that are so palpable the trees wilt with worry, the animals whimper in fear, and the birds screech, flapping their harried wings in frenzy.

Recently, I found myself in the presence of a crazy bitch whilst curled into a cozy, velvet-adorned bar of a highbrow New York City hotel.

The ambiance of the bar was meticulously civilized and acutely adult, yet I could feel tiny pinpricks of an unidentified, unrestrained angst prickling the entirety of my body.

BOOM — the wind was knocked out of me as I took in the jarring vision of the psycho bitch in the flesh. I could tell she was a crazy bitch by the way the whites of her eyes were visible a full 360 degrees around her iris, akin to Faye Dunaway’s depiction of Joan Crawford in the cautionary biopic, “Mommie Dearest.”

Not even her $500 DVF wrap dress (the most “normcore,” un-crazy designer dress on the market) could hide the pending breakdown stewing within this psychopathic whirlwind of a girl. She had that far-away, ever-so-deranged glint in her wide-set eyes. Tick. Tick. Tick.

When I accidentally caught her eye, I wasn’t sure if she was going to sock me in the jaw or kiss me on the mouth. All I knew was the wise voice in my head I’ve learned to never ignore advised me to flee the scene before sh*t went down.

My instincts were spot on: Within the slender span of three minutes, she had threatened me, screamed in my face and shot me a myriad of complex looks. I responded with a mere sweet smile, as I clutched my beloved glass of sauvignon blanc and got the f*ck out of her way.

I quietly tiptoed backward, opting to lose my coveted spot in the center of the bar to hide in the safety of the dark shadows.

All the while a lingering question kept burning into my brain: Why do we tiptoe around crazy bitches?

And really, why are we afraid of them? Why are we so filled with fear that we tiptoe around them as if they’re wild rhinos charging at us in an African safari gone awry?

We're afraid she will call us out on our insecurities, when she's far more insecure.

We are perpetually worried the crazy bitch at the bar is going to loudly point out the massive, cringe-worthy pimple residing in the center of our foreheads or call us out for our failed attempts at flirting with the gorgeous human we’re actively crushing on at the other side of the bar.

Or worse, she'll will be able to pick up on our deep-rooted neglect/abandonment issues from childhood and will, out of nowhere, hit us below the belt with harsh words and erratic insults.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, crazy bitches are finely tuned into the vulnerable energy of everyone who surrounds them, and they ruthlessly have no qualms about preying on the weak.

When a crazy bitch’s gaze turns toward our direction, she don’t just look at us -- she peers into the crux of our soul.

We are frighteningly transparent to her, and it’s the wicked gift of the psycho bitch that she sorely misuses by endlessly humiliating us and feeling the irrepressible need to point out our deepest insecurities.

So why do crazy bitches do it?

They’re innately insecure crazy bitches, that's why. They’re plagued with a laundry list of inner demons that drive them to bully us. They draw attention to everyone else’s flaws as a means to not draw attention to their own.

We are afraid she’s going to embarrass us, but she’s just embarrassing herself.

Part of why we shrink away from the looming energy of the epic crazy bitch is because we’re paralyzed with anxious zaps of fear that she will embarrass us in public.

If we’re kind to her for 60 seconds, she will proclaim to everyone in earshot that we’re the best of friends. If we bite back to her vicious bark, she just might kick our ass.

Both situations result in shattered pride and pangs of embarrassment.

We neglect to realize the crazy bitch is only embarrassing herself with her unpredictable, ever-changing mood swings and unmanaged temper.

While we are kind, she doesn't give a f*ck about how we feel.

While we bestow nothing but kindness unto the crazy bitch, she throws us nothing but bitchy shards of shade.

We’re so terrified of what she might do or what she might say while we sit there and expel nothing but our most gentle, kind energy into the most undeserving person.

She’s the vainest of creatures. She doesn’t think outside the realm of herself. While we vehemently worry about disrupting her fragile feelings, she could give zero f*cks about how we feel.

I can’t help but think by being so accommodating to her, we are disrespecting ourselves.

She’s looking for a connection because she’s disconnected

A crazy bitch wasn't born; she was made. Something occurred in her life that oh-so-brutally disrupted her emotional well-being, and it turned her into the disassociated, seemingly insecure creature she is today.

Unlike the crazy girl, the crazy bitch has been broken by life. Maybe it's the sisterhood all of us girls feel with one another?

The unbreakable, unspoken solidarity that drives us to be gentle with her, regardless of how she treats us? Maybe we are picking up on her frailty?

Upon first glance, a crazy bitch might appear like a fiercely emotional train wreck, but if you simply scratch the outer surface of her exterior, you would come to find she's actually quite numb. She’s disconnected and is acting out simply so she can attempt to feel something.

If you dare to fearlessly look a crazy bitch deep into her eyes (which hardly anyone has the guts to do) and really see her, you would be able to see that inside is a fabulous crazy girl, begging to be set free.