I have some weird triggers. They are small occurrences that send me over the edge and can lead me down a dark path of anger, anxiety, and guilt very quickly. This may or may not be a “Bipolar” thing but it creates many of the same feelings that can last for weeks during an episode and if I’m not careful it can trigger rapid cycling.
One of my stranger triggers involves dinner. Yes, that’s right, I hate dinner. I have no problem eating dinner and honestly it’s not the making of dinner, it’s the deciding what’s for dinner. Can’t stand it. Who died and left me in charge of what everyone else in the house wants to eat? I don’t want someone else deciding what I’m going to eat, so I don’t want to do it for others. Yet, society states that it’s my job; my J.O.B. I did not apply for this job and I don’t want it.
But who else is going to do it? What happens to these people I live with when I’m away? Do they stop eating? I don’t think so. Do they just scrounge for food? Probably. I can hear the conversation now.
“Hey Kate, are you hungry?” My husband would yell up the stairs.
“Yeah, a little. “ Our youngest would yell down the stairs.
“What do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know.”
And so it would go, back and forth until Kate would make her way downstairs and the two of them would begin to forage through the kitchen. Eventually, some decision would be made and dinner would be eaten and viola, I would be nowhere to be found. However did they manage?
I’ve explained this dilemma to my family. I’ve done my best to make them understand that constantly picking out the dinner menu makes me crazy. And yet the expectation still exists and it still makes me nuts.
Tonight my husband, who sometimes works from home, came downstairs around 5:30 and asked what we were doing for dinner. I was on the computer, working on my website and my writing – my new job. I told him that I hadn’t thought about dinner because I wasn’t hungry. He began to bang around the kitchen, digging around for food and small containers so that he could consolidate the leftovers already in the fridge. And that’s when my anxiety kicked in. I could feel his annoyance at my lack of interest in dinner. He grumbled; I panicked.
“If you’ll eat something small, I’ll make baked mac and cheese.” I tried to placate.
“I’ve got it, don’t worry about it.” He retorted.
Ugh, ‘don’t worry about it,’ the words that meant I should worry about it. Shheesh.
I need to interject here because I’m making my husband sound like an ass. He’s not and we’ve got an awesome relationship. This is just one of those issues that he forgets bugs me and I can’t help but get bugged.
“Do you want me to run to the store and pick up a chicken?”
“That would be ok, but I’ll go get it.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it.” I grabbed my keys and stormed out. I popped him the finger once I was in the garage. Coward. I grumbled the whole way to the store.
When I returned home I tossed the food on the counter, began to bang around as he tried to apologize. He said he’d been grumpy and he was sorry. Too bad I was pissed off now.
I have learned to reel in the anger; deep breathing. I’ve also figured out that I can avoid the full onset of craziness by simply letting go; forgiveness. And I do everything I can to not be so hard on myself; no guilt.
Now wait until I tell you about the joy I experience when my daughter asks me to go to the fabric store.