Like most people, I have behavioral quirks.
Whenever I leave the loft, I check to make sure I have my keys - at least three times. The lower lock is always set, so if I close the door behind me, and I don't have my keys, I'll lock myself out. It happened once, and it cost me over $300 to get a twenty-four-hour locksmith over here to fix it. Twenty-four-hour locksmiths leave their cards in doorways and lobbies all over Manhattan apartments. It's gotta be a kick-ass business.
I leave a spare set of my keys with neighbors, but still. I check that I have my keys. I think it's a little bit compulsive.
Another thing. I don't keep food in the fridge. Except for the occasional doggy-bag. Another twenty-four-hour convenience: the deli around the corner. I'm environmental. If the food is in the fridge, I'll eat it. If I have to leave the loft - and check for my keys three times - I'm less likely to go out and get food.
I eat well and I eat enough. I just don't want to fall into the trap of mindless munching as I watch films on the television. And I watch a lot of films.
I wonder sometimes, about these behaviors. The keys. The food. Well, the food. Have I used food to fill a an emotional void? Sometimes, yes. About a week before my period - as any woman will aver - youbetcha. Our emotions get out of hand at those times, and food: chocolate, sweets, savories, they quench and quell the loneliness, anxiety, anger, sadness, the you-name-it.
The strange biochemical soup that courses through our bodies, our brains, makes us funny, weird, and worse. It's the worst of these about which that lately I've been thinking.
I see somewhat similar patterns in other of my friends here at home in the City. The behaviors, the compulsions, the addictions. How one of us might use booze to anesthetize the difficulties of modern life: heartbreak, self-loathing, self-esteem, fears, anxieties, all of it. How another one uses sex, perhaps hoping that one man or ten different men, might be the "all and everything" to fill up what feels like an endless void. How another cannot make it through a week unless she has a date - or three. Or how another claims to want multiple, casual relationships with men, only to break them off, then needle the already fraught situations with nasty follow-up emails and text messages, the results of which are inevitable rancor and ill-will.
What are these compulsive needs - like me and my keys - that perpetuate such behaviors?
Okay, once upon a time, after a lunch meeting, I stood somewhere on Lexington Avenue in the 60s, and I had a no idea where I was. My stomach dropped, I broke out into a cold sweat, and my vision blurred. My "big brain," as I call it, kicked in to emergency drive, and I focused on the street signs, to determine if I was walking downtown or uptown, and I made my way back to the garage where I'd parked my car. I took several minutes and calmed myself.
Later, I said to myself, "I'm smart, but I'm not that smart." I didn't understand what had happened to me. And I sought help. My therapist diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder, and we went to work. That was over ten years ago. That work taught me how to take care of myself, how to be present and be in the moment, and how to manage my life.
Today, I am aware of my compulsions. I like to think that none are too severe, that none hamper my existence, that I can sit back and not take myself too seriously, that I can smile and enjoy the moment. That I can pay attention, especially when I falter - because I know I will.