Don't.

Crazy

For some reason, there is a switch in me.
I don't know where it is, but it's there.
I know it; because every once in a while, this switch will get flipped. And I never really understood why.

Every time this switch is flipped, I feel a certain emotion; or combination of emotions, if that makes any sense.
But, no matter what, the emotions I feel when the switch is flipped are always very intense.
This makes me want to get rid of everything that flips my switch; because flipping my switch always makes me feel intense emotion, and I don't like intense emotion.

Like earlier today during French class, for example.

Several students enter a large classroom on a Friday afternoon in the most orderly fashion they can.

Who am I kidding? This is high school.

Everyone quickly scrambled to their desks when they entered. They seemed to be going faster then they would if they were leaving.
Maybe that's because it's the first day of school; the only day when the French teacher, gives us a chance to sit wherever we want.
She always thinks it'll be different, but it never is.

  "Students always disrupt class when they sit with their friends." She says.
"What do you mean by that?" I ask.
"What?"
"How are they disrupting the class?
They only ever talk when you're quiet."
"It's not just talking. They don't just talk.
They go crazy."

I have no idea why, but that word made the switch flip. I began to feel a pulsing pain in my head and my chest.
My ears felt like they were bleeding.
I began to feel a sense of irrational rage.

My mouth trembled, as I muttered,

  "Don't say that word."
"Pardon?" She asked.
"Don't. Say. That. Word." I repeated sternly.
"Which one?" She asked.
"The one you just said." I answered.
"I said many words. Which one?"
"I just told you not to say it; so why do you think I would say it?"
"Dylan, what are you on about?"
"Don't. Ever. Say it. Again."
"What?"
"That word."
"'Crazy'?"
I nodded.
"Why?"
"Just don't."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I—"
What was wrong with it? Why did it make me feel so much pain, and rage?
"Well..?" She continued, almost seeming impatient.
How I could I possibly give her an answer?

"Answer the question, Dylan." She scolded.
I couldn't.
I didn't know how.

"Dylan, are you listening to me?" She asks.
"Yeah, I'm listening to you alright." I muttered.
"Don't you sass me;I am your teacher!"
She exclaims.
I began to settle down.

I looked around to see that the whole class was watching us, almost as if our conversation was enticing.
I looked down at the tiles of the classroom floor; trying my best to focus on anything other then the hundreds of eyes staring into my soul.

"Sorry m'am." I said quietly.
"Thank you dear." She replied.
"I—I don't know why that word gets to me; it just does."

I began to feel a catch in my throat.

"Honey, do you need to see the counselor again?" She asked.

That filled me with even more rage than before.
But it also filled me with happiness.
It made me realize why I didn't like the word, 'crazy'.
Or the word 'counselor'.
They kinda fit together in a creepy way.
I hate hearing the word 'crazy' because it was always used to describe me; by the school counselor.

The school counselor was awful.
He didn't even have a degree.
Why did they even hire him?

All he ever did was heckle me.

The counselor always said I was crazy.
I would tell him all of the horrible things I've been through; things that I had never told anyone else, and he would sit there; and laugh in my face.

I am so glad I can actually get real therapy now.
Now I can actually figure out why certain things flip my switch.

I finally looked up; this time, looking the French teacher straight in the eye.

"No, I do not need the fucking counselor." I told her.
The class erupted in gasps, and whispers.

"Dylan," She scolded, "Your language!"
"What? You want me to say it in French?'
'Cause I most certainly can!" I snapped.
"What is your reason for using such foul language?" She inquired.
"Intense anger."
"Care to elaborate?"
"The school counselor is awful. He doesn't even have a degree. He doesn't even help.
Why is he even here?!"
"He knows what he's doing!"
"Oh yeah? Then why doesn't he have a degree?"
"He has several degrees!"
"Yeah, you're right. He does have several degrees; in being an asshole."

The class erupted even more after that.

"Dylan, can you please stop with all of this awful language?" She asked.
"Oh I'm sorry, would rather me call him a dummy face; or a poopy head?" I asked, condescendingly.  He deserves  to be called an asshole. I don't have to apologize for anything.

  "Why don't you like the school counselor?" She asked.
"All he ever did was heckle me. I would sit there and tell him my problems; and all he would ever do is laugh in my face.
He said I was crazy." I told her.
"And that's why why you don't like that word?"
"Yeah, I-I think it is." I stammered.
"Alright then. Fair enough. I will respect that.
But, from now on, no swearing my class; understood?" She says.
"Yes Miss Jackson, you are understood."
"Thank you, my dear."

The bell rings, ending the class.

彡☆彡★彡☆彡★彡☆彡★彡☆彡

A/N
Hey! This is the first story I've ever written so hopefully it doesn't suck.
I will try to update often but I'm kinda new to writing so don't expect much.
Regardless of my crippling insecurity, I hope you enjoyed this part of the story.♡