How to Make a Neurotic Chick

Even though I had been in periodic counseling since I was a teenager, my problems persisted. Over two decades of diaries and journals sang a familiar lament: Why am I so lazy? Why do I always put things off until the last minute? Why do I take on more than I can handle? Why do I always feel like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown? Why can’t I just be happy for once in my life? What’s wrong with me?

In December 2008, armed with a referral, decent health insurance, my husband’s loving support, and a prayer, I underwent psychiatric testing and evaluation for the first time. The day I met with my psychiatrist to discuss the results, she rattled off a list of diagnoses: attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD), and major depressive disorder. She let her words sink in for a moment before asking, “How does that sound?” I laughed and said, “I sound really screwed up!” Nevertheless, I conceded that I finally felt like I knew what I was up against. That day, I coined a name for the marvelous cocktail that is me: Neurotic Chick.

Ingredients for a Neurotic Chick:

One heaping scoop of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD)

Power tools. Candles. Three-ring binders. These items represent a few from the KA list—the “keep away from the wife list” my husband created. Due to my seemingly endless capacity to break or injure myself with mundane household items, the list grows on a regular basis.

The vicinity of an incident determines his response. Out of sight, the crash-boom-bang! elicits a question, “You okay?” The answer “Yes, everything’s fine,” conjures him in the doorway, high alert as red as his hair, ready to rush me to the ER. Most of these situations are negligible (usually involving the destruction of replaceable objects), but the KA list exists for a reason. Charred lampshades, melted headphones, scarred hands and feet all testify.

Within sight, the crash-boom-bang! gets a different reaction. Our eyes meet. I get The Look, which roughly translates to “Now what have you done?”. The Look used to push me straight into defensive mode, his exasperation getting my standard “ugh, whatever, don’t even start!” move—a sigh/shrug/eyeroll combo that wives have perfected over centuries. Thankfully, these days I’ve learned to laugh about my seemingly endless physical foibles.

A typical conversation between me and my husband might go something like this:

“And?” he asks.

“And what?” I reply.

“You were just telling me something.”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh well—must not have been that important.”

I jokingly say that unlike most people, my memory will improve with age. While my tendency to forget what I’m saying midsentence flabbergasts my husband, I figure that if I have a choice between recalling life minutiae and mundane conversations, I’ll always take the minutiae. After all, without drawing from this deep well of detail, how can I fill my nonfiction writing with rich intricacies?

It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always like this. Granted, the evidence has been there all along. Over the years, numerous friends crafted a vocabulary to describe my behavior. Amanda said she’d be here three hours ago. Oh, she must’ve gotten sidetracked. Of course Amanda wasn’t listening—she was in her happy place. In college, I was dubbed The Queen of Procrastination, an honor I accepted with both pride and chagrin.

But the one-two punch of marriage, moving across the country, starting a post-grad school career, and managing a household exacerbated symptoms that previously not only appeared innocuous, but were also perceived by many as charming, all part of the idiosyncratic nature that made me, me.

One rounded scoop of generalized anxiety disorder (GAD)

Did I remember to close the garage door? I think I did. But what if I didn’t? Do I remember watching it go down? I think so. But how do I know that I’m remembering today and not yesterday? And did I set the alarm? I don’t remember doing that. I’d better go back and check. No! You don’t have time to go back and check! You’re already an hour late. If someone wants to steal anything from your garage or break into your house, that’s that many fewer things you have to worry about. But what about the cat? Did I give the cat food and water? I think… Oh, I don’t know! All right, for the cat, I have to go back. Oh look, I did close the garage door. And I did set the alarm. Now, why did I come back to the house again? That’s right—I needed to mail that bill out today. But where is my checkbook? Well, I don’t have time to search for it right now. And I’m out of stamps anyway. That will have to wait until tomorrow. Okay—car keys in hand, setting the alarm, backing out of the driveway, closing the garage door. Wait! What if someone is hiding around the corner of the house, and they ninja-roll into the garage at the last minute, right before the garage door closes? And what if they find the spare house key in the garage? Greg will kill me if someone breaks into our house! I’d better watch the garage door hit the ground before I pull away. Whew, now I can leave and not have to worry about anything.

The cat!

A generous helping of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD)

The Best—and Only—Way to Eat a Bag of M&Ms

1. Open the bag of M&Ms and dump them all out on a flat surface.
2. Separate them by color.
3. Count to see which color has the fewest number.
4. Set aside that same number for each color—do not mix the colors! Keep each color in its own pile.
5. Eat each pile of the extra M&Ms in order, from least desirable to most desirable color: red, blue, orange, yellow, green. Very important—only eat one M&M at a time!
6. Unlike the extra M&Ms, the equal piles are eaten color-by-color, not pile-by-pile. Eat one red, one blue, one orange, one yellow, then one green.
7. Repeat step six until all M&Ms are eaten.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

1. What do I do if I like to eat more than one M&M at a time?

Although users are discouraged from consuming more than one M&M at a time, as this might inadvertently throw off the space-time continuum, you may eat more than one at a time. However, you must never eat more than one color at the same time, as this would surely instigate the apocalypse.

2. I just bought a bag of coconut M&Ms, and it only has three colors—white, green, and brown. How do I prioritize the colors?

While consumers are encouraged to establish their own M&M color priorities, we recommend the following order: brown (because everyone knows that brown M&Ms don’t taste as good), white (which is weird anyway—white M&Ms?—now they’re just messing with us), and then green (which anyone with half a brain knows is always the best, and saved for last).

3. Help! Someone ate a couple of my M&Ms, and now my piles are uneven! What do I do?

Other than call the police or make the president declare a state of emergency, you do have a couple of options. You can chastise the offender, throw a tantrum, and then panic over the complete loss of control and order in your life. While such actions are reasonable in this situation, time may not permit. Therefore, we recommend that you update your M&M inventory by redetermining the group that has the fewest number. If the group changed from the original (e.g., your original smallest group, yellow, has six, and now the red group only has five), shift any overage to the extra piles. From this point, resume the process at step five.

One serving of complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD)

I counted to three, held my breath, and threw open the bathroom door. Empty. No one was hiding behind the door, no one was hiding in the bathtub or under the sink. I released my breath and turned on the shower.

When I stepped into the shower, I faced the door, as always. My naked body trembled—exposed, vulnerable. I didn’t wash my hair in the shower, lest the soap got in my eyes to prevent me from seeing potential danger. The same applied to face washing.

After I moved into my first solo apartment, showering became an ordeal. I avoided it whenever possible, even on days I knew that I needed to bathe. I felt sorry for anyone who might be exposed to my funk. Body spray could only do so much.

In my mind, danger lurked everywhere, and if I wasn’t diligent enough, The Killer could strike at any moment. My friends thought I was nuts. Who went around worrying about being killed all the time?

But how could I even begin to explain why I often didn’t feel safe in my own skin?

A splash of major depressive disorder

Usually, I see this on the horizon, a storm rolling in on a clear day. I know it’s coming, but I always think I have more time to prepare.

For many years, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. It looked like harmless clouds to me, and part of me eagerly awaited the temporary reprieve from the light of living. But once the drab grayness ensconced me, I lost sight of everything else—friends, lovers, hobbies, school, myself. Like a pilot trusting instincts instead of instruments, thus crashing the plane into an abyss, I tried to navigate the storm alone, with the same results: a tangled pile of almost indistinguishable plans and relationships. I wanted to save them, but the flames were too hot, and I could only watch as everything I loved burned.

Combine ingredients in one fortysomething, average weight & height, curly-haired, mixed-race woman. Shake vigorously.

Caution: Neurotic Chicks are volatile and can cause unpredictable side effects—

imbibe at your own risk!

Join My Mailing List!

Sign up & you’ll receive:

• My monthly newsletter, with a focus on faith, motherhood, mental health, writing, and books. And probably cats.
• Updates as I take you behind the scenes on writing, publishing, and launching a book.
• Exclusive access to special offers, such as mini devotionals you can download for free!