He Says Neurotic

Here’s the definition from my favorite source, Wikipedia:

Neurosis is a class of functional mental disorders involving distress but neither delusions nor hallucinations, whereby behavior is not outside socially acceptable norms.^[1] It is also known as psychoneurosis or neurotic disorder, and thus those suffering from it are said to be neurotic.

 And, also from Wikipedia on the subject of Neurosis:

 According to C. George Boeree, professor emeritus at Shippensburg University, effects of neurosis can involve:

…anxiety, sadness or depression, anger, irritability, mental confusion, low sense of self-worth, etc., behavioral symptoms such as phobic avoidance, vigilance, impulsive and compulsive acts, lethargy, etc., cognitive problems such as unpleasant or disturbing thoughts, repetition of thoughts and obsession, habitual fantasizing, negativity and cynicism, etc. Interpersonally, neurosis involves dependency, aggressiveness, perfectionism, schizoid isolation, socio-culturally inappropriate behaviors, etc.^[6]

Well if I were to use only that to describe myself, you’d think I’m crazy.  Or at least defective.  Perhaps.
Let me stretch the limits of my own confidence, and say that at some point, everyone has some form of neurosis.  I’m sure that this article is discussing things of which I honestly know very little.  I’m guessing that the doctors have different criteria that must be met in order to have some sort of diagnosis.  For instance, one day of low self worth, or feeling impulsive does not a neurotic make.

My husband jokingly uses the term neurotic to describe me.  But I’m not offended.  I will actually be extremely forthright and tell you that I do have some of those conditions up there sometimes.  While I do not have a clinical diagnosis for most of those things, and I’m not really up for self-diagnosis, I’ll just tell you a little bit about why my husband thinks I’m neurotic, and maybe you can sympathize with the poor fella.

I eat all candy a specific way.
If they are M&Ms, and it’s light enough to see the colors, I must eat all of the same color at a time, and the browns and yellows are always last.  If they are M&Ms, and it’s dark, I can eat them in any order.  Also, I must melt the M&Ms first, then, I crunch them a specific way, suck the chocolate, chew the peanut (if there is one) and then enjoy the candy shell.  Every single time. P.S. M&Ms do melt in your hands.
I eat one Kit Kat bar at a time.  Starting with the sides, then the ends, I disassemble every square centimeter of each bar, cleaning the chocolate off before eating the delicious wafer cookie.  Sometimes, I like to freeze them, so they “clean up” better.
I eat Hershey’s Plain candy bars by the square only.  Each square must melt in my mouth, I don’t just chew and swallow.  I enjoy the almond bars as well, but they are more difficult to eat, because sometimes, those almonds are in a square score, and it bothers me because they don’t break apart right.  I melt the chocolate, eat it, then enjoy the sweet almond.
When I eat Oreo cookies, I must “unscrew” the cookie, eat it first, and then I can enjoy the creamy center.  I can only buy double stuffed for this reason.  The regular Oreos don’t pull apart correctly, and this causes a frustration issue for me.

I am a recovering addict.
Handbags.  From 1998 until 2008, I spent at least five figures on handbags.  While I realize that there are celebrities who spend more than that on one handbag, I am not a celebrity.  My handbag obsession began relatively quietly.  In fact, I don’t remember when I started carrying a purse, and I don’t remember the first time I purchased a designer bag, but I do remember the day Beef had a meltdown in the checkout at the Navy Exchange.  I had picked up a lovely little denim Coach Hobo while he was shopping in another department.  He saw it in the cart, but paid no attention to it as we wandered the store.  Any normal day, when it comes to check out time, Beef would have left the area and let me pay the bill.  For some unknown reason, on this day, he chose to hang out by the clerk and take the bags as she filled them.  When she rang up the Coach bag, he happened to see the price on the machine.  Using a tone I’d never heard before, in an octave unbecoming a caveman, at an absurd decibel, he asked, “You’re going to spend $300 on something you’re going to put in your armpit?!”  He held the bag up, shaking it in my direction, as he posed this question.  In a manner befitting a lady who just purchased a $300 handbag, I nodded my head.  He began a rant about how he could not believe that I was going to spend that much on a purse that I was going to put under my arm, fill with tampons, and eventually, set on the floor; not to mention the fact that I would have another new one in two weeks.  I ignored him with as much dignity as I could muster and paid the bill.  I took my purse from him, and walked with the rest of our purchase to the car.  When inside, I reminded him that I recycle my bags and one bag costs the same as one of his guns, of which he has many.  Not to mention that the cost of the gun is only the beginning.  There are all sorts of accessories that come with guns, and all sorts of hobbies to use them at.  And so, my one time, flat rate fee for one handbag was perfectly acceptable in my opinion.  Of course, if you were paying attention, you noticed that I spent that much in a month, sometimes in two weeks.  Beef wasn’t lying.  I was buying them almost every pay period.  There is something about the feel of a new bag, the status of having the most recent edition of a brand, the smell of those designer cover bags that they are kept in.  I remember all of that like I am standing right there in the store, ready to lay out my card for another bag.  Except tonight, my heart isn’t racing and I’m not dying to have it.  I won’t cry or be depressed when I wake up tomorrow and don’t get to have a new handbag.  Why?  Because I’m recovering.  Eventually, I realized why it was I thought I needed to have those bags.  It was because I was not happy with my life.  I was trying to fill a hole, and I did it with material objects.  I had a great job, made good money, and so why not spend it?  Part of my recovery is not really in the Twelve Step program, it’s a modified version of Step Ten: “Continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.”  In this version, my dad reminds me of all the money I spent on hand bags, and how handy it would be now, with the two kids and having all the expenses that come with that.  You know, because it feels good to have dad remind me of that truth.  It feels good to not spend money on something material that will never fill a hole that is made for God.  I have given up the days of Coach and Louis, and these days, if I’m lucky, I might splurge on a ThirtyOne once in a blue moon.

Irritability
Hello??? Did you not see this post?  That’s irritating.

I’m a lister.  A chronic, obsessive, compulsive lister.
I’m doing it right now!
So, I have all these magic lists that are going to simplify my life and make my day run ten times more smooth. The biggest score I’ve received from my Mary Kay business was the SMIT list.  Ok, not really, but it was such a bonus surprise to find out that Mary Kay wants me to keep a list of the six most important things I need to do each day.  I have grocery lists, to-do lists, home repair lists, lists of supplies I need to do such repairs, lists of websites I need to visit for instructions on how to do such repairs.  I have lists of places I want to go, places I’ve been, things I want to write about, things I want to do, lists of activities to do with the kids, lists of supplies I need to do those activities, lists of chores, lists of age appropriate games, lists of family history, lists of lists of lists of lists.  And where are these lists?  Some are in my phone, computer, bedside table, table in the living room, stuck to the fridge and most are lost.  Because I’m not only a lister, but I’m a disorganized lister.

I have sensory aversions.
There are some things that make me want to vomit, freak out, skin crawl, goose bumps and all those things that make a person feel crazy!  Like some people have an aversion to fingernails on a chalkboard, I have tons more!

But, I won’t tell you all of them here, because I am a little paranoid that you will learn all of my secrets and use them against me. Bahahahahah!

I guess I have a bit of a sense of humor after all! :)  Maybe I’m not that neurotic.  Maybe I’m more neurotic than I think.  Who cares?  I live a good life, I try to be nice and kind and helpful.  If I eat my candy in a specific order, and I like to make lists and put them in a designer handbag on my fridge… then what’s the problem?  I’m not hurting anyone really.  I’m just a bit picky about things.