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How ARE You?

I have this friend that I don’t see a ton, but when I do see her she always asks how I am doing. Big whoop, right. Baristas at coffee shops ask the same thing to perfect strangers. The difference is in the emphasis – How are YOU? – vs – How ARE you? Crazy subtle, I know, but hang with me for a minute.

“How are YOU?” gets asked a million times a day. You say it to strangers and casual acquaintances and the expected responses range from, “Good,” “Still kickin’,” “Hanging in there,” “Can’t complain,” etc. Even if you are having a total crap day, you come up with something vaguely positive to say. These are the rules. Just look at how foreign languages are taught. One of the first things learned are greetings and responses. All of the responses are rote, because nobody actually expects a real answer. It’s just part of the greeting.

tipica-conversacion

When someone strays from that by responding something like, “I’ve been feeling really depressed and my back’s been hurting for some reason,” the conversation immediately becomes awkward and you start wondering why this person whom don’t know from Adam, is telling you their life story? Awkward! The fact that you asked is completely inconsequential, because “How are YOU?” might as well be a rhetorical question. Stick to the script and nobody gets hurt.

Which brings me to, “How ARE you?” This is what my friend asks, and that tiny shift of emphasis throws away the rule book. She has gone off script, and actually wants to know what’s going on with me. I’m quite certain that if I responded, “Kinda crappy,” I would immediately find myself in a heartfelt conversation about why I’m feeling crappy and if there is anything that she can do help. That is a hypothesis, because I of course always answer with, “Good,” because I’ve been trained since childhood to keep my feelings to myself and the damn word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. But it’s got me thinking.

thinking

What if we reserved “How are YOU?” for ice breakers with strangers, and really started to use, “How ARE you?” for the people we care about. What if we were actually open to getting an honest response and then giving honest feedback in return? Or maybe no feedback at all, just sit and listen to someone. I can’t count how many times I’ve been in a crappy mood, and the simple act of explaining why I am in said mood was enough to lift the cloud a little bit. Sure, it would extend the length of conversations, but it would also help eliminate the feeling of being all alone even when surrounded by a group of people. There are far too many lonely/hurting people in the world, and perhaps small changes like this could help remedy some of that.

I don’t know. This just keeps rolling around in my brain, because I know how much it means to me when I hear it from her. So how ARE you?

The Lingering To-Dos

I love a good check list. The satisfaction that I get by crossing something off a list is probably the greatest motivator that I have to do anything on the list in the first place. Because of this, I keep lists for everything, and the granddaddy of all of my lists is my To-Do List. This list covers a month at a time, and contains items from every aspect of my life. As soon as I’m done writing this blog, I’ll get to cross that item off the list. Everything that takes more than five minutes to accomplish goes on the list. EVERYTHING.

To-Do List

The easy tasks almost always get done because they’re easy and I like crossing things off. FYI, you should always have easy tasks on your list for those moments when you start to feel overwhelmed and need an easy win. Why yes, I did “dust something,” cross that sucker off! There are the mundane tasks, like laundry, that get done because if you don’t you’ll have to go to work naked and that would just be awkward. Then there are the tasks that have deadlines. I love deadlines. I am a master procrastinator, so deadlines keep me productive. Seriously, embrace the deadlines my friends. These things get crossed off my list regularly, and unless some emergency crops up, they generally get done on the day they’re listed. I like these items.

ToDoChase

Then there is my list nemesis … the lingering to-do. These are things that I should get done. They are generally pretty involved, have no immediate consequence if it isn’t done, and have no deadline. These are things like rearrange my closet. This isn’t a pressing need, but it would make my life infinitely easier every time I had to get something from in there, if I just took an evening to rearrange the damn thing. But when that to-do shows up on my list, I know that it can be put off, so I watch a movie instead. That’s how these items just linger. They don’t get done on the day assigned, so I move them down to a future day. That day rolls around, and I simply bump it down once more. And I do this with every lingering to-do I have.

The next thing I know, it’s the end of the month and all of these linger-ers are piled up as sub-listings under the item, “Make New To-Do List,” because I’ve run out of days to move them to. This happens every month! And every month, I dutifully assign the tasks to a new day in the new month and vow to myself that this time I will actually get them done.

No You Won't

That being said, it’s the end of the month and I am vowing that February will be the month that I actually get these things down. February will be the month that annihilate the lingering to-dos! You all are my witnesses, which probably just means that I’ll have witnesses to my failure, but here’s to hoping it lends a little bit of accountability to the effort. Cross your fingers for me!

Coffee and Cookies

Once more I find myself naked and dripping wet in the hallway, trying frantically to jump and hit the stupid reset button on the fire alarm to quiet the blaring. There are two thoughts that break through this cacophony:

 

1. Why would you ever build a bathroom without an exhaust fan to run during showers?

2. Why in the world would you place the fire alarm directly outside the bathroom with no exhaust fan?

 

I lied. There’s a third thought.

 

3. This wouldn’t be a problem if my goddamn bathroom door latched securely preventing my dogs from venturing in to see what I’m doing.

 

I love my dogs dearly, but they have given me a whole new appreciation of the concept of co-dependency. They must know where I am and what I’m doing at all times, or it is the END OF THE WORLD! The ear piercing wails of the alarm and its robotic voice announcing, “Fire, fire, fire,” don’t phase them in the least, but it’s bloody Armageddon if I leave the room. Finally, blissfully, I manage to hit the button and quiet descends. The morning peace has been restored and I can now go about getting ready for my day. Now where the hell is my towel?
Fire Minion
I’m running late. Which is no surprise as I’m always running late. Mornings are not my friend and I have perfected the art of getting out of bed, walking across the room and turning off the alarm without actually waking up. It truly is a marvel how I am able to navigate the clutter of my bedroom while asleep. I’ve even put my rowing machine directly in the path between my bed and the alarm. Doesn’t matter. I am a sleep walking ninja.

But I’m up now, and I’m showered, and that’s what counts. This is what I keep telling myself. I hate being late. It makes me feel like I am letting everyone down, and some days that is enough to make me give up. The depression takes the mic and the inner voice becomes, “You’ve already let everyone down, why even bother? Just go back to bed.” This is an amazingly convincing argument as the bed is warm and soft, and the aforementioned dogs are curled up giving me a look that says, “Come snuggle mama!” I do love a good snuggle.

No, I’m going. Late or not. The inner voice is wrong. I’m doing the best that I can and today this is as good as it gets. I announce to the dogs that it’s time for breakfast and they are up like a flash. I would kill for even a fraction of that energy. I mean there’s coffee, but you would have to down at least a pot of the stuff to reach puggle energy. But the coffee is better than nothing. And cookies. There are totally cookies in my desk, and as I’m counting the episode in the hall as a workout, cookies with my coffee sounds acceptable. It’s the little things that get you going. Let’s do this.
Coffee and cookies

Hiatus

Hi all,

Apologies for how sparse this blog has been lately. Apparently I can’t do it all.

Shocking

Shocking, I know, but there it is. In my quest to publish two books this October I have run out of hours in the day. Therefore, I need to purposefully cut things from my schedule – instead of leaving it all in, failing to get everything done, then feeling bad about it – and this blog did not make the list of things to be kept. I am hoping to get back on the blogging bandwagon in November, so I will see you then. In the mean time, I will still be posting on Patreon and please do check out my two upcoming books!

 

In a Time Never Known

Monsters in the Night

But You Don’t Look Sick

I think the most frustrating thing for me about living with chronic illness, is not the illness itself, but having to constantly explain why I’m still sick. To have to constantly apologize that circumstances have not changed and that there is nothing that I can do about it. That I am doing everything in my power, and none of it is working. Or it works for a little bit and everything is great, and then it stops working. That no, upping the dose is not the answer. Yes, I tried it. Yes, I’ve tried all of the dozens of suggestions you have, plus dozens more. Right now, this is as good as it gets.

Yes, my thyroid has been tested, it works just fine. It’s my adrenal glands that don’t work. No, I have no idea why my body functions differently than everybody else. Yes, I’m working with a trained medical professional. No, she doesn’t know why my body is functioning abnormally either. Yes, my doctor knows what she’s doing. Yes, I saw multiple doctors before I picked her. Yes, I did my research and picked her carefully to make sure she was exactly the right doctor for me. Yes, she has helped.

How? Okay, let me dive into the history of my treatment with her, how much time to do you have? Should I include supplements/medicines we’ve tried and all of the different testing that’s been done, or are you looking for more of the Reader’s Digest version of the past two years and thousands of dollars of care? Trust me, I am more aware than anybody else that this has been going on for two years.

Yes, I’m on medicine and supplements. Yes, I’m buying the good quality ones and not the knock-offs at the drug store. In fact, I spend more each month on those than I do on food. No, I’m not going out partying in my time off. I’m too exhausted to go out partying. Not to mention, I can’t afford to go out partying because all of my money goes towards the appointments, the tests, the supplements and medicines that work well enough to keep me upright and looking healthy, but don’t actually make me consistently feel healthy. And the oh so wonderful side effect of all it, is that I get to explain this all over again ever month or so, because I don’t look sick, so why am I not better? I have no idea. I am doing the best that I can and I’m sorry that it’s not good enough for you.

Yes, I will keep you updated. I’ll pencil in this exact conversation for next month.

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Even When Things Go Sideways

I kid that every time I go out to eat at a restaurant it’s like I’m playing Russian Roulette because of Celiac disease. I totally say this as a joke, yet there’s more truth to it than I like to admit. This has become abundantly clear to me because in the past two months, I’ve lost this game twice. No, I wasn’t shot in the head, I was gluten-ed. The first time was at a little food truck where I’ve eaten before and I ordered what I always order. Which means that they either changed the recipe so that it now includes gluten, or there was cross-contamination. I know what you’re likely thinking, “Why in the world would you ever eat at a food truck? Half of those people aren’t even trained chefs! Of course your food was cross-contaminated!”

To that I would counter you with my second exposure to gluten. It occurred at a fancy restaurant, after I had spoken in detail with my server, who then spoke with the chef about what I could and could not eat. In this instance, even after all of the precaution, they served me a rice flavored with the exact same miso sauce that they had removed from the meat because it contained, you guessed it, gluten!

Yay

To be honest, I’m not even upset about the first one. Shit happens. People who don’t have Celiac don’t realize that all it takes is a crumb or two, so even when they’re being careful, they may not be careful enough. The risk of cross-contamination is the gamble I take whenever I decide that I don’t want to prepare my own food. The second instance, pisses me off. Why did we all go through that stupid elaborate dance of ‘What can Kat eat?” if nobody’s going to pay attention in the end? In all honesty, this is why I hate eating at fancy restaurants. The fancier the food gets, the more ingredients they use, and the chefs are generally not big fans of removing elements from their perfectly balanced dish, because it means that someone in their restaurant is going to eat bland food.

Thankfully, I was able to identify the miso flavoring with my first bite, and I was actually able to throw most of it up. I generally can’t make myself throw up at all, so the fact that I was able to that night sheds some light on just how upset I was. I was upset on several levels. First, that I was going to have to leave my friend’s wedding reception while I was still able to drive home. Second, that any plans for the next day or two would have to be cancelled as I would be at home feeling like shit, and any plans around large groups of people for the following week would have to be cancelled since my immune system was going to be compromised.

quarantine

But mostly, I was upset because no matter how strong I am, no matter how careful, how thorough, how detailed I am, all it takes is one bite of food to take me out. And when I get taken out it just highlights how restricted everything in my life is. How there are people who can gallivant about carefree and go on trips spontaneously, or go places with the expectation of ‘finding food there,’ and how I will never be able to be that person. Shit, I can’t even go to a dinner party without putting the host through the third degree, or bringing my own food. I can count on one hand the people that I trust to give me food without making me sick, and that’s mostly because they tell me every single ingredient they used. Something as simple as eating, will always be a production with me. There will always be a conversation, there will always be a risk. It’s not only frustrating, it’s exhausting.

So when the friend, whom I had cancelled on because of the gluten exposure, not only completely understood, but offered to bring me food – as long as I told her exactly what to bring – it lessened the frustration and the exhaustion somewhat. On top of everything else, when this happens I feel even more overwhelmed because I see myself as a burden on those around me. Not just with the gluten thing, but with my mental illnesses as well. Sometimes I really see myself as someone who is hard to live with. As someone who it is hard to be friends with as you never know when plans may have to be cancelled, or when I may not be feeling well. So the reminder that even when I cancel plans and I am not feeling well, I’m still someone worth spending time with was something I really needed.

Wonder Woman is the Super Hero I Need

Like so many others, I saw Wonder Woman last week and I loved it. I was fully expecting to like the movie, but even if I didn’t, I was 100% on board with my money going toward a movie starring a female action hero, that was directed by a woman. Which brings me back to my first statement, I was fully expecting to like this movie. After hearing friends talk about it, I had cautiously raised the bar of anticipation. Even so, this movie far exceeded my expectations. What came completely out of the blue though, was how profoundly it affected me. I’m 35 years old, I figured the days of getting pumped up and inspired by a super-hero movie were behind me. But then I sat and watched for two hours as a strong woman lead men and at no point was she referred to as a bitch, or a ball-buster, or was made fun of or told she was manly because of her strength. And amazingly, she was able to do all of this while still retaining her femininity. What?!?!?!?! How is that possible? That must be some Hollywood magic.

Whenever I’m in a group, I usually wind up leading it whether I want to or not. Trust me, there are times that I just want to kick back and go with the flow, but the next thing I know I’ve been nominated to take charge. People who know me, know that if I’m leading the group, shit will get done and it will get done well. I will lead the charge to the finish line and I prefer if you pull your weight, but we all know there will be at least one person per group who just wants to skate by doing nothing. I will drag that person kicking and screaming with me if that’s the only option left to me. This is why people ask me to lead, I pick up the slack of the weaker links.

dragged

What sucks, is that those very same people who want me in charge, are also the ones calling me a bitch. I have lost track of how many times I have heard someone whisper to their friend how huge of a bitch I am, and then turn around and ask me to lead them. It blows, but it’s something that I have always accepted as being the way of things. It was my price to pay. For what I don’t know? Having my personality? Who knows? I accepted that it was the way it would always be.

I’m sure what added to the “bitch persona,” is the fact that I am not a petite woman. There is nothing about me that is petite. My shoulders are so broad that I’ve hulked out the seams on more shirts and jackets than I care to admit . . . some of them in fitting rooms. But frankly, if the shirt isn’t actually an extra-large, they shouldn’t label it as an extra-large. That being said, I’m wearing an extra-large shirt right now, and the shoulder seams hit about an inch onto my shoulder. So really an extra-large doesn’t fit either.

Shirt-shoulder

My frame does not fit into the criteria of classic femininity. The way that I bulk on muscle, unless I’m excruciatingly careful about how I exercise, makes me look more like a body builder than a curvaceous woman. I can’t wear short sleeve shirts unless the arms are made of a material that can stretch, because my biceps are too big. I easily carried my forty pound dog up and down the stairs several times a day for four months when he tore his ACL. I am tall, I am broad, I am strong, and as if that weren’t enough I have a deep voice. I have been called a dude, butch, manly, one of the guys for so long that it takes me aback when a guy flirts with me. For an emergency, a deadline, hard advice, call Kat. For a good time or a hot date, call someone else.

Entertainment confirms this image. The big and strong girls are the comedic relief, or the ones that help carry the plot so the petite main character can live happily ever after. These are the roles for the non-feminine girls, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean ugly. You can be beautiful, but the second you’re the same size as 50% or more of the men in the room, you are no longer feminine enough to be a heroine or a love interest. The second you move from the girl being lifted in dance choreography to the girl doing the lifting because you don’t have enough guys, is the moment you lose the descriptor, feminine.

So imagine my amazement at watching these kick-ass fight scenes with bulked-out, strong AF women who exuded femininity. The Amazons were strong, fierce and had costumes that accentuated their strength more than their sex-appeal. And better yet, instead of being the ‘manly’ women, or the ones who take care of the other more petite women, they were just women. Even Wonder Woman’s classic uniform still paid tribute to its sexy forbearers, but it again shows her strength more than her curves. Compare the necklines and the waist size of the two women.

Old vs New WW

If I lost every ounce of fat on my body, I still couldn’t look like Lynda Carter. Gal Godot, that’s doable. I would still have to lose every ounce of fat on my body, but I could achieve that body shape. Broad shoulders, tall, discernible waist but not an hourglass. And most importantly, strong AF, and not apologizing for it or hiding it. Not apologizing for stepping out to take the lead, and not apologizing for breaking the classic mold of femininity. For the first time in my life, I left a movie loving the fact that I am strong and that I can put on muscle. I left a movie wanting to work out and get that muscle definition back. I left feeling that I can be just as feminine as my more petite counter-parts.

I was not expecting to get that kind of body-positive affirmations from a comic book super-hero movie. Consider my mind blown. Especially when I logged onto social media and saw this kind of reaction across the board. Petite women felt empowered. Larger women felt empowered. Average size women felt empowered. By treating a female super-hero like they would have treated a male super-hero, women across the country felt empowered. Feminism is not the desire to be treated better than men. It is the desire to be treated on an equal plane with men. The things we can learn from comic books. Go figure.

Decide to Get Over It?

I am a huge proponent of therapy. I truly believe that at one point or another, no matter how perfect and magical your life is, every person can benefit from talking with a therapist. There is just something about knowing that there is someone out there to whom you can confide all of the things in your head that you barely even want to admit to yourself, much less to somebody else. There is someone that you can confide those things to, and your secret is safe, because by law, they can’t tell anybody! Not only can’t they tell anybody, but they’ll talk through the issue with you. It is amazing how much relief can be had from telling a therapist something that makes you a freak or a bad person and then hearing the therapist say, “Oh, yeah. That’s normal.”

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There are so many things that we as a society deem inappropriate to talk about, that we walk around thinking we’re all alone and something is wrong with us, when chances are half the population is having the exact same thoughts. It’s crazy! And a trained professional telling you that you’re normal carries so much more clout than if a friend were to say the exact same thing. Working with a good therapist can truly change your life for the better.

However, you knew that was coming, I always hit a certain point while working through past crap and relearning healthier ways of thinking/behaving, that I just get so sick of rehashing the past. I get it, it’s good work. It’s work that needs to be done at one point or another, and just when you think you’re done something else comes up. My PTSD unleashed several repressed memories. Those are fun.

zero fun

But despite the fact that I know it’s good for me, and I know in the long run I’ll be glad I did it, I am to the point that I don’t want to think about and focus on the crap anymore. I almost feel like telling myself to stop whining. Seriously, get over it already! And then I realize that I sound like every well-intentioned – or completely clueless – person that has ever told me to do the same thing.

“Just think about the good things. Be happy.”

“Forget about it and move on.”

“Maybe some exercise out in the sun will help!”

So I don’t know. Can you simply decide to get over it and be done? Have you ever reached that stage in therapy?

Always Good for a Laugh!

Anybody who knows me, or frequents my Instagram page, knows that my dogs are my babies. I’ve had them for a little over a decade now, and I don’t care how low or crappy I’m feeling, they can always make me feel better. Whether it’s their crazy antics or both of them climbing into my lap for snuggles, they lift my spirits. So a couple of years ago when their nervous energy got out of control – they would scream and cry EVERY TIME I left the house – I talked to their vet and we put them on Prozac. In retrospect, I wish that I had put them on it years earlier, it made everyone happier. What made it even better, was that I was able to fill their prescriptions at my local Target pharmacy. So I registered both of them as pets and all was well.

Puggles

Then CVS took over the Target pharmacies, which was even better for me, since I get my own prescriptions at CVS. Why not Target you ask? Because I spend a hell of a lot less money when I walk into CVS, then when I walk into Target! So I transferred the prescriptions over to my normal CVS and all was well . . . or so I thought. The last time I went in, I asked for my prescriptions, then I asked for the prescriptions of Zoey and Malcolm Michels, both born on 6-26-06. To which the guy helping me said something about twins and I agreed. Technically they’re littermates, not twins. I personally know that they at least had another sister, so they are two from a set of triplets, or quadruplets, or quintuplets . . . much easier to say littermates. However, as I got tired of giving this explanation to people several years ago, I just smiled at the attendant and agreed that Zoey and Malcolm are indeed twins.

He smiled back, and then went to fetch the prescriptions. When he came back, the smile was gone, replaced by a rather troubled look. He set my prescriptions down, and then proceeded to almost say something, then he stopped. It was at this point that I guessed what was going on. I figured he saw that they were labeled as dogs and was afraid of offending me in case my darling twin children had been labeled as animals. I was only half right. Zoey had been labeled as a pet, and Malcolm had been labeled as a little boy. This poor guy was trying to find the most politic way of asking if I indeed had twins composed of a dog and a boy.

Laughing

He finally asked me if Malcolm was a boy, to which I said yes. Then he hesitantly pointed out that Zoey was listed as a K-9 and was that correct? To which I also said yes. I let him hang awkwardly for a couple of moments – because I’m evil – before repeating back to him that yes, Zoey is a dog and Malcolm is a boy . . . dog. At this point he burst out laughing and I could see the tension release from his shoulders, as he assured me that, you know, this is LA, somebody might have dog/boy twins, and he wasn’t judging or anything – he was totally judging – but he was glad that it was much simpler than that. He then fixed Malcolm’s classification in the system, I made a smart ass remark about being really into Twilight back then, and we were both tearing up from laughing so hard by the time I paid and left.

So for a brief moment, in the eyes of CVS, I had a dog and a little boy. Now I just have dogs, and they’re still my babies.

I Prefer the Insomnia

I am no stranger to sleeping problems. I first developed insomnia when I was 16, and a couple of years ago I found out that my cortisol levels are backwards. They’re high when they should be low and low when they should be high which is why I’m exhausted in the morning and get one hell of a second wind at 10 pm. If I had complete control over my schedule, I would go to sleep at 3 am and wake up at 11 am. As I do not have complete control over my schedule, and we’re getting closer but haven’t yet fixed the cortisol problem, I do not take a good night’s sleep for granted. But of all of the issues I have with sleeping, I’ve always been grateful of the fact, that my problem is never a racing a mind. I’m either wide-ass awake with brain functioning normally, or I’m asleep. Being wide awake when you’re trying to sleep is bad enough, so I can’t imagine the hell of being exhausted but unable to get your brain to wind down.

Portrait of an insomniac man trying to sleep in his bed

But as they say, all good things must come to an end. I got a taste of this last night. Not the full-on anxiety brain, I had OCD brain. On Sunday, my laptop decided that it wanted to freeze up, never to work again. Yesterday it got sent out, likely for a new hard drive, which meant that I had lost all of the work that I’d done on Sunday. Argh!!!!! I need to finish my novel, and to do that I need my laptop, and I need to keep work that I’ve done, not lose it! Talk about feeling helpless and having zero control over something . . . cue my OCD. I couldn’t control what was happening with my laptop, so my brain decided to control everything else around me.

I immediately mapped out the rest of my evening in order to complete an extensive list of things on my to-do list.

  • Stop by CVS, use coupon to buy birthday card.
  • Stop by the store to pick up some forgotten groceries. Get exactly what I was missing, nothing less, nothing more.
  • Take dogs out.
  • Start my laundry.
  • Cook my dinner.
  • Prep potatoes while my dinner cooks.
  • Eat my dinner.
  • Cook potatoes while I eat my dinner.
  • Move my laundry over.
  • Pull out potatoes and let cool.
  • Cook scrambled eggs and add the rest of the breakfast burrito ingredients while the potatoes cool.
  • Assemble 8 breakfast burritos and wrap them up for the freezer.
  • Put burritos in freezer and put away leftover ingredients.
  • Fetch laundry from laundry room.
  • Grab ingredients and assemble two pepperoni pizzas, wrap them up for the freezer.
  • Put pizzas in the freezer and put away leftover ingredients.
  • Chat with roommate – this wasn’t on the original schedule.
  • Fold laundry.
  • Do a sink-full of dishes.
  • Realize that while the water is dirty, there’s still room in the drying rack for more dishes.
  • Run more water and do another sink-full of dishes.
  • Strip and remake bed.
  • Take dogs out.
  • Get ready for bed.
  • Lie in bed thinking about the fact that while I folded my laundry, I didn’t put my laundry away which needs to be done. Then think about the fact that the dishes I did earlier should be dry by now, and thus can be put away making room to do the remaining dishes. And the counters and oven really need to a good scrubbing, and hey I can use that new spray I got!
  • Start to get out of bed to do the aforementioned tasks.

It was at this point that I caught a glimpse of the time on my alarm clock, and realized my OCD had kicked in. I am not usually this productive after work. Especially when my evening starts out by spending an hour at the Apple Genius bar. But as I sat on the edge of my bed, taking deep breaths and trying to re-center myself, it occurred to me that I hadn’t wanted to do that second sink-full of dishes. I had simply been incapable of walking away until the precarious tower of Tetris-ed drying dishes was such that the addition of a single spoon would have sent the whole thing toppling down. I then reminded myself that while I always wash and fold my laundry on Monday, I generally put it away on Tuesday. So no, that didn’t need to be done at 2 in the frickin morning.

Go to bed

My entire evening had been driven by a NEED to clean, organize and plan the world around me. I had been working in such a frenzy, that my normally snuggle-tastic dogs were curled up on my bed against the wall so that they weren’t touching me. Honestly, I think they were afraid I was going to throw them in the bathtub and scrub them down if they made their presence conspicuous. Which I might have, so well played puggles. Even with the knowledge of what was going on in my head, it took another half an hour lying in bed wide awake to convince myself that I had done enough for the evening, and like the proverbial mouse with his cookie, if I got up to do just one more thing, I would literally be up all night. Ooof! So long story short, I feel for those of you with anxiety, because the racing thoughts thing sucks!