10.20.26 | Overthinking, Overcaffeinating, and Other Ways I Drive My Husband Insane
I am a chronic overthinker.
And when I say chronic, I mean that my brain has apparently never encountered a thought it didn't feel compelled to dissect, analyze, question, reconsider, and then drag back into the interrogation room for one final round of questioning.
It doesn't matter whether I'm contemplating something deeply emotional, putting together a grocery list, or deciding what the hell I want for dinner.
Everything requires consideration.
And then reconsideration.
And then, just for good measure, a complete reevaluation of the original consideration.
It's exhausting.
I spend an extraordinary amount of time trapped in this strange, cyclical daze, a tornado of thoughts whipping through my brain, colliding with one another, picking up speed, and wreaking absolute fucking havoc.
Sometimes I wonder what it must feel like to have a quiet mind.
To simply think, I'd like a sandwich, and then make a sandwich.
Imagine that.
No internal debate about the bread. No sudden consideration of whether a salad might be a healthier choice. No wondering if I should save the turkey for tomorrow because I might want it more then.
Just a sandwich.
What a luxurious existence.
Recently, however, something was brought to my attention that has made me reconsider an entirely different aspect of my personality.
Apparently, I ask my husband what he thinks about absolutely everything.
And I mean everything.
My husband, Jeremiah, and I have been together for twenty years.
Twenty.
Two entire decades of loving each other, navigating life, raising a family, enduring hardships, celebrating victories, and occasionally wondering how the hell we've managed to tolerate one another for so long.
And somehow, in all that time, I never noticed that I've been treating this poor man like my own personal decision-making department.
"Babe, what should I get at the grocery store to make myself lunch this week?"
"Jer, I really want another coffee, but I've already had four double shots of espresso. What do you think?"
"Baby, should I wear the black shirt or the more fun one?"
The questions are endless.
They range from the mundane to the ridiculous, with the occasional genuinely important decision sprinkled in for variety.
And the most fascinating part?
I am not an indecisive person in the traditional sense.
I have opinions.
Strong ones.
I am perfectly capable of making decisions, defending those decisions, and, when sufficiently provoked, delivering an unnecessarily detailed presentation explaining why my decision was the correct one.
So why, for the love of all things caffeinated, am I asking this man whether I should wear a black shirt?
I've spent some time thinking about that.
Naturally.
Because apparently the only way I know how to address overthinking is to think about it some more.
And I have a theory.
I don't think I'm always asking Jeremiah because I genuinely need his opinion.
Sometimes, I think I'm asking because having someone else weigh in makes the endless noise in my head a little quieter.
It's as though my brain has been running in circles for so long that another person's perspective offers a temporary exit ramp.
A moment of relief.
A little reassurance that I don't have to examine every possible outcome before making a decision.
And who better to ask than the person who has known me for twenty years?
The man who has seen me at my absolute best, my spectacular worst, and every emotionally questionable version of myself in between.
The person who knows when I need encouragement, when I need honesty, and when I probably just need to eat something and stop talking.
But here's where things get interesting.
Because I've recently decided that this habit is something I want to work on.
Not because asking my husband for his opinion is inherently bad. It isn't. I love that we're partners, that we consult one another, and that his perspective matters to me.
But I don't want to feel as though I need someone else's approval to make decisions that belong entirely to me.
Even the little ones.
Especially the little ones.
I want to trust myself enough to buy the groceries, choose the shirt, and make the damn sandwich without convening a two-person committee.
So I made a promise to myself.
I would start making more decisions independently.
Simple enough, right?
Well.
There's been a slight complication.
You see, when you've spent twenty years asking someone for their opinion on everything, they tend to develop this rather inconvenient habit of giving you their opinion.
And apparently, I don't always appreciate that.
For example, I recently found myself contemplating another coffee at approximately seven o'clock in the evening.
Now, for context, I generally go to bed around ten.
I was also already operating on a quantity of espresso that would probably make a reasonable person question my judgment.
So naturally, I asked Jeremiah whether he thought I should have another coffee.
And do you know what this man had the audacity to do?
He answered me.
With logic.
He suggested that perhaps another coffee wasn't the best idea, given the time and my already impressive caffeine consumption.
A perfectly reasonable response.
Thoughtful, even.
And something inside me immediately bristled.
Excuse me?
Who are you to tell me I can't have another coffee?
I am a grown woman.
An independent woman.
A woman who is perfectly capable of making her own decisions!
I wanted to scream, "I AM MY OWN WOMAN! YOU DON'T GET TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"
Which would have been a rather spectacular display of indignation, considering I had quite literally just asked him what he thought I should do.
The irony was not lost on me.
Well, not immediately.
First, I had to be irritated.
Then defensive.
Then slightly more irritated because he was being reasonable, which is an incredibly annoying quality in a person when you're trying to justify an unreasonable decision.
And eventually, after the emotional dust settled, I realized something.
This isn't just a habit I've developed.
It's a dynamic we've developed together.
For twenty years, I've asked.
And for twenty years, he's answered.
Sometimes I wanted advice. Sometimes I wanted reassurance. And sometimes, apparently, I wanted him to enthusiastically support a decision I'd already made while pretending I was still considering my options.
Poor Jeremiah.
The man never stood a chance.
But the realization has also made me think about something a little more uncomfortable.
How often do I confuse wanting reassurance with needing permission?
How often do I look to someone else to quiet the uncertainty inside me, rather than allowing myself to sit with it?
And how many times have I become frustrated with another person's answer simply because it wasn't the one I was secretly hoping to hear?
I don't particularly love those questions.
Which probably means they're worth asking.
The truth is, I trust my husband tremendously.
His opinion matters to me because he matters to me.
He has been my partner through so many versions of myself that sometimes I wonder whether he knows me better than I know myself.
But I also want to be able to hear my own voice clearly, without immediately searching for someone else's to confirm it.
And I think that's going to take practice.
Not the dramatic, life-altering kind of practice that makes for an inspiring montage in a movie.
The boring kind.
The kind where I stand in the grocery store and decide what I want for lunch without sending my husband a text.
The kind where I choose the shirt.
The kind where I ask myself whether I really need another coffee at seven o'clock in the evening and accept that I already know the answer.
Even if I don't particularly like it.
I'm also realizing that this isn't something I can change entirely on my own.
Jeremiah has spent two decades being the person I turn to for everything from major life decisions to the appropriate quantity of lunch meat.
He's accustomed to being asked.
I'm accustomed to asking.
And now we're both going to have to figure out how to navigate the occasional moment when he offers an opinion and I suddenly decide that his opinion is an outrageous infringement upon my personal liberty.
He's a patient man, that one.
Thank God.
I don't have some profound conclusion to offer here.
I haven't suddenly become a decisive, emotionally regulated woman who moves through life with unwavering confidence and an appropriate relationship with caffeine.
I'm still me.
I still overthink.
I still occasionally create seventeen hypothetical problems out of a situation that currently has none.
And I'm almost certainly going to ask Jeremiah another ridiculous question before the day is over.
But I'm paying attention now.
And perhaps that's where change begins.
Not with some grand declaration about becoming a different person, but with the slightly uncomfortable realization that we've been doing something for years without ever really understanding why.
Maybe I'll get better at trusting my own judgment.
Maybe I'll learn to sit with uncertainty without immediately trying to resolve it.
Maybe I'll eventually become the kind of woman who can choose what she wants for dinner in under forty-five minutes.
Who knows?
For now, I'm just trying to remember that asking for someone's opinion doesn't obligate me to follow it.
And being capable of making my own decisions doesn't mean I have to stop valuing the thoughts of the person I love.
There has to be a balance somewhere.
I'll probably spend an unreasonable amount of time thinking about where that balance is.
And if all else fails, I'll ask Jeremiah what he thinks.
Actually, no.
Fuck.
See?
— Chelsea C. Macdonald
Author of An Unwoven Truth
Founder of Shirley Books