To think about something unceasingly or persistently

Saturday, August 22, 2009 To think about something unceasingly or persistently Current mood: contemplative Category: Blogging Ahhh, sweet A&E. I didn’t know what I was missing when I didn’t have cable, and in all honesty, I could very well live without you. But, seeing as I don’t have to at the present time, you provide hours of entertainment, as your name promises. It started with Intervention. Who could resist such classics as Listerine Mom, and Screaming Southern Belle with the mini vodkas? Not I, that’s for sure. I’d sit there with my glass of wine, going outside on commercial breaks to smoke my cigarettes, and bask in the superiority I so obviously possessed as I do not fall asleep in my taco bell, run screaming down the street buck ass naked, or look cross eyed at the camera and talk gibberish, as the subjects of your series have so often done. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making fun of these people, I’m honoring them with a toast, better you then me, because who knows when I’ll be joining you. But now. Oh my now, your new show Obsessed. Such a fitting name, as it has definitely done just that. I see everyone I know in this show. We all have our own levels of OCD and anxiety. We all enjoy things to be our way, we have idiosyncrasies, food this way, bed this way, whatever it is. And we all experience stresses when things don’t go the way we’d like. My husband’s closet is organized by work and normal clothes. The work clothes have dark hangers, the everyday clothes have white hangers, both sets of clothes are color coordinated, whites, grays, blues, blacks, etc. When I first met him I stood in front of his closet and took this in, remembering my ex who wasn’t capable of hanging up his own goddamn towel after taking a shower. I’d find it on the bed, in the living room, where ever, and go a little more insane. I decided then and there that while I knew it would be a different set of difficulties, I would prefer arguing about the wipe marks on the stainless steal flour container, (I have no fucking clue how to make them go away, but the kitchen is not “clean” until I do apparently. Yes, I have informed him that is now his job.) than perpetually picking up after a grown fucking man. He also has bins of clothing and knick knacks galore, but all put away. His decorating style is minimalist to a fault, a direction I’m leaning towards as it seems blowing on things occasionally does not count as dusting. Dusting has to be done with a rag and requires you to actually touch the object, something I’d previously only done when moving. Whatev. We’re not even going to discuss family members. Ok, just the two, the MIL has 2 large boxes of beany babies. Hmm. Not because she collects them, but because her mother, who passed away about 5 years ago did. She can’t get rid of them because they make her think of her. Not to mention the billion of other things she has from her as well. I was attempting to convince her to keep a couple and give the rest away in the interest of space and sanity, and she balked. Didn’t work in the least, and she actually said; “Well guess who’s getting them when I die!” I looked her straight in the eye and said; “Ebay. I don’t have room for this shit.” It may have traumatized her. My mom’s not much better, she has boxes and boxes of bears that she collects. Just because. (Also will go to Ebay.) As for me, I have food obsessions unlike any other person I’ve ever met, also, I really like things to match. Like my bra, undies, clothes and shoes. I REALLY try to coordinate. I have plastic reusable water bottles with colored lids that I even like to match my clothes. *crazy* Then there’s the anxiety, I have a lot of firsthand knowledge of this. After 4 car accidents the year I was 17, (3 minor, 1 major) one tends to start to believe everyone is out to kill you and it affects your driving skills. Panic attacks ensued just while I tried to learn to drive. There after the rain, fog, and darkness were enough for my heart to race, chain smoking to occur and cause me to avoid freeways and highways. Luckily I’d moved to ....Sacramento.... and could maneuver the city on surface streets for the most parts. It would take me 30 min longer, but by god I’d get there. Going someplace new was also a large cause for alarm. It turns out that the therapists have people do something called Exposures to work through the anxieties. Pretty self explanatory, you are exposed to that which causes you stress. You stick with it until you calm down, and realize you will not die. Which is the ultimate fear. I had been unknowingly doing this for myself over the years, so when I learned this I gave myself a small pat on the back. What you want to do is avoid avoid avoid!! But you have to fight that instinct. Part of my job was transporting kids to various places and appointments. Kids that like to take advantage of every weakness so it behooved me to keep that shit to myself. I’d have to go new places, and be calm about it. Then when I got together with J, I had to drive the curvy roads in various different weathers. And yes, I’d arrive some nights, put my head on the steering wheel and cry a little. And I called Melissa hysterically sobbing one stormy foggy night, but she’s an awesome girl, and knew what to do and say to get me through it. The point is, I didn’t give up. I kept trying, exposing myself, until I came to the conclusion that I am capable. But I know that line exists for me. The line that you cross from a little odd to NUTS. I did try to go to the Dr. who was worthless; “Let’s get you on some Risperdal.” Um, no, I want to work through my problems, I’m asking for help, tools other then medication. Needless to say I didn’t go back. Obsessed makes me wonder even more though, what event would it take, what experience would throw me from my mild weirdness into fullblown psychiatric illness? What could happen for me to keep everything that comes across my path? Papers, boxes, items meaningful and non meaningful alike. What would it take for me to fear germs from shit so much that I stick a toothbrush up my ass after giving myself an enema and spend 3 hours washing everything in the shower? Am I one traumatic day away from complete insanity? Or would I allow it to creep up on me? A series of problems, all culminating to the grand finish of me not leaving my house for 10 years. Also, because J hates those shows, (perhaps too much of a mirror?) I watch them in bed while he’s already asleep. What if subliminally I’m fucking him up even more? Giving his brain ideas. This worries me, but not enough to stop watching them. All I know is I love these shows. I will continue to watch them as long as they’re on, and use them as guidelines for the severity of my mental fuck ups. I will sit in my completely color matching ensemble, with my glass of wine, eating the same food I have for the past month, and feel grateful that I’m not as bad as them. Thank you A&E. Although I have one suggestion, maybe some more arts? I’d REALLY like ballet shows. That would be awesome.