Soft Touch

I have a problem with people touching my stuff without my consent, especially my bed. When I was a little girl I would make my bed with tender loving care plumping up my down pillows and comforter, so that in the evening I felt like I was falling into a cloud. This was my ritual. This was my serenity. I have talked about this before. I have very high cortisol levels and I have been like this since I can remember: sensitive, excitable and easily enraged over petty details. When I feel uncomfortable I want to control my environment. I want to control the heated water coming out of the faucet and into my bath, the plumpness of my pillows, the food that passes my lips, the sounds I hear, and the cleanliness around me. I have OCD. I am almost Howie Mandel.

The dream I had last night brought me face to face with this worry and surmounting rage. My landlord's husband took it upon himself to change my down bedding out for an ugly acryllic comforter. He was trying to control the controlling. I boiled and spilled out onto the stove and dripped down to the kitchen floor. In minutes I found myself banging furiously on his son's door across the way awakening their baby that screamed for milk like it was being murdered. When the son came to the door he had a huge smile on his face. I was initially perplexed by his jovial demeanor, but quickly realized a tower of cardboard boxes teetering behind him. He waved to the boxes and announced that his family was finally moving into a brand new home. He then told me that if I needed to discuss anything that he was at that very moment about to drive up to his new home and that I could meet him there as his family unpacked. I thought this request was odd, but my curiosity about the place trumped my apprehension. I arrived there before anyone else and walked through the open front door, through the foyer, the expansive living room, and into the backyard. The view was astonishingly perfect and unusual. Red rock cliffs jutted up topped with green pastures anointed with huge beautiful brand new homes. The suburb was so new and perfect that it looked like it sprung up all of a sudden one day for no other reason than to congratulate new mommies and daddies. As I stood in awe at their new life I quickly forgot why I was there. A small kick in my gut and heart made me soon realize that I wanted what they had. I wanted a family of my own, a gorgeous home and a view that made me forget why I was angry in the first place. For a few moments I pretended and a nice breeze curled into my heart and I felt ecstatic. Quickly this feeling faded when I realized that my life was no where near this elevated status. In fact, I was there because they demoted my down-status to acryllic. Anger poored back into me like hot water. Splashes of luke warm water doused my eyes and ears. I heard a click and spun around. The son stood there still grinning.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"Your dad took my down comforter and I want it back!"

"Oh, um, sure."

I walked back into the house and found my down comforter laying limply in a box. I picked it up and walked out the door and down the steep street passing all the the brand new gas stations and stores and mommies and babies and daddies and I clutched my soft comforter tighter and fought back the tears that were sure to follow.