I know the food in the freezer is a compulsion. My way of exerting some form of control over the rampant chaos of reality. Of pretending I can exert control, I should say. I know it’s all an illusion. But an illusion of control, I think, is better than being swallowed by futility. Isn’t it?
I tell myself that it’s a useful compulsion. That if the way to keep my anxiety at bay is to feed everyone, then I’m doing alright. Ian and I joke about my almost desperate need to always have at least two pounds of butter in the freezer, but to the darkly terrified me, it is not even remotely funny.
It is difficult. And it is terrible.