I Bet They'll Name A New Diagnosis After Me

Well, fresh from the weekend, I think it's safe to say that I am mostly recovered from HateFest 2007. My mood is much improved, although I still can't say what it was that had me so cranky and bitchy to begin with. Still, I am not complaining. Neither are Oscar or Turtle, who, by late last week, were making great strides in their quest to build a bomb shelter, the better to avoid Mommy and her Mood of Doom. No, at this point, we're all just happy that Mommy's not going nuclear every five minutes.

Of course, spending all of that time trying to figure out what exactly was causing my psychotic breaks, while not resulting in any kind of epiphany about that particular subject, did result in a somewhat surprising self-realization: I am completely and totally neurotic. Not that I use the word "neurotic" when discussing my condition with others. No, instead I go for the generic word "goofy." I'm "goofy" about things. It somehow sounds better and less alarming when I put it that way. But we all know that's just code for the fact that I? Am a total fruitcake.

Then again, anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time would already know this. The evidence is ALL over these pages. Like the series of posts about my diet, for example. Those only scratch the surface of how obsessive and neurotic I am about my weight, how much exercise I get, and what I put into my mouth. Because if you were a fly on the wall at my house, you would know that if I have a cookie one day, and the next day I step on the scale and the numbers read even half a pound higher than they read the day before, I will not only berate myself at length about my "weakness," I will also put myself through an extra half hour at the gym to balance out that cookie and work off that half pound. Never mind the fact that the damn cookie by itself couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces and thus had next to nothing to do with the weight fluctuation. My twisted little mind has a warped perception of cause and effect.

Not neurotic enough for you? Okay, how about this: Oscar and I were less vigilant than we should have been about birth control this month, and despite the fact that my period is not due for another couple of weeks, I already have myself convinced that I'm pregnant. This, of course, means that every weird hiccup is a pregnancy "symptom." Hell, at this point, I'm making stuff up to prove my hypothesis. ("Was that mole there before? SEE? SEE? I MUST be pregnant!" "Honey, that's a speck of dust." "NO! It only LOOKS like a speck of dust. But look! I'll blow on it and you'll see! It's a pregnancy mole!" *blow* "-----" "Yeah, okay, it was a speck of dust. But that still doesn't mean I'm not pregnant!") Even when I try to convince myself that every little "symptom" I'm experiencing is undoubtedly psychosomatic in nature (because seriously, my uterus, though crotchety and sensitive, still has to work within the laws of physics and could not possibly be sending pregnancy messages to my body prior to actual ovulation) I still find myself rocking back and forth, mumbling "how could I let this happen?" ad nauseum. I know. It's disturbing how disturbed I am.

So I guess between my week-long freak-out-a-go-go and my recent realization that I am a smidge (if by "smidge" you mean "whole helluva lot") goofy, it's time to suck up what little remains of my pride and look into some professional assistance. I mean, it really shouldn't be this hard to keep things like this in proportion, right? Aren't most people able to cope with life's little setback and uncertainties with a little more aplomb? Yeah, that's what I thought. So I apparently need to talk to someone and see about getting my head screwed on straight. Because, seriously, it's not that I mind the big hole in the backyard that's serving as Oscar's and Turtle's current base of operations. It's just that we spent an awful lot of money on the landscaping and I'd like to enjoy it a little bit longer before the boys start putting the barbed wire fencing and the "XY Chromosomes ONLY! Double X's KEEP OUT!" signs.