Intervention

I'm sure that you've noticed that I've been blogging a lot about myself lately. You may think that it may be like therapy...."Talk about yourself...How does that make you feel?" Or maybe it's more like self-realization, but I'll tell you the truth. I just like to talk about my feelings. Well, that really isn't true. I don't like to talk about them. I like to type about them. No immediate feedback. I can say how I feel and not have anyone tell me that I'm crazy to my face. It hurts less when someone types it in as a comment...and usually by the time I read the comment, I think to myself, "I AM CraZy!"

I've never watched the show Intervention, but I've seen enough commercials between all of our DVR'd Criminal Minds on A&E. Today got me thinking that I may be a little obsessive. Most people have wierd querks that border OCD, but I think that after today's realizations, I may need to consider therapy (Thanks M for helping me realize my true core....I've been lying to myself all of these years!) It all started with the garbage today. I am pretty obsessed with sorting my garbage. Our city gives us color-coded bins (just like in preschool...very easy for those that cannot read yet). Today I thought that I'd challenge myself. I threw everything into the regular garbage and now I have this halo of anxiety that I cannot shake. I have opened the garbage a few times to take a piece or two of paper recyclables out, but why can't I just forget?


A couple of weeks ago, my mom asked if I had stopped by her house while she was away. I said, "Yeah. I needed to pick up those chairs and the watermelon." She said that she knew that I was there because I always pick her dead stalks from her daylillies and leave them in a nice pile. It's a ritual. I do it everytime. I have a compulsion to pick my mom's weeds. I didn't even notice that I was doing it until that moment. But then I remembered thinking to myself that daylilies would be so nice in my garden because then I could pick out the dead stalks whenever I wanted to. Pretty dang freaky if I say so myself.

My closest friends and family members know full-well that I have a type "A" personality, but I think my strange actions go beyond that. This weekend we were filling our raised garden beds with manure, amend, and soil. I had another compulsion to crush all of the clods until it was smooth and clod-free. In reality, was that going to happen? No way. It's like trying to sift the sand clean at the beach with a plastic toy sifter....OK. I have tried it. We filled 2+ bags full of nails, wood, and other dangerous junk. I know that poor Stephen kept on going for hours only because he knew that I was on a mission.

I can't go to bed without rubbing the tips of my fingers against the threading of my pillow case. I've bled and am currently dealing with dry skin because I just cannot stop. I sometimes notice that my boys do it too. Could it be hereditary? It's a very odd habit. Yesterday I noticed that my youngest would not get out of the car until he rubbed the edge of his blankie on his chin. At Ikea, at JoAnn Fabrics, at Trader Joe's, at Target..... The sad thing is, I was looking at him and was thinking, "I bet that feels pretty good, like rubbing my fingers across the threads of my pillow case."

So, just like Intervention, Extreme Make-Over, What Not To Wear, Hoarders,...someone's gotta start the healing by nominating you to be on the show. Who's gonna "man-up" and start helping me?