Name Your Neuroses

[UPDATE: The Six Degrees of Un-Separation Project welcomes TEXAS, CALIFORNIA, WISCONSIN, ILLINOIS, IOWA, MISSOURI, CONNECTICUT, NORTH (or maybe SOUTH) CAROLINA, OHIO, PENNSYLVANIA, OREGON, NEW MEXICO, ARIZONA, ALASKA, INDIANA, GEORGIA, CANADA, and AUSTRALIA! You GO, Universe! I believe in you!]

My mother’s neurotic tendency to worry is, apparently, genetic. The same DNA recipe that makes my mother compulsively worry about the potential dangers lurking in my three year old’s bowel movement schedule (Would you believe she frequently calls me from work for a “poop report”? She does.) has been passed down to me.

Turns out, I’m not alone. While waiting at the ASHA Salon for my very first ever highlighting appointment, I read an article in More, a magazine catering to “sophisticated women forty and better.” (I am six years away from 40, but one of my perfectionist/ neurotic tendencies is to over-prepare. Thus, I started preparing for forty when I was thirty. I guess I want to be sure that I will do forty “right” when I get there. At this rate, I’ll be buying my funeral plot and arranging the music at my own funeral by the time I’m 36….) The author explained that she lets her mail pile up on the dining room table. This isn’t because, like me, she simply is too busy racing after her children and answering “poop report” phone calls from her neurotic mother; it is because she is afraid to open the mail. Apparently, years before she and her husband had some financial trouble. Like most people, some unexpected life changes occurred (birth of another child, laid off, moving to a new location). In the midst of all of this, a few bills went unpaid. Some overzealous and downright nasty creditors harassed them, even going so far as to call their new neighbors and tell THEM about their unpaid bills—which is ILLEGAL, by the way. As her financial situation improved, all of the bills were eventually paid. However, the scar this situation left on the author was an overwhelming fear of opening mail-- because it MAY contain a letter announcing a late payment. She had become mail phobic as a result of her financial worries.

I’d started reading the article because I also have a dining room table piled with mail, and I thought this piece may have some tips for organizing the overwhelming mess threatening to take over the entire room. However, even after I realized this piece would not provide organization tips, I couldn’t stop reading. Hey—I’ve had unexpected financial challenges in my life, and I know how frightening they can be. There’ve been plenty of times when I’ve been pressed up against the window of a chic shoe store, drooling on the glass, itching to feel that fourinchheeledsatinstrappynumber firmly secured to my peds but unable to afford them because I’m approaching a zero balance in my checking account and more important things, like food, need to be procured. But I didn’t write an article about it. For some reason, I thought we were supposed to keep issues like that hidden, like financial skeletons in our closets, collecting dust. I respected this woman’s bravery in publishing an article that laid everything out in such a raw, unfettered way. I also respected her naming her phobia.

This may sound a little weird, but I’ve kind of gotten the idea that most phobias are a result of unnamed fears. If we have the vocabulary to NAME the boogie man we are facing, most of its power is eliminated right there. The author of the article named her mail crisis as her "personal financial phobia.” When the mail started piling up, she said, “Oh-oh. There’s my financial phobia, again. I will make myself a cup of tea and get myself some of my favorite cookies and sit down with the mail in a bright, sunny location. I’ll sort the envelopes into piles of most to least scary. Then, I’ll tackle the ones that are least frightening first—build up some confidence. Eventually, I’ll move to the slightly more scary envelopes, and so on, and so on.”

I realized while reading the article that I have a phobia about financial planning. I am afraid that if I look closely at my financial future, I will find that it is dismal or that the only way I will be able to secure a respectable financial future for our family is if I give up my shoe fetish (gulp!) or road to gorgeousness adventure (double gulp!!). In my phobic state, I envision myself just barely able to retire, but forced to wear ugly shoes over my un-pedicured feet and with dull looking, wrinkled skin because I am unable to afford a good exfoliant and moisturizer. Reading this article made me name the phobia: “Ooops! There I go being financially phobic again.” Now, I am going to make an appointment with a financial planner, humorously explain my extreme ignorance where finances are concerned and the phobia that has resulted, and ask for some help. Sure, it will be a learning process, but I don’t think it will be all that difficult. Asking for help isn’t all that hard. Right?

Now, if I could only get my mom to name HER phobia. Gastro-intestinal blockage phobia, perhaps? Then, I could force her to sit down with a gastro-intestinal doctor and get her worries out in the open. I bet she’ll feel a lot better when she realizes my son will not explode on impact if he hasn’t pooped in the past 24 hours.

Care to admit what you are afraid of? If you name it, it may just go away!