Most people who know me well know that I can be a bit of a control freak. Not about everything. For example, I am NOT a "helicopter parent". I want my kids to grow up, learn from their mistakes, and become independent and successful, productive adults. I don't need for them to wear coordinating outfits for family pictures. Hell, I've given up trying to make them wear clothes that match for school or church. I have enough trouble making sure whatever the hell they put on their bodies is clean and not pulled out of a stinky pile of questionable cloth items found deep in the darkest recesses of their closets. I also don't think I'm any more of a control freak than anyone else when it comes to my marriage. He was gone for long stretches for his job and I never had any clingy or jealous issues with him being gone and me being left home alone with the kids. And I think most of our decisions are pretty fairly split with give and take. You know, picking your battles and such. And anyone who has ever been a guest in my house knows without a doubt that I am not a control freak about cleaning.
For me, its the odd and bizarre little things that will send my OCD over the edge and wreck havoc on my poor family. Things like loading the dishwasher, folding the laundry, putting groceries away, packing the car before a road trip, or making the bed. I can not stand the way anyone in this house loads the dishwasher. Its not their fault. I know that I should be grateful that the chore is getting done. One less thing that I have to do, right? But I hate - HATE - that the bowls aren't being placed in line on the little bowl-wickets on the top shelf. And I hate - HATE - when the plates and large items are set in the bottom all willy-nilly instead of in neat and organized rows. So instead of complaining and making people feel bad for trying to help, I go back later and re-do it. I can't help it. It really bothers me that much. I've also been known to take a basket of laundry that someone else "helped" fold up to my room so that I could completely re-fold it the way I want it. Which I recognize is completely insane since once it makes its way into the kids' rooms, it becomes wadded up and stuffed into the back corner of a drawer and all of my "neat and folded" efforts are in vain. But when it comes to chores around the house, I know my kids need to learn about responsibility and helping out so I stand by silently, watching and gritting my teeth, until they have all gone out to play and I can re-do it. Sick and sad. I know. Fortunately, when it comes to things like groceries and car packing, my husband has been willing to step out and just let me do it. Its not that I find these activities particularly enjoyable, but the tension and stress I feel having to watch someone else do it in a way that doesn't seem logical, organized, or orderly to me is worse for me than just doing the task myself. Luckily, he gets my weirdness and loves me anyway. And really, what man would fight me on this and say "No, honey, I really REALLY insist on doing all the groceries. I'm sorry it bothers you but I will be doing it all myself anyway."? I'm sure that to him its clearly a win-win.
But I've learned to live with my control issues and for the most part they don't seem to interfere with my daily life. Having kids will do that for you. All in one fell swoop, you lose control of EVERYTHING...how much you sleep, how often you talk to your friends (conversations interspersed with mediations of kids' fighting or accident prevention lectures aren't really conducive to maintaining conversational flow), how often you get to shower, what you eat or when(a baby with a temperature and diarrhea for 3 days can seriously interfere with regularly scheduled meal times), how often you get out of the house, whether your house is clean enough for company - EVER -, or when you might get to take a poop unobserved. By kid number 3, many of these issues have been resolved by either the kids getting older (I don't care what you think you heard in your closet! Get your ass back in bed until your clock has a number on it that starts with a 7 or so help me God, you will be IN your closet WITH whatever it is that you think you heard!), or by the kids getting trained (What the fuck does the closed door mean?!?!?! We've been over this and over this! If the door is closed, it means don't fucking come in!! Jesus, Mary and Joseph I just want to pee in private! Why is that too goddamn much to ask in this house?!?) And I consider the state of my home's cleanliness (or lack thereof) to be a very solid Friendship Screening Tool. If it bothers you that my house isn't perfectly put together and completely sterile, you and I were DEFinately not meant to be friends, thank you anyway.
Living with these control issues becomes a lot harder, however, when you throw a phobia into the mix. Because the phobia is completely out of my control. I hate that I can't control it. I hate that I can't talk myself out of it, or just explain to myself logically and sensibly that there really is nothing to be scared of. Believe me I have tried. And when I am not in the situation that triggers the phobia, I almost start believing that I have succeeded. I have convinced my children not to be afraid and take on my fear just because I have it. And I can read up on the subject and explain to myself that my fear is irrational and not really even based in fact. But all that goes right out the window the minute I see a snake. It really is a physical reaction for me - the instant heart rate increase, the sweaty palms, the fight or flight (which for me is ALWAYS flight!) instinct, the crying, the hyperventilating. Its embarrassing. I hate having people see me react like that. Thank God it hasn't happened in "public" much at all but having my oldest son see me fall apart like that is really humiliating, even if it isn't around anyone else where it might embarrass him. This combined with my NEED to get control back from the snakes of the world has set me on a mission to NOT be phobic anymore.
Its important to recognize both the difference between fear and phobia, as well as a realistic expectation for an outcome. I know that with a phobia like mine (one that can send me into my closet in the fetal position crying and hyperventilating) it would be unrealistic to believe that it could just go away, at least not without years and years of work as well as thousands of dollars that I don't have spent on expensive therapies. I think an appropriate goal would be to become merely afraid. Just your standard run of the mill run-to-the-other-side-of-the-yard-squealing-like-a-girl-saying-get-it-away-from-me-while-squeezing-my-eyes-closed-and-flapping-my-arms-like-superman-trying-to-fly-with-a-kryptonite-belt kind of afraid, instead of the current oh-my-god-is-that-a-snake-followed-by-complete-loss-of-control-of-most-if-not-all-bodily-functions-and-fluid-coming-out-of-every-facial-oriface-while-hyperventilating-and-running-blindly-in-the-opposite-direction-until-I-find-a-dark-place-in-which-to-curl-up-in-the-fetal-position-and-sob-uncontrollably kind of afraid.
I have a neighbor down the street who has snakes and who has agreed to work with me. Neither of us is a therapist (or actually even knows what the hell we are doing), but it makes me feel like I am at least trying to re-gain control. And what is even more amazing is I think - THINK - it might actually be working a little bit. I've worked my way up to sitting in a room in his house talking to him while a baby snake sits in a locked clear plastic bin on the other side of the room. Without running out of the room or having a complete hysterical melt down. Of course I worked up to this. The first course of action was being willing to go in his house at all, knowing the snakes were in his basement. We have gradually worked up from there. And I was recently able to attend a neighborhood gathering in a park knowing that he and his snakes would be there (he's popular with the kids in the hood who like to hold them and see them at this type of party). I wasn't planning on going to this thing until he started working with me because I was afraid I'd humiliate myself or my family, should I accidentally look in the wrong direction and see a snake from a distance or God forbid, actually have a kid walk by with one in his hands!
So I guess I would say that its a good thing I'm a control freak. Otherwise I might be willing to just live with this phobia and continue to let it take control of me every time a snake crosses my path. I haven't seen a snake "in the wild" so-to-speak since I have started this course of action, so technically it remains to be seen how truly effective it might be. But I feel like I'm doing something, which gives me the illusion of control. And for a control freak like me, even the illusion of control is better than openly having to acknowledge a complete lack of control. So HAHA on YOU, 5 foot ball python that lives next door! I will still want to chop you into little pieces with an axe until the day that I die, but I will no longer let you send me to my closet. I'm taking my closet back! It is now reserved for hiding my chocolate stash, and providing me with a place to go hide when I need 20 fucking minutes to myself.
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