My husband grinds his teeth, has for years. He has a bite guard and it helps protect his teeth, but doesn’t stop the grinding. I do not grind my teeth, never have. Over the holidays, a well-intentioned family member said it was the difference between his high-stress job and my quiet, non-demanding job. Right. Because that right there means I have no stress.
No, I don’t stress about whether I’m in a job that I’m passionate about, or that I’m afraid won’t grow into something more meaningful and rewarding.
Nope, no stress about the house that’s falling down and needs a huge, expensive renovation.
What, me stress about paying for another two and half years of college for the girl, plus then college for the boy?
I have no worries about the sweet large dog who’s going in for x-rays today because he’s having problems with one of his hind legs. He’s a large breed, 100 pounds, and I have no worries that he’s going to have debilitating joint issues for the rest of his life.
Yeah. It pissed me off. I know she didn’t mean it to be patronizing but it sure came out that way. No, I don’t grind my teeth. My stress and anxieties manifest in different ways, like comfort eating. Drinking wine. Obsessive knitting. Snapping at people. Stomach aches. Biting my nails.
I guess it all comes back to that saying, something like “Be kind, for everyone is facing a battle you know nothing about.”
And send good thoughts to Duncan today. He needs them.