I’ll never understand why I’m asked if I want my milk in a bag when the gallon jug has a built-in handle.

There’s a piece of me that would like to use this question as an example of how wasteful we are as a society. Unfortunately, the reason it irks me is far more petty.

While I’m conscious of the waste, it has nothing to do with plastics harming our Earth. 

It wastes time and makes me shut my eyes, inhale long through my nose, and say, “No, thanks.”

We all have at least one pre-programmed stupid question we blurt out when the appropriate situation presents itself. “Do you need a rag?” you might ask someone as you both watch the same water spill from the tipped-over glass, off the counter, and onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” is another common question people yell when they see someone lying on the ground after they crashed into an oak tree, which sent them, their bike, and their shoes in all different directions. They’re obviously not okay, Linda.

A friend of mine used to get worked up about what a waste of time it was to say “God bless you” to someone when they would sneeze. This wasn’t a secular issue; it was about how people waited for him to say “thank you” after they offered the “God bless you” and what a waste of time the entire interaction was.

We talked about it at length one night as I took my familiar post of Devil’s Advocate, maybe fifteen minutes in total. At some point, it occurred to me that the entire topic was an even greater waste of time. Naturally, I did my best to extend the conversation as long as I could.

I haven’t heard him speak on the topic since. I guess sometimes, we need to cut our losses and protect what precious time we have left.

As I looped more Target bags onto my forearm to limit my trips through the bitter January chill, I remembered my milk had been bagged without consent.

Ever the Renaissance man, I decided to use the bag to carry the milk—just to make sure I wasn’t missing out on something simple that could be making my life easier, as I’m apt to do.

The two bags already slung on my right forearm bunched down to my wrist, obscuring my view as I hooked my forefinger through the loops of the plastic milk bag. I used the remaining fingers of my right hand to grab a final bag, ensuring I would only need to make one more trip to my car.

“Whaat is this feeling?” I sang to the neighborhood, the Wicked soundtrack fresh in my mind from my car ride home.

For a brief moment, I was a believer in the milk bag concept, but then I felt a tug on my pointer finger before my arm sprang upward as the weight released.

The jug made a thudding splat on the sloped asphalt, the top side split from the force of the impact. Shloshing glorp sounds came from the jug as the milk seemed to run down the driveway, away from the below-freezing temperature.

“Loathing. Unadulterated loathing,” I continued to sing in my best theatric voice, watching the white river freeze to a stop six feet from the scene of the crime.

Not long ago, I would have followed an unfortunate yet trivial event like this by saying, “Of course, the milk jug broke open because I am a worthless piece of fucking shit.” That isn’t paraphrasing. The last eight words became a mantra by accident after I developed a staccato rhythm that made it fun to say.

I would’ve repeated it to myself as I struggled to open the front door with too many bags in my hands. And again, when I set the bags on the counter and the contents spilled out. And again. And again.

And so I’d flog myself all over the place the rest of the day. That’s not a euphemism—get your mind out of the gutter.

I, the holder of the prestigious B.A. in Psychology, one who would list the benefits of therapy ad nauseam, started seeing an actual therapist for the first time this fall.

There are so many reasons I delayed booking a therapist.

Shame. ’Nuff said.

Too expensive. Therapy is costly and doesn’t work (so says TV and movies, giving my confirmation bias a place to rest its weary head).

I’d have to search for the right fit. What if I can’t stand looking at their face? What if they’re stupid? Sounds stressful to me…

The excuses were endless, but the real reason I kept myself away was that it felt like the last line of defense. I couldn’t bear to think of what awaited me on the other side.

I could see the path. It runs parallel, some distance from the addiction path. The habit of thinking terrible things about myself can stay hidden easily. The destruction it caused didn’t result in dangerous behaviors that drained the bank account or got me locked up; it stayed inside my mind.

I sent a meme to one of my best and oldest friends that had the caption:

“Dudes will have the worst day of their lives and casually keep sending memes to their homies like nothing happened.”

I couldn’t sum it up better. 

The sentiment is why the solution, “smile more, it will make you feel happy,” is condescending. 

When you’re in it, the smile that gets painted on becomes part of the ritual. Cold, dark thoughts spread through all parts of you, like the harsh January air turning the milk into frosty crystals molecule by molecule. 

The smile is nothing more than a reminder of what used to be, like remembering the first buzz or high. It hangs there, so close you could reach out and touch it. When you try, your fingers pass through the apparition.

Smiling to cheer yourself up works when you drop your ice cream cone, not when dropping a gallon of milk leaves you thinking you are a failure who adds no value to the infinite universe for the remainder of your day.

So, I would smile and say, “I’m fine.” I’d hide the war happening between my ears, my chest burning with anxiety from the shrapnel sprayed in the destruction.

Until it became too much, it was like yo-yo dieting with my mental health. I couldn’t hide the destruction anymore. It was getting harder to function in a way that didn’t negatively affect my family.

That’s something I truly couldn’t bear. Cue therapy.

Like adopting a new diet, the changes weren’t evident in the first couple of weeks. I felt worse after sessions rather than better.

After three months of therapy, I am thrilled to report that the filter through which I saw and  see the world has started to shift.

I felt adrift at sea in a rudderless boat for a long time. Powerless in any attempt to navigate the ever-changing seas. I would shout at the black storm clouds overhead, demanding they make way for sunlight and calm water, believing it would make a difference, like a fool. 

I can’t change the wind, no one can. 

All there is to do is adjust my sails and do my best to make my voyage as smooth as possible.

So, I tipped the jug upright with my foot when I guessed enough had drained out to be below the gash in its side. I laughed at what the scene looked like to my neighbor in the passing car.

After I brought the remaining groceries into the house, I found a container to store the remaining milk safely in the refrigerator.

Because there isn’t any use crying over spilled milk.

Cheers.