Details

I don't like to think about the big picture. Allow me to explain. I have these amorphous ideas of my children going through school, attending college, becoming functional adults of American society. I have these images of the Ty-man and I taking the kids to Yellowstone on an insane family vacation, playing at the beach, helping kids with homework, bouncing grandchildren on our knees.

But, overall, I keep the big picture at bay. Because for me, that big picture always leads to death. Mine, Ty's, kids, my mom, my friends, everyone. Going there opens the door wide for my panic attacks.

I pretty much deal with this anxiety every day. Even though investigating the paranormal has cut down on the attacks quite a bit, I still find myself going down the forbidden path. Now, though, instead of wondering how I will die, my mind grabs hold of Will the kids be OK when I'm gone? or I couldn't live if my children died before me. or How would I take care of the kids without Ty? I think about the what-ifs and the could-bes and I get so overwhelmed.

To combat this, I think about the little things. I need to wash these four dishes and these three cups. There are two shirts that must be ironed. I have a section of blackwork I want to work on. Should take me 15 minutes. Tomorrow, I'll go to the grocery store. This weekend, I'll get the kids set up with a craft project. I can only mentally plan a week in advance. Oh, sure, I make dentist appointments six months out and we register the kids for school in February each year. We even have a college fund set up. Woo hoo!

But me? Personally? I can't think that far ahead. I have to look at the little tiny details of my day. If I focus on the tiny stitches of life's enormous tapestry, then I'm OK, I can deal. If I start to back up and take in the entire embroidery of my life, I get overwhelmed and panicky because there's so much I've done and so much I still have yet to do. I have no idea when the project will end and if people will admire it when it's all over.

It's too much.

So I just keep crouching over my stitches, counting as I go, hoping I won't have to pull out any knots.

The Random Crap in My Brain

Why am I always down on myself when it comes to my intelligence and my physical appearance? Why can't I accept that I'm an intelligent/not ugly person?

What was the point of spending four years of my life and $16,000 of my money (in early 1990s dollars) on a college education when all I was going to do was be a wife/mom sans career?

Why do I fear death yet find myself fascinated with headstones and mortuary science?

Why do I remember my most embarrassing moments from so many years ago (sometimes 20), moments that no one else present even recalls? Why do those moments mean so much to me and haunt me?

What's up with our country? Why can't politicians work for the good of their constituents rather than for the good of their donors?

Why can't someone develop a telephone that, when a button is pressed, sends an electrical shock down the line to the telemarketer at the other end?

Why do people lose IQ points when they get behind the wheel of large SUVs?

Why are French manicures so popular with women today? Even for pedicures? Why do I think this type of manicure looks trashy?

Is it bad that I have 22-year-old band trophies on my office shelves? What kind of message does that convey about me? Should I care about said message?

Why do I always make things more difficult than they truly are?

Why do I annoy people? Is it that people don't get me? I remember at the age of 12 that my 6th grade teacher didn't like me. I think kids have a sixth sense we all lose as we get older, a sense about people and I know she didn't like me. How could a precocious 12-year-old get on an educator's nerves? Why didn't she like me? Why should this matter to me 23 years later?

Why can't I get to bed before midnight?

Why isn't anyone commenting on my blogs? After two months, am I boring?

This is my brain. Welcome to it.

Thinking Too Much

You know, it's a damned good thing that I spend most of my days too busy to really think about what I eat, drink, wear, or watch because if I did, I would never eat, drink, wear, or watch anything ever again.

For example:
I start my day by toasting a piece of hazelnut-opiate derivative bread (hazelnut-poppy seed, see where I'm going with this?). Once perfectly burned, I slather the top with bee vomit (honey). On the side is one glass of excretion of bovine mammary glands (milk) followed by a rather large mug of legal addictive stimulant (coffee). Once, I've eaten said scrumptious breakfast, I go upstairs to my closet for ten minutes to contemplate today's wardrobe. I have to choose between a shirt made from plant fibers (cotton), worm vomit (silk), or sheep fur (wool) and cow skin foot covers (leather shoes). My legal addictive stimulant hasn't worked on my headache fast enough, so I decide to take some willow bark (aspirin). I then go to my office to check e-mail on my modern-day abacus (computer).

Later in the day, I decide to have lunch. Will it be sliced pig (ham) on whole wheat with a slice of solid, fermented excretion of bovine mammary glands (cheese) or just fermented, yeasty excretion of bovine mammary glands (yogurt)? Hmmmm. Either way, I'll be eating my lunch on a tree (wooden table). Later, after the kids' naps, we watch a movie, about a fish, produced by a company that used to make instructional videos (how to avoid STDs, for example, not kidding!) for the US Army during WWII (Finding Nemo). Later the twins go outside to play in their "limestone-based excrement of parrot fish"-box (sand box).

As I get ready for bed, I smear bee vomit-comb (beeswax) on my chapped lips and rub cow placenta (lotion) on my dry hands. I pop little pieces of plastic out of my eyes (contact lenses) and climb into my warm and toasty bed.

Now, you understand why I'm so screwed up.