I remember very well the first time I heard the lyric, “Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it“, because my 11 year old self could relate in a very real way. Cheers, Green Day.

I may not have known what a dookie was at 11, but I knew neurosis. (Excellent band, by the way, Neurosis.)

Now, for a multitude of reasons, I’m not a fan of Freudian psychoanalytic theory. Or, perhaps I am not a fan of how it seems to have become gospel to so many. Therefore, I am not going to delve much deeper into neurosis as a descriptive tool, so often used by followers of the aforementioned theory. In my humble opinion, old Sigmund was a bit of a wanker, with a massive Oedipus complex. In his inability to seek treatment for his own obsession with his mother, it appears that he decided to use his professional platform to ruin everyone else’s relationship with theirs. He might have been the founder of psychoanalysis, but some of his theories – because they would always circle back to the repressive element and make it into something dirty, rather than simply unhealthy – are pure bad philosophy, dressing up as medical science. I’m not saying we should underestimate the power of the Id, but take the man with a pinch of salt. Why does it always have to be about sex with this boy? Not everyone is repressed. Also, the world has changed quite a bit since his time. A good theory rarely has one finite solution.

Anyway…

So, if you haven’t guessed already, I’m a wee bit neurotic. Psychology Today defines neuroticism as “a tendency toward anxiety, depression, self-doubt, and other negative feelings“. That’s me, in a nutshell. Always have been, always will be. Or will I? Am I? Because it seems to me that, with the need to mask symptoms gone, I have somehow adopted a very laissez-faire attitude to some things in life. I am hurdling through my day, or even weeks, with a more or less lackadaisical attitude towards the constructs of time. Like, where the fuck did August disappear to?

I have a theory, but first some back story. I was taught from an early age that being late to something should be punishable by death. Or worse. And so I became obsessed with time. Not time itself, really, more with the actual telling of it, as it appeared to have some sort of magical effect of dictating people’s lives.

For instance, I was led to believe you absolutely must have dinner by 5pm, or you won’t be able to have an evening meal. Why? I do not know. Meaning, you’ve got to spend your whole day preparing for this monumental event, that’s essentially just a ritual during which we put nutrients into our bodies so that we’ll have ample energy to reach new levels of anxiety brought on by said meal. In my case, this had me checking my watch every 4 minutes, just to make sure I’d be prepared to leap up and get everything sorted in time for the big event. Hello stress, bloating, indigestion and tics galore, my involuntary muscle spasms causing me to drop my fork, flip my plate or poke myself in the face with the knife, ultimately turning every dinner into a catastrophic affair I still dread to this day.

I’m sure that you can see by the above example, that I might be the type of person that will classify everything that’s not at least 15 minutes early as late. I blame this now, in part, on time blindness. Because, after reading an illuminating article about this in Focus, I discovered that it’s not just about constantly being late to things due to poor time perception, it can also mean that you are always “way too early, to avoid being late“. That’s me, to a T. Or, at least it was.

Imagine my surprise when I just the other day discovered it was gone 3pm and I had missed a deadline (a deadline I’d set for myself and not the actual hard deadline set by the editor, thank fuck, but still). The last time I’d even checked the time was when I was brewing my morning cuppa, and I didn’t even manage to do that in any neurotic, orderly fashion, as I got lost in an internet search and forgot all about my formerly hot and now slightly tepid and increasingly bitter coffee at approximately 9.04 – six minutes after I should have poured it into my neon green penis mug. (My favourite mug, in case you were wondering.)

Normally, I’d have set a timer or started my stop watch, or both, whilst counting to 270 (for the perfect brew), AND simultaneously checking the time to see if I was off by a millisecond or two. But now? I had not a care in the world. And the lack of stress is starting to stress me the fuck out. What if I were leave the stove on and my flat burned down with me in it? Or I forgot to go to work, like, at all? Have I become one of those too relaxed people that everyone else has to accommodate? Does this mean that I have lost the one quality I’ve always prided myself on – the fact that I am always, ALWAYS on time? Will I start being late for things?!

I had a colleague once, who was always 30 minutes late to work, every single day without fail – even on the days we had morning meetings first thing, so we had to move them to suit her seemingly ignorant behaviour. The few times I asked her to please let us at least know whether or not she was going to be late, she simply replied “Chiiiiiiiiill“, in a way that suggested I was the problem. I always found that incredibly rude, and certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think of me in the same way. But now, it appears, I can’t help it. I’ve become too relaxed. Crossed over to the dark side, without even realising it.

That’s it for now. I’ll see you next Tuesday – if I can even remember when that will be, or who I am, that is.

Also, do something that’ll make you laugh. There’s so much shit in the world and I we are going to be able to deal with it in any decent way, we need to take a break once in a while. If you find something that can make your shoulders drop by even half an inch, let us know. If you like dark shit, you should read my book.

Me, I like Amy Poehler and her Good Hang podcast. Check out her Instagram in the previous link and click on the Spotify icon below to listen to a recent episode.

• Spotify

Ciao for now!