If This Worked, I Would Be the Happiest Woman on Earth!
Wouldn't it be great if you could just smear something on yourself and start over from scratch?

Something is wrong with me, and if there's a psychologist or psychiatrist reading this right now, I'd appreciate a diagnosis.

For as long as I can remember, I couldn't bear making mistakes. Do you know what a shape sorter is? The thing you give to an infant with shapes and shape-sized holes into which you're supposed to put them? Well, as an infant, I would throw it across the room when I put the wrong shape in the wrong hole. My mother says it was quite startling, because in general I was an easy-going, happy baby who never made a fuss.

Then, when I was older, I would immediately abandon a page in the coloring book when I colored outside the lines. My life was full of half-finished pages in half-finished coloring books.

I LOVED the start of school. It meant a fresh start. Up until the day I forgot an assignment, got a bad grade, or some other mishap -- then I hated school and wished I could stay home every day. I would lay awake for hours and hours dreading the next school day.

It would get quite self-destructive. In high school chemistry class, for example, I failed to turn in a lab. So I didn't turn in another lab. Ever. It was the same with math; if I missed a homework assignment, I gave up. What was the point? My record was ruined.

I hated when the mail man would walk across the snow-covered lawn, marring it with his dirty boot prints.

I still battle this tendency to this day. When we were first married, I would withdraw from Dilf after the mildest of disagreements -- to my mind, I was "ruined" in his eyes, and it was all downhill from there. I was mentally barricading myself against an imaginary enemy that didn't exist.

I'm better about that, I think (right, Dilf?), but my brain can still paralyze me. A sink full of dirty dishes and a dishwasher full of clean ones, for example, puts my stomach in knots. I hate the dirty dishes! I want them gone! But those clean dishes are in the way... it just seems overwhelmingly complicated to my brain and it freezes up. I'm fine once I get started, but it's hard for me to GET started.

It's not laziness; I want to do the work. I stare at the work, willing myself to do it. I'm not doing anything else more fun or interesting.

It's not a dislike of the chore itself; I love cleaning. And organizing. And conquering chaos.

So, what is it? What makes it so difficult to start? I want to start. Why can't I?

When I was younger, I used to think I had a brain tumor or some other disease that kept my body frozen in place while my mind was urging, "Come on! Do it! Move!" Now, I don't think it's that dire, but I still don't know what the hell's wrong with me.

I'm starting to feel this way about blogging. It's not good enough. I want to start over from scratch, with a new pseudonym, because of yesterday. I still think the premise of reassuring lonely bloggers that people read and appreciate their stuff is a good one. But not if they feel attacked. I don't like that I was part of a bad thing. And I want to erase it.
Name: Übermilf
Location: Chicago Area

If being easily irritated, impatient and rebellious is sexy, then call me MILF -- Übermilf.

So you want more huh?
Click here!

Perverts, scram. There's nothing for you here.

Now, who wants cupcakes?

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