Cooking up a batch of Rice Krispie Treats last night got me thinking about the Treats, and how they’ve been a part of my life for a long time. The joys of gluttony shared with friends and family. So read on; the anecdotes are in no particular order. If you’re nice, maybe I’ll reveal my (not-so) secret Rice Krispie Shame as a Christmas gift!

Rice Krispie Treats are something of a tradition in my family. They’re pretty much our go-to choice for a sweet dessert treat; after all, growing up with a bunch of lactards (i.e., people who aren’t freakish mutants who can digest dairy after infancy) and later those who went gluten free does tend to limit one’s options. As such, making them became something of an art. But like any family tradition, our Rice Krispie Treats have picked up a few quirks along the way.

I never did care for the pre-made treats, whether foil wrapped and individually packaged or purchased over the counter at a cafe; they never tasted right, and were often far too dry. We tend to make our treats with a whole pound of marshmallows. This makes them extra gooey, barely solid enough to hold their shape. Some might be concerned about the extra sugar added, to which I would say: if you’re worried about sugar, why are you eating Rice Krispie Treats in the first place? And just to make those people cringe some more, when I was in college (and still living at home), someone had the bright idea to slather frosting on top of the tray. It was not uncommon for me, my brother, and my dad to eat half a pan after dinner, put on a movie, and finish the other half by the end of the night.

This has developed into what I call my “Pancreas Destroyers.” First, I grab half a stick of butter and coat the pot and pan (the pot being the original one my family started using for Treats), then melt it over medium-low heat (about 3 out of 10). Then, I add a package of the jumbo marshmallows (24 ounces worth). Well, not the entire package; at least one marshmallow gets eaten as a sacrifice before the rest get melted down. Once the goo is properly homogenized, I take the pot off the burner and stir in about 10 cups of Rice Krispies (or suitable store brand). Before the amorphous blob congeals, I spoon it into a 9×13 pan. Wetting my hands to avoid extra sticking, I flatten out the proto-Treats. I then stick them in the fridge to (mostly) solidify. But the pièce de réistance is the entire 1-lb tub of frosting (usually chocolate, but I have been known to use lemon during the summer) that gets slathered on top.

Mmm, diabetes..

So I’ve been enjoying my new phone. But to be honest, there’s been an undercurrent of anxiety flowing through things for the past few days, and I haven’t been sure why. My tolerance for change and decision-making has been lower than usual, and I’ve found myself oddly on edge for no apparent reason. And given the stress that comes with the holiday season (especially when working retail), this isn’t exactly the best time to be freaking out. So what was going on?

I thought about it for a bit, and realized that it might be tied to my new phone. Now, I’d be the first to tell you I’m excited to have it, but at the same time it fills me with some conflicting feelings. It’s an awfully nice thing for (irrationality alert) someone like me to have, let alone use. The little things that come with a new phone are also getting under my skin. I have to change several habits, like what pants pocket I put things in (I used to keep my flip phone in the same on as my car keys, which clearly isn’t an option anymore). There’s also the fear that something will happen to my new toy, like me dropping it or scratching or something similarly irreparable. I wasn’t experiencing anxiety or panic attacks (I’ve witnessed those, and they aren’t pretty), but it was definitely uncomfortable.

So while I was sitting outside at heavy practice this week, trying not to freak out, I realized that I had done this before. Several times, even. In fact, every time it seemed to be triggered by significant purchases or changes in my life and routine. When apartment hunting, for instance: looking at places is okay, but things take a dark turn once I finally sign a lease and put down a deposit. Or when I decided to take a voluntary severance package from my old job and focus on grad school full time.

But the worst this happened to me was when I bought my car.

My ex girlfriend had totaled my first car, a green VW earth pimple bug, while driving to an out-of-state SCA event. We were fine, and managed to get home, but I was still without a car. I was able to take the bus/light rail to work, so not having a car wasn’t an immediate issue. But seeing as my parents had bought me my first car, this was to be my first experience going to a dealership and signing on the dotted line.

And oh boy, once I did sign on that dotted line, I was a wreck. I had just spent more money in one fell swoop than I had before or even since (grad school at least was charged in semester installments), and it did a number on me. I literally couldn’t sleep that night: when I wasn’t pacing I was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. I was near panic, probably the closest I’ve been in my life.

The feeling eventually passed, luckily. I was able to calm down and focus on making my monthly car payments, which weren’t that bad. Just as I’m sure the anxiety will pass when it comes to my phone. The increased bill charges will become routine, and pulling a large slab of touchscreen out of whichever pocket it settles in will be second nature. But until then, even given how much I’m enjoying things so far, my psyche is feeling a bit fragile.

Maybe I need more duct tape.

Before I go further, you should go read this comment from yesterday’s post. It’s a great story that encapsulates the joys of Christmas-that-was and contrasts it with the stress and harsh reality of Christmas-that-is (and I hope you don’t mind me sharing it).

Wow. So whatever doubts I had that my Christmas ambivalence was just me are now gone. Apparently I touched a nerve for a lot of people. Whether it’s because of family history or the incessant march of capitalism, Christmas has lost a good share of its magic.

Whenever I write posts like this, I’m always reassured when I’m not the only one who thinks like I do. After all, I’m an introvert/ Most of my friends are introverts, too. This means we, for better or worse, tend to keep things to ourselves. Too often this ends up in thinking past each other, like when two wallflowers stand in opposite corners of a crowded dance floor lamenting that there’s nowhere to go sit down and read.

So yes, Christmas has lost some (read: most) of its grandeur for me. It seems to have been replaced by commercialism and cynicism; I’m just as guilty of planning around “If I get this for Christmas…” as the next person. I still remember that magic, and the fact that it’s been lost makes me sad.

But just knowing that I’m not alone in this has brought an ever-so-faint glimmer of that wonder back into the season for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever regain the aptly-named childlike wonder, but knowing that I have friends and family that care about me and understand me is amazing. And if you’ll permit me some sentimentality, it’s a great, touching Christmas present.

Thank you.

Previously, I touched on some interesting language that has crept into my internal thoughts about the smartphone decision: the idea of “deserving” one, or nice things in general. If you’ll permit me some navel-gazing, I’d like to try and unpack that a bit.

I’ve struggled with perfectionism for a long time; for as long as I can remember, really. This has taken many forms over the years, from school to my own internal monologue. Events and screw-ups from years past, which I’m sure are largely forgotten by other involved parties, still shamble out from the dark depths of my psyche to ring their doom bell every once in a while.

I was always really hard on myself as a kid, much harder than my parents ever were. I would beat myself up so much before the formal punishment that all that would be left was a broken husk. I accepted what consequences were dealt, but more often than not felt they didn’t go too far. Caught setting the timer back on video game time? Losing the privilege for a week wasn’t enough: I took it upon myself to make it at least two. Less than perfect grades in school? I made myself miserable for several days of penance.

My family was also Catholic when I was young. Although I am not religious now, I was involved enough in my parents’ faith to complete my First Communion. Given my youthful perfectionism, I took to “Catholic guilt” like a duck to water. The unattainable ideals prescribed by Sunday school were ready-made to reinforce my developing neuroses. I can still remember being kept awake by nightmares of hellfire and damnation because I wasn’t “good enough” (although that may be a rant for a different time).

Long story short, I grew up feeling imperfect, and thus somehow justified when things didn’t turn out ideally. After all, it must have been due to some misstep on my part. Less than ideal situations were thus deserved, as penance for not being perfect. Conversely, it was unrealistic to think that things going well, or being rewarded, were the natural order of things. I would just have to “make do.” Graduated without career prospects in your field? You’ll just have to “make do” with a job in retail. Phone on the fritz? You’ll just have to “make do” dialing by hand and memorizing phone numbers. Hungry? You’ll just have to “make do” with tortilla chips and peanut butter (if you’re especially lucky).

Looking back, especially when it’s written out like this, I have to wonder if this guilt reaction could be an indicator of depression. Is it normal for kids to beat themselves up this way? I don’t know; one data point does not a trend make, and it’s not exactly something most people talk about. I’m not saying this is right or rational; I’m just trying to put into words some nebulous dark deity of my psyche. But how to fix it? Is it even something that needs to or can be “fixed?” I don’t know; like I said, I’m just trying to make sense of what’s going on inside my brain with words.

Heh. There I go trying to apologize for things again, feeling guilty about my inability to express myself. Oh well.

Remember how I talked about how I could psych myself out if I took too long to make a decision? Well, guess what I’ve done!

Yeah…

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So I was surfing through Facebook, mostly avoiding writing (as one does), when I came across this video:

For me, this video does a good job of describing what it’s like to be depressed. It’s not just that you feel down or blue, it’s that sometimes you don’t feel at all. Not happy, not sad, not anything. Depression also has a way of inserting itself into all aspects of your life, getting in between you and the things and/or people you love. Even worse, it’s hard to feel bad about not caring when you don’t feel at all.

He also touches on another important point for me: the social stigma associated with mental illness. Especially in the happy-go-lucky ultra-positive subsets of culture, being depressed is often portrayed as a personal failure, one that results from “not trying hard enough” or some other oversight. News flash: some people physically cannot think themselves happy. Chronic depression is a result of brain chemistry, and cannot be consciously controlled.

I will admit, I have not been formally diagnosed with depression. But I have been diagnosed with ADD, and it is still a significant factor in my day-to-day life. Telling someone with depression to “just cheer up” is just as insulting as telling a kid (or adult) with ADD to “just sit down” and “try harder to concentrate.” I’m not a fan of saying things are impossible, but these dismissive imperatives get pretty darn close.

But as the video says, it’s not all doom and gloom (no pun intended). People with depression are traditionally isolated by their condition, but the Internet has given them a safe way to reach out to others going through similar things. It can be surprisingly encouraging just knowing you don’t suffer alone.

I guess that’s one of the reasons behind this blog, too. It’s an attempt to give voice to the random and often dark musings within my own head, to talk about the things that are still difficult to bring up face-to-face. And I’m not alone in that. A lot more people are talking about these things, and the more we read about it and drag that big, black dog into the open, the more acceptable it becomes, and hopefully the less powerful it becomes.

Until then, remember that the big black dog doesn’t have to run your life. I’ll remind you if you remind me.