It’s tax time. Our accountant called to ask for another piece of paper. The regular drawer in which I stow stuff to do with mortgages is stuffed with large folders from various mortgage and title companies that we have dealt with over the last decade. Couldn’t find the paper—took out everything and slowly sorted through each folder—thinking that maybe the paper got stuck in with another stack. Anxiety starts to build.
I start looking in another drawer, another filing system. This one contains recently paid bills, car insurance, health records, and stuff like that. Thought maybe that paper would be in with the mortgage payments—no paper. Although I am quite aware that I could call the title company and get another copy, this quest is getting too important. By now, my heart rate has increased and my mind is quickly filling with obsessional thoughts: “What if I die and my kids have to sort through this mess?” and “What’s wrong with me that I can’t remember where I put that paper?” Then, “Am I getting early dementia?” Finally, “If I make it though this, I vow to get better organized!”