Tuesday, August 7, 2012


I don't actually have a lot of respect for therapists who rely heavily on a person's diagnosis. I attended a meeting on Friday with a bunch of therapists and one of them referred to one of their client's as "my borderline." Gross. I gave her a dirty look, don't worry. I don't think any of us can be boiled down to some code in a book. It can be a helpful tool for us mental health practitioners but if it's all you see in a person, it's time to take a break. That being said, I completely and whole heartily participate in self-diagnosis. Whatever ethical qualms I might reserve for diagnosing other people, I completely disregard for myself. I am my diagnosis of the day. Today: I am OCD. I contemplated putting half of our belongings on the street with a big "free" sign. I refrained. I did loan one of our couches to my brother, which transformed our living room space and appeased my inner serial killer long enough to cook a half-ass dinner for myself and Ellis. Scratch that, Ellis ate string cheese and an apricot. I ate shrimp with cocktail sauce. And I lied about "cooking." Nothing we ate actually required heat. Anyway, I suppose its good that I have a little OCD going on, as I do have a crawling infant (Ellis) who, like the bazillion children before her, feels more comfortable if she can put everything in her mouth. If I'm going to be totally honest, the OCD thing isn't particular to today. I have to admit that having a child has turned me into somewhat of a neat freak. Or to be more specific, a freak. I'm obsessed with organizing. I buy a lot of bins. I contemplated buying a microscope so I could assess our germ population. I disinfect the house a lot. I spray things with Lysol, which side note, I didn't even know Lysol existed. It is very handy for people with my condition. Alright, let it be known that if someone who really had OCD came into my house they would probably request a hazmat suit, but by my usual standards this place has never been so clean. Sometimes I wonder if I will always maintain a certain level of chaos in my environment. Sort of like how people who really want to lose weight always manage to sabotage themselves so they keep those last 10 pounds. Those last 10 pounds that have become a friend, an antagonistic friend, but a friend nonetheless. And sort of like those people who keep dating the same asshole or assholette because the idea of a functional relationship seems so unbearably bland. If I could just accept that I have no clue what I'm doing when it comes to organizing my shit into bins I could move on, let my angst go and just be like all those other moms who have accepted that their immaculate apartments of their 20's are a thing of the past. It's the diaper decade now honey. Own it.

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