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Jul 2017
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.

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