(If you came for my usual anime ramblings, this is not the post for you, dear readers. It’s also probably not well written because catharsis and I mean, transitions? What are those?)
My husband bought me produce.
(You probably thought I was hopping on to talk about anime, enthuse over some new otome, or heck, even answer those wonderful, supportive, thoughtful comments you’ve have left me*, but you’d be wrong. Why? Because, even though I have a few anime/otome posts in the works, even though I’ve read your comments, my husband decided to buy me produce, and everything’s gone all to hell.)
Writing this requires me to think more deeply on the topic, and that makes me feel like bugs are crawling all over my body, but this is the only place I can vent, so I’m venting. Lost? Don’t worry. I’ll make sense soon.
I’ll preface my tale by admitting that totally irrational things quite often lead me to waste perfectly good food. Do you need an example? I once wasted, among other things, a whole bag of potatoes because, even though I knew they were not contaminated with the Plague, my OCD just couldn’t quite be sure. Husband is a human being and this often frustrates him, as one can understand.
However, my OCD does not, I repeat, DOES NOT mean that I’m not logically and objectively able to tell when good food has gone bad. Because I can. I am a human being with a brain, thank you very much. I know when things have spoiled. Just like I know my potatoes have not actually been contaminated by Plague, but I digress.
Anyway, our story began a few days ago when sweet Husband went out on a supply run for work. He stopped at a vegetable stand on his way home.
Now, as I’m sure you can imagine, I’m admittedly very picky about produce. It has to look JUST right and be very fresh because I’m INCREDIBLY tryophobic. Husband knows this, and normally he picks out good produce when called upon to do so. However, something went horribly wrong that day, because not only was the produce not up to my exacting standards, but it wasn’t up to ANYONE’S standards.
Why? It. Was. Rotten.
Oh, God, oh, God, it was rotten. Six blackened-split/over-ripe tomatoes (that’s how bugs get in, incidentally) were one thing, but MY. GOD. The two soft, wrinkled cucumbers were my undoing, of which was even festering with unidentifiable black divots and spots. My scalp and face itch just thinking about it. Anyway, Husband placed this bounty on our kitchen counter with pride and tells me that he bought me vegetables! Somehow, he just doesn’t see it! Anyone could see those cucumbers were not okay!
I thank him kindly and leave the produce on the counter, internally panicking as I try to figure out how I’ll get rid of it without hurting his feelings or discouraging him, without him knowing. I desperately don’t want to do that, for obvious reasons. I mean, who would, all things considered?
The produce stays on the counter for about two days.
Day 1: While discussing what to eat for lunch, I say I’ll eat a salad. Husband says with pride, “You could eat your cucumber.” I make excuses about the spinach I need to finish before it goes bad, and the moment passes. Later, Husband says, “Don’t forget about your vegetables. I bought them for you.” He sounds the littlest bit wounded. I think he’s beginning to realize that I don’t like them. I tell him I won’t forget, and the moment passes again.
Day 2: The vegetables sit. I give in and put the over-ripe tomatoes in a ziplock baggie, adding them to the crisper. These, I think, I can keep in there until he forgets about them. I can throw them away slowly and he’ll never know I wasn’t eating them. Those climbers, though. Those things. I can’t. The one is still festering. I can’t look at them closely or touch them, much less put them in our crisper. They sit the rest of the day. After husband lays down, I examine the worst cucumber more closely and—
This part is hard to write about.
The cucumber that was festering was bubbled up in new ways and it looked like eggs or larva or something and it was the most heinous thing and dear Lord so I can’t describe it further but know it was BAD SO BAD SO BAD
I grabbed a boat load of paper towels, used them to grab the cucumbers, and tossed them in the trash.
I turned back to the counter.
Guess. What. Had. Fallen. Out.
BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS AND
Okay, I’m fine. But I’ll leave that sentence there. It makes me actually feel like bugs are burrowing through my eyes and into my brain. That makes me want to rub my eyes until I inevitably accidentally hurt them, and I’m trying not to do that. I don’t normally like to squash bugs (because they are just trying to live their lives, guys), but I could not help it. I squashed the ant and the unidentifiable strange fester bug and then I washed my hands and then I lay down in bed and Husband does not know.
He doesn’t know and my body itches and I kind of want to cry because I’m so frustrated. He won’t understand, and he’ll think I’m exaggerating and it’s my OCD and get mad I wasted the produce (Again, my anxiety does make me waste a lot of food which makes him understandably frustrated, but that’s a different story.), but THIS IS DIFFERENT. This is real. This is not just like “I’m afraid to touch it.” This is “Its visibly rotting and infected; how can you not see that?”
And I know that those tomatoes are from the same farm, so they’re probably infected too, and I just can’t, guys. And those bugs/fester larva/egg cucumbers are in my trash can. Alive. Teaming with life. And I’m laying here feeling like bugs are crawling up my nose and over my shoulders, fighting a massive tension headache.
I should have taken a picture of the cucumber to show Husband as evidentiary, but it’s like he is blind; I don’t know how he bought it in the first place. If he needs proof, he can dig it out of the trash. I filmed the strange bug, but it’s out of focus and hard to see. At least I know now where the new gnats in the kitchen came from. God. I just can’t.
So, the produce is gonna have to go. All of it. Tomatoes, too. Gone. Tomorrow. I can’t.
I don’t even care if he’s mad. I can’t. A normal person would toss them. A person as tryophobic and infection-based OCD as I am will spend a good forty minutes or more trying to fight off the totally irrationally, chilling feeling that bugs are going to get inside me and lay eggs. I’ll probably still shudder about it for some time in the future every time I consider it. We all have our weaknesses. This is mine.
Yeah. That was story time. After I wrote about it, I felt a lot better. Like, why did I even freak out about this? I mean, I know why, but I also know how crazy it is.
Husband should have known the veggies were bad, and he should trust me in spite of random mental illness to make that totally reasonable call. If he’s frustrated because he doesn’t believe me, he’ll get over it because he loves me. If he’s discouraged from ever buying me produce again, well that’s fine, because then I don’t have to worry about this ever happening again.
Husband knows that I still appreciate a lot of the sweet things he does for me. I am not like, weirdly irrevocably ruining his self-esteem over some bad vegetables.
And there are no bugs in my noes.
And that’s how mental illness works.
But it’s also how true love works, knowing Husband is always going to accept me for me, warts and all.
It’s so funny how reasonable it can all seem once my anxiety comes down. It only took about two hours, you know. *shakes head at self* I honestly think the writing helped a lot.
But that doesn’t mean I have to share.
Sorry I keep posting these. 😬 Call me selfish, but this time I shared it for me. Maybe someone can relate.**
Anyway, I’m exhausted now. The imaginary “bugs” have mostly stopped crawling for now (and man, has it been a long time since I’ve had to deal with that sensation), so before I fall asleep, I have another brief announcement, the details of which I will tag on to the end of my next anime related post (soon, guys) because they really aren’t super personal at all! I was Very Brave (TM) and went to the chiropractor. Turns out I have whiplash, mild scoliosis, and hyper-mobility, and my spine is all messed up. So that explains a lot of my pain, yeah? They’re gonna see what they can do. Aside from the whiplash, it’s not as bad as it seems when I say it that way.
I’ll try to get an anime post out Monday or Tuesday (I have upwards of 40 drafts), but until then, keep on keeping on, and I’ll write again soon.
Now I feel so bad for squishing the bugs. I should have put them outside. 😦
*I read all of them, I swear, and your support and kindness (both regarding anime and otherwise) mean so much to me. But… I dunno. I don’t understand why responding unnerves me so much right now, but it does, so just give me a little time to get over my weird hurdle and I’ll be responding again soon. ❤ ❤ I think stress and stuff is just kinda building up and makes my anxiety spill over where it doesn’t belong. (But then again, it doesn’t really belong anywhere, soo…)
**I’m thinking about putting these kind of posts on a side blog so that people who don’t want/need to see them don’t have to, but IDK. I kind of like having “all of me” in one place (since I have to hide all of this in real life), but I also kind of want to hide them, or at least not taint everyone’s view of me who is usually a very chipper deredere. Also, separating it feels a bit like hiding, and that feels safe. But then, why am I sharing at all? It might help other people, but it also reveals a lot and that’s very scary. I dunno. I have a Twitter poll up.