Anxious Much?

I was an anxious child.

It wasn’t something I picked up from my parents. Neither my Mom or Dad were big worriers. My mom loved to remind me of her favorite quote from E.B White’s Charlotte’s Web: “Never worry and never hurry,” she would say. I loved that Charlotte, but resented her a little for that maxim. It was a great idea, of course, but so much easier said than done.

(“And what about the ‘hurry’ part?” I would think later, when we were running late for church and my Dad would sit in the car, honking the horn to get us all out of the house. “What about that? Why is it OK that Dad is in a hurry now?”)

Maybe the Worry skips a generation. Both my grandmothers were anxious sorts. My mom’s mom was a hypochondriac who was constantly at the doctors, and then getting mad at her doctor and switching to someone new, always sure there was something horribly wrong with her that the last fellow had missed. My dad’s mom worried more about daily things: weather, traffic, politics. She would sit in her chair by the window and rub her hands over her knees, a habit that must have soothed her. “Where are they all going?” she would ask, of the people walking past on the sidewalk or driving by in their cars.

One day, when I was about ten, my folks saw me sitting by the window, staring outside, rubbing my hands over my knees.

“Just like your Mom!” my Mom said to my Dad.

I guess I was. Because weren’t there lots of things to worry about when I was a child? Something could happen to my parents! Something could happen to me! Somebody could break into our home! Nobody was safe, ever!

You know what?

I was right. Everyday there are car accidents and trees that fall on houses that kill people sleeping in their beds and firestorms and tornadoes and dogs that get run over by cars and headaches that turn out to be brain tumors. I don’t know how old I was when I realized this, but it was a heaviness that sunk deep into me, one that I carried from an early age.

Not surprisingly, I am still prone to anxiety. Sure, there have been seasons of my life when I worried less, long stretches even. But lately? All the dark possibilities are swirling with renewed vigor. Maybe you understand.

Wish I had a nice, neat ending for this. Something like: “All the dark possibilities are swirling with renewed vigor, but I’m fine! Trusting God and confident that all things work together for good! Yay!” Except that wouldn’t be true. 

(Well. It is true, of course. On the deepest levels. But apparently those deep levels are not helping my day-to-day much)

Writing and sharing about it take the edge off, a little. I also know intellectually that worry is not helpful: it doesn’t do anything but drain light from my days. I try to choose different thoughts. Happier thoughts.  I have even tried to do “thought inquiries,” following a model developed by the wise Byron Katie. The first questions: Are my thoughts true? Can I be absolutely sure they are true? 

Nope! Not at all!

But the troublesome thoughts have moved in and are not wanting to listen to Katie.

Maybe I can practice more?  It’s worth a try. 

Here is what else I can do: remember the touchstones, the habits, the practices that ground me in the moment. Journal writing (haven’t been doing this lately at all), centering prayer, walks up to the cemetery with Biscuit, good food. I can ask for help: help from Spirit, help from my friends. Maybe take my doctor’s advice and find a therapist.  Feed the birds. Watch the sun on the poppies that volunteered in my front flower bed. Stay in this moment. This here and now. Which is all I ever have. Trusting that it is enough and that it is good. Because it is. 

(How’s that for a wrap up?  Nice, right? And again, on the deepest levels, I know it’s true. But still! The day-to-day! It’s not so easy. I’ll keep you posted.)