Saturday afternoon Bob and I hauled it down to Small Town, Minnesota for my cousin Jamie’s graduation party.
Little Jamie, the first of many babies my mom took care of from my mid-teens and on. Little Jamie graduated from high school and now I feel So. Freaking. Old.
Attending her party meant seeing members of my dad’s family I see all of once a year…if that. This is all well and good, they generally save their ridiculous D!R!A!M!A! parties for smaller gatherings. But there is always the inevitable question:
What are you doing these days? Are you working?
Urgh.
My default answer when I get this question from people is usually, “I’m pretending to be a housewife.”
But when my cousin posed the question about work, my brain collapsed. What I should have said was, “I’m not working because my brain is not functional enough to hold a job right now.” (Maybe with slightly more tact.) Instead I stumbled through an awkward, “I looked in the beginning but there wasn’t really anything available. Eventually I just stopped looking.”
When I give the generic “I lost my job” statement, people tend to assume I was laid off for reasons relating to the bad economy. If I feel like it, I tell them I was actually fired because of my mental health problems. Honesty is the best policy isn’t it?
After five years of openly dealing with the shitstorm in my head, I’m typically not shy about broadcasting the truth of my mental state. Once I realized it wasn’t my fault, I stopped caring about other people judging me based on an illness they may or may not believe is real. If they’re not willing to accept that I have a legitimate illness, they’re not worth my time. It has been incredibly freeing.
But apparently I am still prone to the fear of judgement because when I was faced with the question, my anxiety shot sky-high and I lost all ability to answer in a way that didn’t make it sound like I was just making excuses for being lazy.
It shouldn’t bother me as much as it has been. It’s been stabbing at the back of my brain since the bullshit answer fell out of my mouth. I hate that I panicked. I hate that the anxiety bit me in the ass once again. It’s over and done with and it really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But my brain can’t let it go. Because it can’t let anything go.
I’m pretty sure my cousin forgot the conversation by the time she left. If nothing else she probably chalked it up in the weird cousin column. The girl who never says much and just sits there like a deer caught in headlights through most family gatherings unless asked a direct question.
So just when I think I’m finally falling asleep an incredibly loud and obnoxious voice comes barreling out of nowhere yelling, “LET ME TORMENT YOU ABOUT THE THING YOU CAN’T CHANGE. LET’S THINK ABOUT IT FOR THE NEXT THREE HOURS UNTIL YOU’RE READY TO RUN SCREAMING THROUGH THE NEIGHBORHOOD.”
And I’m pretty sure that would be some sort of violation of the home owners’ association.
I think I need to change my default answer when the question comes up:
So what are you doing?
I’m writing a book.
Because I am.
Sure I have no intention of ever trying to publish it. It’s highly likely that no one but me will ever actually read it. But I am writing a fucking book. Because I want to. And I can.
I should also probably have a shirt made to wear for social functions that says something along the lines of:
I’d wear it.
Judgement be damned.
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