Adventures in Anxiety: How Dropping Food on the Floor Means We're Going to Die on the Streets

I'm pretty sure I have un-diagnosed generalized anxiety disorder.  Most of the time I'm fine, but sometimes even the smallest and most innocuous stimulus can start a ridiculous spiral in my brain.  I'm proud to say I can go from zero to utter catastrophe in a few small mental leaps.

Let's say, for instance, that someone leaves a spoon with food on it in the sink without rinsing or washing it.  Here's what happens in my head:

There is a dirty spoon in the sink - therefore - we will get ants or other bugs - therefore - the cats will become diseased - therefore - more bugs will come - therefore - our condo will become infested with bugs and disease - therefore - the condo association will ask us to leave (of course, we'd have to keep paying the mortgage) - therefore - we will be homeless - therefore - we will die on the streets.

See how easy that was?  There is a dirty spoon in the sink = we will die on the streets.

This time, the trigger was my husband's insanely large appetite.  Admittedly, I did not grow up around a lot of men.  Apart from my father (who I never remember eating that much), I really didn't have a very good understanding of how much food most men eat. They eat a TON of food, you guys.  For example, I bought two bags of clementines (each contained about 30 of them).  From when I bought them on Sunday to when we ran out of them on Thursday, I had eaten only about 10 of them.

I am assuming that one way or another, the remaining 50 clementines ended up in my husband's mouth.  He is almost always hungry and I am almost always anxious about it.  I have this terrible fear that he is going to starve or get scurvy (obviously not this week, though) or that he will lose weight and his family will notice and hate me for not feeding him enough.

Part of this is because I grew up half-Lebanese, which means if you live in my house, I am going to spend 75% of our interactions trying to feed you.  I will do the same thing if you visit my house, FYI.  If you're hungry and you're hanging out with me, you're in the right place.

Recently, we bought into a CSA (community supported agriculture) program through a local farm.  In this week's share, one of the things we got was an eggplant.  I was really excited about this, because I love Chinese food and I think I'm pretty okay at cooking it and one of my favorite dishes is eggplant in garlic sauce.  I was also excited because I figured I could make one stir fry and then have it be a large enough amount of food.  Basically, I figured this stir fry was going to be a temporary answer to the nagging feeling that I am starving my husband to death.

So I got the wok out and started making eggplant in garlic sauce.  The apartment smelled awesome and I had a lovely stir fry at the end of it.  Definitely enough, I thought.  And tasty!  Zack agreed.  

So I made a pot of rice and let that cool off a little bit.  I started packing everything up for our lunches tomorrow and had to stop when I realized that Zack's lunch bag was nowhere to be found.  I asked him where it was and he told me that it broke.  To just use some other bag for now.  My first inclination was to use a blue plastic bag, but I decided against it.  For some reason, I thought it wouldn't be strong enough to hold a glass container of stir fry.  Against my first instinct, I decided to use an old square shopping bag (the thick paper kind with the strings for handles - you know what bag I mean - like a gift bag, sort of).  The bottom fell out of this plan.  Quite literally.

So just like that, there went my temporary anxiety antidote and thus began the spiral.  Obviously since there was no eggplant in garlic sauce, there would be no lunch whatsoever for anyone and both of us would be loopy at work and Zack wouldn't do his job well.

Then, of course, he'd get fired and since we can't survive on my income alone, we'd just get further and further behind in the bills until eventually we'd have to give the cats to a better home.  Then I'd feel guilty about that and I'd miss them terribly, not to mention their new people friends would silently judge me for being a terrible cat parent.  Zack would become increasingly despondent and that, of course would be my fault.  Because I dropped the stir fry on the floor.

See how easy that was?  I dropped the stir-fry = we're homeless, possibly with mental issues.

Once I had composed myself, I made another stir fry (with yellow squash).  It wasn't as good, of course and we're out one lidded glass container now.  It took me hours to get over the I-wasted-food guilt and then hours to get over my oh-god-what-if-I-really-AM-starving Zack guilt.  

I'm mentally exhausted now, all because I have a hard time controlling my anxiety.  I have to think that there is some purpose for it.  That in a post-apocalyptic world, let's say, the fight or flight response will be totally necessary and well timed.  

I always tell myself that in the right circumstances, I'd be like Tina Turner in Beyond Thunderdome.  

Adventures of the Chronically Malcontent

 

 

An Open Letter of Apology to my Husband: Sharing the Load

Dear Zack,

I had a ton of ideas about what it would mean to be a wife.  That it would mean that I'd have to stop complaining.  That I'd have to suddenly change my entire disposition and stop being so particular, so critical, such a perfectionist.  That I'd have to muster patience that I don't naturally have or develop a gentle spirit that is antithetical to my sense of urgency in "getting things done."  In some subconscious headspace, I told myself that I would have to smooth over all of my rough edges all at once and that I would have to somehow dilute my intensity in order to keep us emotionally afloat.

There were two major errors in my thinking.  1)  In trying to change my fundamental nature, I must have somehow forgotten that those were some of the characteristics that made you want to marry me in the first place.  Sorry about that.  2)  I arrogantly thought that the burden of every responsibility rested squarely upon my shoulders.

I am guilty of that in a lot of different aspects of my life, not just in our marriage.  I am guilty of self-reliance-to-a fault.  In short, I am guilty of thinking that if I don't do something, that means that it isn't going to get done. 

If I don't do the dishes, no one will ever do the dishes.

If I don't worry about the money, no one will ever worry about the money.

If I don't ask you a thousand times to do something, you won't remember to do it.

If I don't think about the future, neither of us will ever think about the future.

Self-reliance has always been extremely important to me.  It has always been very important to be capable of everything (and more) that I ask of other people.  But sometimes I get very carried away with this and I forget that by refusing to let you shoulder any of the responsibility, I am refusing to recognize you as your own moral agent, as an adult and as my husband.

I am sorry that I have been operating under the assumption that if you don't do something exactly the way I would, that you must be doing it wrong.

I am sorry for assuming that you aren't as concerned with things as I am.

I am sorry for being so arrogant as to think that I am the only person in our partnership capable of shouldering the load, so to speak.

I'm a big believer in psych-somatic symptoms and it was very humbling that when I found myself with a thrown-out back (some might say as a result of physical exertion, but perhaps it was a universal check for thinking that I am strong enough to carry everything in the world all by myself) this weekend, I also found myself unable to do anything.  I had to have faith in the fact that you would be the one doing everything and that I would just have to lay there on a bag of frozen peas and let you.  

Of course, you did.  You took care of every responsibility that needed to be taken care of.  You made sure I had everything I needed.  You even went out of your way to try to cheer me up when I got frustrated about not being able to do everything alone.  You let me be ridiculous and you loved me anyways.  I don't know what I thought would happen if I ever just let go and waited to see how things panned out.  I think on the fear-based side of things, I just pictured empty food containers, hungry cats and dirty dishes.  

So please accept my open apology to you for selling you short.  In the future, I am going to be better at sharing our responsibilities and at allowing to do things on your own time and in your own way.  

I love you,

-Your Wife

Negotiations

Those of you who know Amanda and I best know that we were both occupationally considered "negotiators" at one time.  However, the brand of negotiations that Amanda and I were required to do involved compromising, but not usually to the extent that the party on the other end generally thought we would or could.  As a result, we are both great at negotiating (see: arguments) and neither of us are very good at compromise (see: ending arguments).  To further the problem, I'm really great at being painfully sarcastic when I reach the point where I no longer desire to compromise, so... you can guess how well that works out. 

We both also choose really awesome times to argue, making both of us retrospectively look back and realize that we were both ridiculous.  For instance, last night, I reached my wall and decided to go to bed without doing the dishes or cleaning up after myself in the kitchen.  This is regular to me, and normally, I'd get up in the morning and clean them off, no harm no foul.  Amanda is incapable of this.  In her mind, if those dishes aren't done, we might get ants, and then we'll have to hire an exterminator, and she'll stay up all night thinking about it.  Now, I'm not telling you that to make you think that Amanda is unreasonable, she isn't. She is very particular about the way things should be, whereas I am not.  I don't know what contributes to those differences- if it was our respective upbringings or what, but Amanda ended up doing all the dishes.  Which wasn't fair.  Though I do my best to understand that she cannot leave the dishes in the sink, this action pisses me off, because it makes me feel as though she's cleaning up after me, which hurts the masculine, egotistical cock-wielding, self sufficient part of me.  I'm speaking for myself when I say this: but I think that most every boy wants to grow up and have the ability to be self sufficient enough to "be their own man" so to say, and so, when Amanda washes my dishes that I left, thinking that I'd do them in the morning, it turns me in to Godzilla.  Regardless of the fact that I was tired, and I could've just done them and avoided any ill feelings, I decided that 2230 hours was an excellent time to fight about this and act like a child.  In short, though we said we love you to each other before we go to bed (...everyone gives you this advice at the shower, or at the reception or on your marriage day, prepare yourself: you have to say I love you and you can't go to bed angry at each other)... we still went to bed, neither of us having compromised our position.  This morning, after having gotten a sufficient amount of rest, we both apologized, telling the other that we didn't know why it was such a big deal last night. 

The point I'm trying to impart is: no one tells you that the first year is a constant process of negotiation.  There is no one thing that does not affect the other person in some manner.  And during the first year, you think that everything the other person does will affect you in some way, when in reality, it might not. 

At the end of the day, though, Amanda and I can still find humor in this: no one tells you that the first year you will compromise more than you ever have before.  And no one tells you how uncomfortable some of those compromises might make you.  And no one tells you just how great those compromises might make the future.  And no one tells you how uncertain you will feel when making those compromises.  And no one tells you how often these relatively small things which you'll have to make compromises for can make you feel like you might get served divorce papers the next day.  But most importantly, no one tells you that the driving force behind all these compromises is love and if you married that person, you must have loved them enough to make these compromises, and if you find yourself believing that any compromise is too much (unless of course it would cause you harm), then you must question if that love was really worthy of marriage.  Through it all, I still love Amanda.  I think the standard wedding vows must hold a special significance in the first year more than any other.  Perhaps after the first year, we should go back and here them again, checklist in hand and review which of those situations we'd found ourselves in in that first year. 

Get Out of My Damned Kitchen!

Some misogynists like to make jokes about how a woman's "place" is in the kitchen.  Meaning, that her only purpose is to serve her husband and children (not by choice*) and to, perhaps, not be allowed to leave the kitchen.  I suppose for women who are oppressed this way in their own households, being relegated to the kitchen might seem like servitude or imprisonment.  

I'm not one of those women and come to think of it, neither are most women I know.  We all seem to lead pretty well-rounded lives is what I'm saying.  I'm not subjugated in my own household at all and I really enjoy cooking.  I find it relaxing and I'm pretty good at it.  To the point that I don't like anyone else messing around in the kitchen besides me.  When you're in my kitchen, you're in my house, if you know what I mean (like, "you're in my house now, punk!").

The problem is that I burn out right around Wednesday evenings, especially during tutoring season (when I work 8 hours before working another 2 or 3).  So come Wednesday nights, when I've had fourteen seconds of sleep per night and I'm crabby and acting really put upon and obnoxious, we usually end up eating out for the rest of the week, much to the detriment of both our wallets and our own health (chicken wings?  McDonald's?  Yes, please!).  

For a long time, Zack has been suggesting that he take two nights a week as his "dinner nights."  Since implementing this change would require that I relinquish some of my control over both the grocery list and the kitchen, I have been avoiding it for months and months.  See the previous blog post, though.  Necessity may be the mother of invention, but it is also sometimes the mother of Amanda re-negotiating her weird boundaries.  Reluctantly, I agreed to let Zack into the kitchen with the purpose of cooking us dinner.

So there I was, sitting in the living room, thinking about the time that Zack cooked fish and then left the pan in the oven for three weeks.  Or how the kitchen used to look.  Or how much I didn't want to do a pile of dishes at 8 o'clock in the evening.  Or how favorably our insurance carrier would view paying out on a claim after the microwave exploded.  Or any number of otherwise ridiculous scenarios.  

I don't know why.  He managed to live just fine all by himself before I got there.  Nothing exploded (that I know of) and I'm relatively certain that he ate. 

Know what ended up happening?  We ate a perfectly lovely dinner and there were no explosions.  Pretty much what anyone would expect.

Slowly, but surely, I'm learning how to share.

*For stay home moms who read this, I'm not talking about you at all.  More power to you!

Cooperative: Better said as "Marriage is Testing My Ability to be a Hippy"

Hello, world.  Wife here, with her first attempt at cooperative blogging.  Originally, I was going to write a follow up to the money post that Zack just wrote, but I figured that there isn't really very much left to say about that.  What I want to talk about is how it's really difficult to give up the deeply-ingrained isolationism I (regrettably) hold so dear.  

It's Memorial Day, so we split the day between both sets of parents.  While we were hanging out with my parents, we were talking about this blog and about why we were writing it.  We were telling them how we wanted to give a realistic account of what the first year of marriage is like.  How "happily ever after" sort of begins with a 365 day closed session in the situation room.  That might not be fair.  We're 45 days into the first year of our marriage and we've been teetering between DEFCON 3 and 4 on most issues.  I defy any of you to tell me that this is abnormal as learning to exist as a team rather than a one-woman-show can be exceptionally difficult, especially after 30 some odd years of one's decisions only affecting one person.  

My mom put it best as she was telling me about her first year with my father.  It was something along the lines of, "no matter what you're doing, you always feel like you're giving too much leeway on every issue, but the weird thing is that both of you feel this way, even though both of you are compromising."  Man, is that ever true.  From socks to bank statements to who gets which bathroom drawer.  Everything seems to involve negotiations and dialogue.  Living single is so much simpler.

It's easy to say, "This is MY bathroom," or, "This is MY kitchen."  It's really easy to say, "This is how I balance the budget," or, "These choices affect ME."  The truth of the matter is that when entering into a partnership (and I'm not just referring to heterosexual marriage, I am referring to ALL chosen partnerships), there are degrees of compromise that will seem ridiculous to a person to even have to make.  I've been thinking about why it all seems so epic and I've come up with one idea.

Everybody secretly (or not secretly) believes that their own way is the best and only way.

As someone who absolutely does not want to identify as an isolationist - as someone who, in fact, might VERY much want to live by a personal policy of inclusion and cooperation - having to recognize myself as a closet isolationist is embarrassing at best.  

But the first step, they say, is admitting that there is a problem.  

So I'm learning to live with the occasional unwashed dish.  The occasional drips of water on the bathroom counter in the morning.  The differences in how we view major issues as well as minor ones. Has anyone seen the show Modern Family?  I am, without a doubt, the Claire Dunphy of this relationship.

In his speech at our post wedding lunch, my father gave us a few pieces of advice and one of them sticks out to me at this particular moment:  "Don't keep score.  It all evens out in the end."

Sigh.  

The best remedy for any disagreement is dialogue and compromise.  

Only 45 days in and I already know he's right.  

-Amanda

Money Woahs (or woes...)

So as I mentioned before, right before Amanda and I got married, I took a new job.  That job involves leading a team of fifteen people.  In taking this job, I ended up taking an actual "take home" pay cut due to a lack of commission.  This was something that Amanda and I discussed prior to taking the job. and decided it was worthwhile.  I wasn't really prepared for the financial shock that ensued. 

I suffer from attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and I fall within the subtype of "Combined hyperactive-impulsive and inattentive".  I spent a very long time denying this fact.  It wasn't until Amanda and I started dating that it really became apparent.  I remember sitting in an office and being read a list of "symptoms", and it was though I was being read back a list of what I had come to identify as personality flaws.  Or, ways that I identify with most house cats. 

So anyways, one of the places that my impulsiveness is most prevalent is in the financial realm.   So, on Thursday, I got paid and I realized there was a big inequality between what needed to be paid and what I had.  I am not particularly apt with money.  In fact, ask Amanda, the Saturday morning after pay day, Amanda and I usually get breakfast somewhere, but first I spend six hours on my laptop trying to figure out how to make my money work.  By the time we get breakfast, she is usually suffering from hypoglycemia.  Over the past several days, I probably spent 14 hours trying to figure out what to do when life hands you one lemon, but you need eighty five.  My mind suggested things like "Why don't you go to the Horseshoe, you might do well there.".  I am well aware of my propensity for downright stupid ideas, but this one was like... the stupidest.  I didn't do it luckily.  But the route I chose to take was not any better.  Having heard about finances and marriage and the divorce rate statistics that are associated,  I thought it best not to tell Amanda about this. 

Amanda's views and my own on finances are very different; and I respect that.  But she's very serious about money, and I'm always concerned that anything involving money will undoubtedly blow up in my face.  That probably stems from having a financially conservative mother growing up who was relatively responsible with money, and myself being someone who was not. 

So, anyways, Amanda spent six hours trying to figure out how to make eighty five lemons out of one.  Anyways, here we are six hour... okay, that's a lie.  She figured it out in two. three tops.  There was yelling. A surrendering of my garage space.  A review of the five w's from Introduction to Investigative journalism.  And now we're here, sitting beside each other.  It wasn't a pretty situation, she took her cat and ... okay that's a lie too... The details don't really matter.  But, we worked it out and made a plan.  And the future looks a little brighter; That is if I stay away from the Apple Store.