The Dysfunctional Family

I'm filthy #dirty, but not in the classical sense. I shower regularly, but I've been known to throw out an FU when the spirit moves me. On the other hand, I don't mention my toilet or sexual habits or joke about intimate body parts like a #penis or #vagina. 

I can only speak for my own brand of #OCD. I'm not #HowieMandel who has come clean (metamorphically and literally) regarding his #ObsessiveCompulsiveDisorder, and right now I can't think of any other celebs who have been tortured by this anxiety disorder. You may think it's all about checking doors and stoves or counting the number of times you must touch a wall. Or you may think it's a clean-freak disorder in which you must wash your hands a certain number of times or take a shower five times a day until you feel the ugly nervous gnawing in your throat disappear. Well, my type of #OCD was like none of the above. It's probably not unique in psychiatric circles, but I have never met anyone who behaved in a manner similar to mine. Of course, few people would telegraph this #disorder since it's nothing you'll ever win awards for.  First off, as far as I can figure, my OCD came as the direct result of way too much #anxiety. Some of the #anxiety was geneti

I'm disgustingly #average. I can get off on someone else's medical misery, say a hip replacement or orthopedic surgery, but I'm god-awful afraid when it comes to my own health woes.  Which is why I don't go to the doctor too often or submit to colonoscopies, MRIs, mammograms, urinalysis, gynecological exams, bloodwork, or any other 21st century indicator of diagnostic #problems.  I figure the less information collected, the less everyone has to worry about. And it works for me, except in the area of dermatology.When I was younger, I #cried and carried on--and also went regularly to the #dermatologist--due to acne. And it wasn't the easy, primetime, #Hollywood type where you look in the mirror and see a zitz and say, "oh my!" and squash it with a tweezer or something equally unhygienic. Oh no, I had to get the full-blown variety. I never actually counted the number of pimples or blackheads, but they had to fight for room on my face. It was what you'd ca

I have six #schnauzers, but even when I had fewer pooches, I sometimes had to ask myself, Who did it? I'm talking poop here, and, yes, I'm also talking blame (see my previous self-blame blog) My #dogs are housebroken, but sometimes for whatever reason--#dietary upset, illness, gas, or just for kicks--one of them will have what we like to graciously call an "accident." It's usually in the dining room or living room, but in reality, it can happen almost anywhere.

  It's ironic that this is a shorter version of the original "Blame Game." I say "ironic" because just about an hour ago I inadvertently deleted the original version in a simple cut and paste. This is a first even for me. I'm no computer pro, but I usually don't make those kinds of #mistakes. I'm still kicking myself for this one. Which brings me to the whole point of this article. Playing the self-blame game is easy to do and extremely dangerous. It happens often  to most people, but the lucky ones are able to get off the blame with a metaphorical slap on the wrist, but people like me take blame to a whole different definition. We luxuriate in it, bathing ourselves in negative self-talk. It never even occurs to me to blame someone else or just attribute a mistake to bad luck or fate. No, when I cannot justify blaming another person, place or thing, I default to myself. This is a lousy #habit I got into at an earlier age due to my

One day I hit the review button on my brain and out came an episode from high school that by all means should bolster my confidence (at least in hindsight), but still hasn't. It's called Driver's #Education, and at my suburban high school you fought for the privilege of being squashed into an ugly #Chevy Something with two other students and a teacher. So here I am in the last semester of my senior year worrying about getting into the college I thought I wanted to enroll in AND competing with the driving skills of Nancy and Bob. I'd known Nancy since Girl Scouts, and not only was she a goody-two-shoes, but she was a pleasant, WASPY one at that. That made her all the more irritating. Now Bob you could out and out dislike. He was a wise ass, smart, and knew the guy I'd had a crush on since 7th grade (P.S. I still do, but in my day dreams, he never ages and stays 17 forever). I'm sure Bob knows too much about me even before I start the car.

Yeah, I was riding high for a little while, but now the glooms have returned. For me, this means I wake up with the fervent desire to go straight back to #bed. It takes all the will power and the realization that six #dogs and two #cats are depending on me for food, water, and cleanup duty to get up and get dressed.I feel like a mummy who just got rejected from an Ivy League college. Maybe a slow-moving turtle with a hard shell that works like a large screen TV, alternating between scenes of #anxiety and #depression. These scenes jet by my grey matter and remind me that nothing has gone the way I wanted it to go. I never became the master teacher or librarian, and the writing job--freelance, which means, dive at your own risk--is yet undecided. I can give you at least five editors who were not happy with the jobs I turned in and five more who thought I did a credible job. That kinda cancels out to a big fat zero. Zero is my number of Doubt. I doubt that I'm pretty enough, I do