I worry that I will be crazy when I get older.
My mother had an imaginary friend named Imaginary Friend.
When I was little I would have to have to have blink my eyes in groups of four, exponentially, like this: blinkblinkblinkblink (pause) blinkblinkblinkblink (pause) blinkblinkblinkblink (pause) blinkblinkblinkblink
My mother is afraid of noodles (she cannot eat pasta, even the word ‘Noodle’ freaks her out). She is also afraid of yogurt, Santa Claus and cotton balls.
The Santa phobia is because his white fluffy beard REMINDS her of cotton balls.
My aunt used to think that if she touched something, she was then connectedto that person or thing with an invisible string. She worried that she would touch too many things and get tangled up in this web of make-believe threads ‘til she couldn't move. The fear of this manifested itself, however, in a compulsion to touch more things than usual. Fortunately, two fingers on her right hand functioned as a pair of scissors that could cut these threads, so my aunt was always walking around touching things and then cutting the string, touching and cutting, touching and cutting.
My great great grandmother was declared insane by her husband (my great-great grandfather), and he kept her locked up IN THEIR BARN for the final 27 years of her life. To his credit, he did bring her two meals a day, at the same time that he fed and milked the cows. Of course, no one back then had to legally declare her officially insane, and no one questioned her husband’s judgment. So I wonder, was she insane?
or was HE?
Doesn’t matter, does it. Either way, genetically? I’m fucked.
I've pretty much known I "should" be in therapy for oh, a decade. But I manage. I mean, I'm FINE. I'm a "functioning" ________________-ic <--insert name of whatever my issue is WHEN YOU FIGURE IT OUT (and please tell me)
As discussed earlier this week, I have--have always, in fact, had--some major issues with CONTROLLING THINGS. Hence the name of this website. When people do not do what I think they should do, I get ANGRY. And you would not like me when I am angry.
I have, on my own, gotten a handle on a lot of this (having a kid really makes you realize you have NO CONTROL OVER ANYTHING, as does being married to my husband). But it still crops up. I have a temper. I am not all that patient. I'm oodles better than i used to be (I used to drive like a crazy person, honking and swerving--a menace on the road, truly). I can stand in a line with no problem, now.
Fortunately, my controllyness is limited to one area: MY LIFE.
For awhile, I was soooo super busy with a full time job + parenting + grad school (I was going to say +marriage but HAHAHAHA we all know no one devotes any time to that when you've got that other stuff going on). And then I started a blog, just for the stress-flavored icing on the cake.
But then grad school ended. And they mailed me my diploma. And most people, now, would be looking for a job to go with their new degrees but I like my job and I don't want to be a teacher because STUDENTS ARE ANNOYING BECAUSE THEY WANT TO LEARN STUFF and then, EVEN MORE ANNOYING WHEN THEY DON'T WANT TO LEARN STUFF.
And I'd have to take a pay cut to be a teacher anyway. So that's dumb.
And sorry to bring up the degree but I have to brag about it because if I'm not changing careers then I just incurred $30K of debt for NO REASON. So I have to brag. The more I brag, the more the money is worth it. The fact that I wrote "my grad degree" up there ^ just paid for $200 of my loan. Only $29,800 worth of bragging to go. (I may need to start a new blog just for that.)
But I digress.
Now that I'm not in grad school BECAUSE I GRADUATED WITH HONORS, WITH DISTINCTION, I HAVE A MASTER OF ARTS WITH DISTINCTION I GET TO WEAR A FANCY STOLE AT GRADUATION AHEM--
I've been having little panic attacks.
Because I've never not been incredibly busy.
I used to go to work from 7am-5pm and then hightail it to rehearsal, eating dinner in the car while studying ines in traffic, and rehearse from 6pm until 11pm and then go out for drinks til 1am and go home and sleep 4 hours and do it all over again, lather, rinse, repeat, for WEEKS. My only night off from theatre was Monday, and that was the night I went to school for undergrad.
I never had a night off. FOR ABOUT TEN YEARS.
When I was done with that, I had a baby. And then, because the timing was AWESOME, started grad school. So now I've got a three year old and I HAVE A GRADUATE DEGREE (cha-ching) and a wonderful job but THAT IS NOT ENOUGH. OH NO, I HAVE TO BE BALLS TO THE WALL CRAZY-ASS BUSY ALL THE TIME.
Before I even finished my GRADUATE DEGREEE, i toyed with the idea of going to med school to become a pediatrician (no i am not kidding). I even shadowed my son's pediatrician for a whole day to get a feel for it. Fortunately that idea, though, lasted about as long as it took me to take a practice MCAT or whatever the hell it's called, because I am here to tell you:
MATH IS HARD.
I'm not acting anymore because it's too much nighttime work and I want to be home with my kid in the evenings since I'm not home with him during the day.
So I throw myself into these little projects.
I decide that we HAVE TO FIGURE OUT, IN DECEMBER, what my son's APRIL birthday party theme is going to be. and then reserch ALLLLLLL the venues in Chicago, and come up with prices, and then decide to do it in the party room of our building because it's cheaper but right now it's like $250 because of all the shit I'VE ALREADY BOUGHT for it. Now, I love parties, so this is my excuse. We used to spend that much on keggers before we had a kid. So, you know, not horrible. But still. ALL-ENCOMPASSING.
Then one day on the walk home from school my son said these words:
"Mommy can you tell daddy to take my bed back to the store, and get me a bunk bed? because i would like sleepovers."
He's too young for sleepovers, and I don't believe in getting him everything he wants, and I hardly ever buy him a toy right when he asks for it (it goes on a list for later) but by god, BUNK BEDS ARE COOL AS SHIT, right? So I researched the FUCK out of bunk beds, loft beds, playhouse beds. I shopped for them, I looked up recommendations (and then disregarded them because they said he couldn't have one til he was 6). I nagged my husband about it incessantly. Suffice it to say that in the space of a week, I had sold my son's current furniture on craigslist and had ordered him a loft bed, new dresser, and a little desk. I had also replaced his bedding, lamp, etc. And I had made my husband spend half of a Saturday finally painting our son's room.
Now, I ENJOY all of this. But that doesn;t mean it's not A DISEASE.
We have quite a bit of OCD in my family, on my mom's side. My grandmother used to wash her hands with water so hot it peeled the skin off sometimes in layers, like an onion. She still, at almost 80, takes her GARBAGE CAN out in the front yard in the middle of winter and WASHES IT WITH BLEACH.
because Lord knows, ya'll, don't nobody want a dirty garbage can in their yard.
So, this is why I know I need therapy.
Because I am crazy. And it's not a phase, because we're going on, what, five generations here.
And I really don't want to make my SON crazy.
Though, you know, genetically? Fucked.
But maybe I can offset SOME of that, the way you do with carbon emissions? Like, maybe even though he does have Type-O Crazy coursing through his veins, if I do the yoga and the exercise and the spirituality stuff and I get my shit together to be calm and "zen" about stuff, maybe JUST MAYBE he'll turn out normal?
So now I have a new project: OPERATION CALM THE FUCK DOWN.
All I need to do is some acupuncture, regular yoga, meditation every morning, switching my diet COMPLETELY, not checking the computer so much for work after hours and on weekends, and to stop yelling at old people.
As you can tell, it's going REALLY well so far.
