Shoved in a plastic grocery bag under the boxes of Christmas decorations is where I found my crazy pants today.
Dusty and discarded, I looked at them. They were softer than I remember.
When I would act irrational or angry or even sleepy, my family gave it the term 'cranky pants' 'angry pants' or ' sleepy pants'. It was a kind way to say, "hey stop acting ridiculous!"
When I was committed to a psychiatric facility, I wasn't allowed to wear the clothes I had on because it posed a threat or hazard to my safety or that of the other patients. They gave you scrubs instead. They were cold and miserable.
One afternoon, I saw one of the other patients wearing sweatpants and I was thrilled to see that was an option. I spent 90% of my time there fighting to get a pair. Finally on day 9, I was gifted a beautiful pair of Heather white sweatpants that had elastic at the bottom and smelled like bleach.
My crazy pants.
I wore them because I was crazy, or so I told myself.
When I was discharged, I got to keep them and would occasionally wear them again but mostly when I felt more bipolar swings happening.
They found their way to a bag in the closet and remained there for months.
Just like my bipolar swings, they hid for a while, stagnant, waiting.
And just like my bipolar swings, they found their way back and now that's all I want to wear. My loony, angry, depressed, crazy pants.