But over the last couple of weeks I have leaked out my eyes a lot. It’s like living in a cold, salty soup. If a chef served me the kind of soup I have created for myself over the last few days, I would make them watch as I brushed their dog the wrong way so the fur gets all matted and gross. (And then I would brush it back again because the tangled fur would drive me crazy. But I would let that chef think I would leave their dog in that horrific state.) Such is my rage at the emotion to which I have been subjected.
Not gonna lie, the reason for my angst is pretty embarrassing. It’s good to be honest, (and to that end I’ll admit that I really don’t want you to find out from anyone else first) so I’ll just say it. I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Whoop-dee-do. Here’s a crash-course in what that means for me, in case you care to find out.
For those of you who didn’t read it, I’ll just say that this move has caused me much consternation.
con·ster·na·tion/ˌkänstərˈnāSHən/
Noun
Feelings of anxiety or dismay, typically at something unexpected, often resulting in the use of much unsportsmanlike vocabulary or the crying of many embarrassing tears.
It started with the loading of the moving van, which was a lot of hours hauling The Designer and The Teacher’s stuff down three flights of stairs. I should say, before I go too far, that I do not judge them for owning this much stuff. In reality, they own a lot less than the average American couple, and they are downsizing all the time. But compared to the minimalistic lifestyle to which The Writer and I are accustomed, it seems like a lot. Unloading the moving truck brought similar revelations, but you probably get the idea so I’ll skip the boring introspective bits.
Really, things started getting bad around the end of the first day. Upon moving in we observed that the previous tenants of this particular home must have been design consultants for Playskool. Remember the primary color wheel from kindergarten? Bright red, bright blue, bright yellow? You’re envisioning the inside of this house.
The Writer and I (owning only those possessions that would fit into our Yaris) unloaded and settled into our room in a few hours. Because of my OCD, I knew it wouldn’t be possible for me to be comfortable until the space felt like home, so I put our little territory together quickly. The rest of the house wasn’t so easy. The Designer and The Teacher had never lived in a space they could paint, and they thought it would be better to tackle the color problem before unpacking all of their stuff. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
This is where I screwed up. I could have just gone to them and communicated that I would be under a heavy blanket of anxiety for as long as the kitchen, living room, and offices were full of boxes and half-assembled furniture. Hey, what was that movie, where their friends were within earshot and they could’ve just gone and talked to them? Lethal Weapon? I should have done it the Lethal Weapon way. But no. In my infinite wisdom and with my rock-solid emotional state I decided to say nothing and suffer in silence.
Except suffering in silence is never as silent as people think it will be. My silence was so palatable you could hold a straw in midair and drink it. The silence, not the air. I was miserable, and because of that, so was everyone else. I wasn’t trying to be passive-aggressive, I promise. I was trying to be sensitive to my friends’ wishes. But that was a bad call.
Anyway, lots of crying and frustration and a couple of really good talks later, things got cleared up. Communication always wins out in the end. By then the painting was too far along to stop, so we just dealt until it could get finished and things put away. I’m still a little amazed that we’ve been here two and a half weeks and there are still boxes to be unpacked. I know I can’t judge – once not too long ago I had this much stuff too. But it’s weird to go from living in a open, clean, nearly empty space to being surrounded by someone else’s stuff all the time. The Teacher keeps calling it crap, but I genuinely don’t see it that way. I don’t believe it’s junk because it’s valuable to them, so it’s valuable to me. But it isn’t mine, and there is a lot of it. For those reasons, the majority of the house feels like someone else’s. When I walk into the living room, it feels like their living room, but not mine. Their furniture, books, and pictures fill the shared spaces. I’d contribute some of my stuff to make it feel more like home, but I have barely enough to fill my own room.
I knew that as a minimalist moving in with non-minimalists I was volunteering to live in a house that wouldn’t ever feel exactly right. I just didn’t expect that I would still be adjusting to it this far in. But every cloud has a silver lining, even if sometimes that silver lining bitch slaps you into doing good things for yourself. After two weeks of hyperventilating and breaking out into cold sweats over the state of our house, I have decided to seek professional help for my OCD. I’ve never done this, so it’s a huge step for me. I’m calling a therapist tomorrow. For my birthday I was given three free sessions with this guy (who is apparently really good at helping people be… less broken?) and I’m very nervous. I think it’ll be good, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t know what to expect.
I think things with The Teacher and The Designer have really evened out. (I mean, for my birthday they gave me three appointments with a therapist and we’re still friends, so that’s something.) And I guess if it goes badly, I’ll have all of you to take it out on. Welcome to our home!
Forest Four the Trees 