I didn't want to. It was already 10:45 a.m. A Sunday, my husband in the kitchen rattling pans. Frying up bacon. The cocker, up and down on the bed, standing on my chest, her tongue hanging: Get up, Mom. I have a ball, right here, on Dad's pillow, and if you get up, you can throw it, and I can chase it and we can start our day.
I pushed her away, rolled over. Checked my iPhone. Checked facebook. Other people, up and moving around. Already back from church, back from Costco, back from the grocery.
Me, still in bed and not wanting to get out of it.
Me, depressed. Bad breath and greasy hair and a creeping anxiety, already. Not even standing and there's the anxiety. The pain in the center of my chest that makes me think a heart attack is forthcoming.
Trying to laugh at myself, make light of the situation, think something else, anything else.
Ordering myself: Get your ass out of bed, Kathleen. Take a friggin' shower. Put on powder and deodorant. Brush your teeth. When you're done, you can get a cup of coffee.
So I did. I listened to myself and headed to the shower. Turned on NPR while the water heated. Oscar talk. Oh yeah, tonight's the Oscars. That's something to live for.
Inside the shower, I perk up: there's a bar of Zum, patchouli. The water relaxes shoulders that have already tensed. Awake twenty minutes and tight there, like I've been at the laptop for ten hours. Patchouli relaxes, a hippy scent that tells me I need to chill.
Downstairs, there's my son. It's his birthday. Oh my god, it's his birthday! There's something to live for. He's twenty-five today. Born in 1988, my post-partum depression so severe that I would call my parents, ask them to please come over, for just a bit. Me, taking long showers, driving around in my Monte Carlo, Fleetwood Mac blasting. Getting medicated, knowing that I needed it. Loving every inch of that sweet baby boy, nurturing him, nurturing myself.
My adult life, then, all of it, lived with depression lurking, anxiety hovering. It's a damn heavy cross to bear, I'll tell you that.
What helps: talking to people, eating oranges, drinking coffee, listening to music, driving aimlessly, windows down, air wooshing in, cuddling with my dogs, hugging on my husband, my children (all adults now), teaching, connecting with others, reading, writing, blogging, shopping at Walgreen's for cheesy you-can-only-get-this-as-a-special-television-offer items.
And getting out of bed. That's where it starts. Pulling back the covers and standing up.
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Silver Linings Playbook hits close to home
Bradley Cooper is one fine-looking man, which explains my primary motivation behind going to see Silver Linings Playbook this afternoon. My husband went along, too, which was only marginally annoying. Once the movie started, I kinda forgot he was there (we had our own popcorn).
It wasn't long into the movie when Cooper's beautiful face and erratic behavior began to look eerily familiar. I grew up with a good-looking, mentally ill father (he was a dead ringer for Paul Newman). Dad's diagnosis was bi-polar disorder, although back in the 70s, the term was manic-depressive. He threw fits. He raged. He repeated himself, repeated himself, repeated himself. He used alcohol to moderate his mood swings. He was drunk a lot. When AA rolled around, a court-ordered deal, the orange vodka and cases of beer left the house, but Dad set up permanent residency. He became agoraphobic and had to physically prepare (shit, shave, and shower, as he put it) just to get the mail at the end of the driveway. He quit mowing the lawn. Was the first person to see his barber, 'cause there was no way in hell he was going to wait with other people around. He wore sun glasses most of the time. No one, under any circumstances, was to look at him as he ate his evening meal, including our dog. As a family, my parents and two sisters went nowhere together. No restaurants, no amusement parks, no vacations. Dad missed my high school graduation, my college graduation, and my wedding.
I am not bitter. I loved my father. I understood his mental illness.
Myself? I have GAD, an ugly-sounding acronym for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which means, at its rawest definition, that I worry a lot. I perceive the world to be A Very Dangerous Place. I have ADD, but I am not medicated for that. As a writer, I need my creativity. I feel that meds for attention-deficit-disorder would be too numbing.
I have Major Depressive Disorder, along with a depressive nature, definitely a half-glass-empty gal am I, but this is in stark contrast to the way I make myself live my life, which is to focus on beauty and laughter. Whenever I start to feel the black veil of don't-give-a-shit taking over, I make myself get out of the bed. I head first to the kitchen. I brew strong caffeinated coffee, a mood lifter when I cannot seem to lift myself, and then I grab an orange, cold and perfect from the fridge. I savor it ... its shape and color and juiciness. I read somewhere ~ I think it was an Elizabeth Berg novel, where the main character cannot figure out why another character killed himself. Didn't he want one more orange? she asks.
When I don't need the immediacy of a coffee or orange mood-boost, I have back-up plans: I head to the theater and watch a funny movie, or I go and rent one. I watch funny videos on youtube. I drive to the mall, the one that's really too far away, but there's a pet store there, and I love to watch the puppies fall over themselves. I read my Bible. I surround myself with children; they bring me great joy. I listen to beautiful music, which on any given day might be Lady Gaga's mellow offering, "Brown Eyes," or Anything by Edith Piaf (I love the French language), or my favorite gospel song, "Take Me to the King," by Tamela Mann ("I don't have much to bring, my heart's torn in pieces, it's my offering ... lay me at the throne, leave me there alone, to gaze upon your glory and sing to you this song ... .").
***
There are three of us girls, but only I have sought professional help. I take a little white pill every day that keeps the panic attacks away. Until Lexapro, I died many, many times. That's how scary panic attacks are. You truly, truly think you are dying. I have awakened many mornings, surprised, that I survived the night. Because of medication and counseling, I exist in the world and I live responsibly and gloriously. I have been blessed with a long-term marriage (28 years) and three amazing children, all of whom are adults. I have many, many friends and wonderful neighbors. I taught English at the high school and middle school level. I went to work; I earned money; I vacationed with my family.
Of my three children, two have seen psychiatrists: there's ADD, ADHD, major depressive disorder, an initial diagnosis of bipolar (turned out to be wrong), OCD, and GAD. The alphabet soup in this house requires prescription medications.
***
Mental illness is a biochemical issue, as I see it. I have seen meds work wonders in my dad's life, my own life, in my own house. The Bradley Cooper character in Silver Linings didn't want to take his, and when that part of the movie played I cringed. So typical, that behavior. I have thought it myself at times. Yes, that Lexapro is responsible for some of my weight gain ("bloat," as Cooper calls it in the movie), and, yes, it is responsible for some of my fatigue, but I will swallow it down. Once a day, every day, I will take that pill. I will enjoy my life.
It wasn't long into the movie when Cooper's beautiful face and erratic behavior began to look eerily familiar. I grew up with a good-looking, mentally ill father (he was a dead ringer for Paul Newman). Dad's diagnosis was bi-polar disorder, although back in the 70s, the term was manic-depressive. He threw fits. He raged. He repeated himself, repeated himself, repeated himself. He used alcohol to moderate his mood swings. He was drunk a lot. When AA rolled around, a court-ordered deal, the orange vodka and cases of beer left the house, but Dad set up permanent residency. He became agoraphobic and had to physically prepare (shit, shave, and shower, as he put it) just to get the mail at the end of the driveway. He quit mowing the lawn. Was the first person to see his barber, 'cause there was no way in hell he was going to wait with other people around. He wore sun glasses most of the time. No one, under any circumstances, was to look at him as he ate his evening meal, including our dog. As a family, my parents and two sisters went nowhere together. No restaurants, no amusement parks, no vacations. Dad missed my high school graduation, my college graduation, and my wedding.
I am not bitter. I loved my father. I understood his mental illness.
Myself? I have GAD, an ugly-sounding acronym for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which means, at its rawest definition, that I worry a lot. I perceive the world to be A Very Dangerous Place. I have ADD, but I am not medicated for that. As a writer, I need my creativity. I feel that meds for attention-deficit-disorder would be too numbing.
I have Major Depressive Disorder, along with a depressive nature, definitely a half-glass-empty gal am I, but this is in stark contrast to the way I make myself live my life, which is to focus on beauty and laughter. Whenever I start to feel the black veil of don't-give-a-shit taking over, I make myself get out of the bed. I head first to the kitchen. I brew strong caffeinated coffee, a mood lifter when I cannot seem to lift myself, and then I grab an orange, cold and perfect from the fridge. I savor it ... its shape and color and juiciness. I read somewhere ~ I think it was an Elizabeth Berg novel, where the main character cannot figure out why another character killed himself. Didn't he want one more orange? she asks.
When I don't need the immediacy of a coffee or orange mood-boost, I have back-up plans: I head to the theater and watch a funny movie, or I go and rent one. I watch funny videos on youtube. I drive to the mall, the one that's really too far away, but there's a pet store there, and I love to watch the puppies fall over themselves. I read my Bible. I surround myself with children; they bring me great joy. I listen to beautiful music, which on any given day might be Lady Gaga's mellow offering, "Brown Eyes," or Anything by Edith Piaf (I love the French language), or my favorite gospel song, "Take Me to the King," by Tamela Mann ("I don't have much to bring, my heart's torn in pieces, it's my offering ... lay me at the throne, leave me there alone, to gaze upon your glory and sing to you this song ... .").
***
There are three of us girls, but only I have sought professional help. I take a little white pill every day that keeps the panic attacks away. Until Lexapro, I died many, many times. That's how scary panic attacks are. You truly, truly think you are dying. I have awakened many mornings, surprised, that I survived the night. Because of medication and counseling, I exist in the world and I live responsibly and gloriously. I have been blessed with a long-term marriage (28 years) and three amazing children, all of whom are adults. I have many, many friends and wonderful neighbors. I taught English at the high school and middle school level. I went to work; I earned money; I vacationed with my family.
Of my three children, two have seen psychiatrists: there's ADD, ADHD, major depressive disorder, an initial diagnosis of bipolar (turned out to be wrong), OCD, and GAD. The alphabet soup in this house requires prescription medications.
***
Mental illness is a biochemical issue, as I see it. I have seen meds work wonders in my dad's life, my own life, in my own house. The Bradley Cooper character in Silver Linings didn't want to take his, and when that part of the movie played I cringed. So typical, that behavior. I have thought it myself at times. Yes, that Lexapro is responsible for some of my weight gain ("bloat," as Cooper calls it in the movie), and, yes, it is responsible for some of my fatigue, but I will swallow it down. Once a day, every day, I will take that pill. I will enjoy my life.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Lazy-ass, no-good, paranoid thinking
The trouble with having parents who died in their sixties is that it's easy to think the same will happen to me, which leads to shitty thinking: I only have twenty years left to live, might as well sink into the comfy couch and lick the cheese off Doritos while watching Anderson Cooper talk about his paranoia that flu spores have set up house in his lungs and he's going to be dead before spring comes to Central Park.
Look: Danger is everywhere. I have a news app on my phone that tells me every time a kid is killed by gun violence in Kansas City, which is happening every freaking day in this city that used to inspire me. The flu? Epidemic now, that's what they say. If calm-cool-and-collected Cooper is reporting this news with alarm, shouldn't I be scared? One month ago, that whackadoo kid in Connecticut opened fire on first graders and killed twenty of them in the space of a few minutes, and six of their teachers. What the hell? His mother bought the damn things, one firearm being an assault rife. Then the NRA fanatics spout off, zealousy, that guns don't kill people, why, it's people who kill people. With what? Guns. Guns, guns, guns, and more guns. I have never heard of a drive-by fisting. I have never heard of a child picking up a forgotten yo-yo from a couch and blowing his little head off his body by pulling the string.
I feel the world is getting crazier by the minute, and I am not embarrassed to say that I would not have been surprised one itty-bitty bit that the world might, just might, have ended on 12/21/12, that the Mayans had it right all along. Actually, I wasn't even that sad about contemplating it, because I'd been drinking and smoking and spending thousands of dollars on stuff that made me temporarily happy (makeup and home decor items and candles), thinking So What? if I am further in debt because the world is ending and who will be around to hold me financially accountable. Who? Oh, that would be no one.
And then there's Donald Trump, who has way too much money and thinks because he is a tycoon that anything he says must be Golden. And at the Golden Globes, weirdo Mel Gibson is lauded by the usually cool and intelligent Jodie Foster. She then goes on to deliver a rambling and ambiguous speech that confounds the hell out of me (so is she retiring from acting? does she have cancer and this is her final letter to the world?) and instead of other people (read: experts) agreeing that her speech is strange, the internet blows up with "She's a genius, that Jodie Foster" posts.
Let's not forget that in this great country of ours, the suicide rate is nearly three times the homicide rate ... oh, wait, guns don't kill people ... then someone explain to me why so many adolescent males and former soldiers are putting the barrel of guns into their mouths and pulling triggers.
So what do I do to feel safe in this crazy-ass world? I insulate myself: I overeat and cocoon myself inside a warm coat of flesh (but this is not working as well as I'd hoped, as my gut is large and the size of a seven-month gestation and therefore I don't breathe right much of the time); I sit on the couch with a warm blankie on my lap and stroke my cat; I shop on the internet and wait for boxes to go thunk on my porch (books and cosmetics and a new skillet, a Bialetti, which will make that sixtieth grilled cheese slide right out of the pan ~); I hug my children every time they walk by me; I snuggle into my husband's neck; I spend hours and hours trolling pinterest and facebook; I drink too much coffee.
And I feel sad. A lot.
Good thing there's only twenty years left of this life.
Look: Danger is everywhere. I have a news app on my phone that tells me every time a kid is killed by gun violence in Kansas City, which is happening every freaking day in this city that used to inspire me. The flu? Epidemic now, that's what they say. If calm-cool-and-collected Cooper is reporting this news with alarm, shouldn't I be scared? One month ago, that whackadoo kid in Connecticut opened fire on first graders and killed twenty of them in the space of a few minutes, and six of their teachers. What the hell? His mother bought the damn things, one firearm being an assault rife. Then the NRA fanatics spout off, zealousy, that guns don't kill people, why, it's people who kill people. With what? Guns. Guns, guns, guns, and more guns. I have never heard of a drive-by fisting. I have never heard of a child picking up a forgotten yo-yo from a couch and blowing his little head off his body by pulling the string.
I feel the world is getting crazier by the minute, and I am not embarrassed to say that I would not have been surprised one itty-bitty bit that the world might, just might, have ended on 12/21/12, that the Mayans had it right all along. Actually, I wasn't even that sad about contemplating it, because I'd been drinking and smoking and spending thousands of dollars on stuff that made me temporarily happy (makeup and home decor items and candles), thinking So What? if I am further in debt because the world is ending and who will be around to hold me financially accountable. Who? Oh, that would be no one.
And then there's Donald Trump, who has way too much money and thinks because he is a tycoon that anything he says must be Golden. And at the Golden Globes, weirdo Mel Gibson is lauded by the usually cool and intelligent Jodie Foster. She then goes on to deliver a rambling and ambiguous speech that confounds the hell out of me (so is she retiring from acting? does she have cancer and this is her final letter to the world?) and instead of other people (read: experts) agreeing that her speech is strange, the internet blows up with "She's a genius, that Jodie Foster" posts.
Let's not forget that in this great country of ours, the suicide rate is nearly three times the homicide rate ... oh, wait, guns don't kill people ... then someone explain to me why so many adolescent males and former soldiers are putting the barrel of guns into their mouths and pulling triggers.
So what do I do to feel safe in this crazy-ass world? I insulate myself: I overeat and cocoon myself inside a warm coat of flesh (but this is not working as well as I'd hoped, as my gut is large and the size of a seven-month gestation and therefore I don't breathe right much of the time); I sit on the couch with a warm blankie on my lap and stroke my cat; I shop on the internet and wait for boxes to go thunk on my porch (books and cosmetics and a new skillet, a Bialetti, which will make that sixtieth grilled cheese slide right out of the pan ~); I hug my children every time they walk by me; I snuggle into my husband's neck; I spend hours and hours trolling pinterest and facebook; I drink too much coffee.
And I feel sad. A lot.
Good thing there's only twenty years left of this life.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Counting down the days to MacDowell
In fifteen days, I'll board a Southwest Airlines flight to Manchester, New Hampshire.
From there, I'll take a one-hour shuttle to Peterborough, New Hampshire,
home of The MacDowell Colony's 450-acre wooded artists' retreat.
In fifteen days, I'll meet the many folks I've been emailing. It will be wonderful
to put a face to a name. I will finally figure out how to pronounce this name: "Kyle,"
who, as it turns out, is a girl.
In fifteen days, I'll be shown my private studio in the woods. I'll unpack my suitcase
and set out my supplies. I'll examine the "tombstones" that are already in the
studio. I'll freak out to find Alice Walker's name, or Michael Chabon's, or his wife's, Ayelet
Waldman's. I'll be starstruck. I'll have to say the Hail Mary to calm myself down,
or Psalm 23, which, this past summer, I finally memorized. After I Get My Shit Together (*cold
water splashed on face*), I'll eat dinner (or is it supper there?) with thirty or so other
artists at the colony.
I will probably hyperventilate; I will probably talk too much, because that's what
happens when I am in a new environment; I will probably need to find a toilet Right Effing Now,
because that's what I do when I am in a new environment and I am nervous: my irritable
bowel works itself into a frenzy.
I have already begun losing sleep: I am anxious; I am excited; I am pumped.
Mostly, I am a bit undone about what it is, exactly, that I'll be writing once I get there.
I have great plans to rewrite the novel I started the summer before my dad died (2006).
I have great plans to finish the collection of essays I started this summer.
I have great plans to write more short stories.
***
Today I called the pharmacy to get a refill on my Xanax, a script I so infrequently
use that the prescription number was worn off the bottle, having rolled around in my
purse, unused, for the better part of half a year. I might need the little white pill; might not.
Better be there, though, just in case.
From there, I'll take a one-hour shuttle to Peterborough, New Hampshire,
home of The MacDowell Colony's 450-acre wooded artists' retreat.
In fifteen days, I'll meet the many folks I've been emailing. It will be wonderful
to put a face to a name. I will finally figure out how to pronounce this name: "Kyle,"
who, as it turns out, is a girl.
In fifteen days, I'll be shown my private studio in the woods. I'll unpack my suitcase
and set out my supplies. I'll examine the "tombstones" that are already in the
studio. I'll freak out to find Alice Walker's name, or Michael Chabon's, or his wife's, Ayelet
Waldman's. I'll be starstruck. I'll have to say the Hail Mary to calm myself down,
or Psalm 23, which, this past summer, I finally memorized. After I Get My Shit Together (*cold
water splashed on face*), I'll eat dinner (or is it supper there?) with thirty or so other
artists at the colony.
I will probably hyperventilate; I will probably talk too much, because that's what
happens when I am in a new environment; I will probably need to find a toilet Right Effing Now,
because that's what I do when I am in a new environment and I am nervous: my irritable
bowel works itself into a frenzy.
I have already begun losing sleep: I am anxious; I am excited; I am pumped.
Mostly, I am a bit undone about what it is, exactly, that I'll be writing once I get there.
I have great plans to rewrite the novel I started the summer before my dad died (2006).
I have great plans to finish the collection of essays I started this summer.
I have great plans to write more short stories.
***
Today I called the pharmacy to get a refill on my Xanax, a script I so infrequently
use that the prescription number was worn off the bottle, having rolled around in my
purse, unused, for the better part of half a year. I might need the little white pill; might not.
Better be there, though, just in case.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
School anxiety ... again!
I wish non-teachers could/might/would understand how much anxiety there is going into a new school year ... for the teachers! People like me who are already having back-to-school nightmares and anxiety attacks buying 24 boxes of Crayolas and hundreds of pencils.
The children, of course, have their unique anxieties (Will I miss the bus? Will I have any friends in my classes? Will I be able to even find my classes? Will my teachers be hags? Will I have the right kind of clothes? Will the other kids make fun of me?).
But we teachers, well, we have anxiety too. Although every single teacher I've talked to has some level of panic, mine always kicks into overdrive once August arrives: Will I oversleep the first day of school and arrive late and haggard and panicky? Will I have healthy colleague relationships this year? Will I be able to produce the level of energy that is needed to educate daily 150 seventh graders? Will the students think I'm pregnant on account of my newest fat roll and decide to give me Slim-Fast for Christmas (this actually happened to a former colleague ... oh, the horror and embarrassment ... ) Will I have good standardized test results? Will my IBS kick in during the middle of class? Will I have off-the-charts-horrific-to-handle-kids? Will I be able to climb the three flights of stairs to get to my classroom without needing oxygen? Will lesson planning and grading and lesson planning and parent meetings and grading and lesson planning and student discipline issues and staff meetings and grading get the best of me this year? Will this be the year I finally throw up my hands and announce, "Well, this is IT! No more teaching for me. I've had IT!!"
It's always possible, I suppose.
The children, of course, have their unique anxieties (Will I miss the bus? Will I have any friends in my classes? Will I be able to even find my classes? Will my teachers be hags? Will I have the right kind of clothes? Will the other kids make fun of me?).
But we teachers, well, we have anxiety too. Although every single teacher I've talked to has some level of panic, mine always kicks into overdrive once August arrives: Will I oversleep the first day of school and arrive late and haggard and panicky? Will I have healthy colleague relationships this year? Will I be able to produce the level of energy that is needed to educate daily 150 seventh graders? Will the students think I'm pregnant on account of my newest fat roll and decide to give me Slim-Fast for Christmas (this actually happened to a former colleague ... oh, the horror and embarrassment ... ) Will I have good standardized test results? Will my IBS kick in during the middle of class? Will I have off-the-charts-horrific-to-handle-kids? Will I be able to climb the three flights of stairs to get to my classroom without needing oxygen? Will lesson planning and grading and lesson planning and parent meetings and grading and lesson planning and student discipline issues and staff meetings and grading get the best of me this year? Will this be the year I finally throw up my hands and announce, "Well, this is IT! No more teaching for me. I've had IT!!"
It's always possible, I suppose.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Anxiety in overdrive!
Here it is precisely 2:53 p.m. on a beautiful Saturday afternoon and I feel paralyzed from these annoying PVC's (heart palps).
They started when the Mary Kay lady popped in around noon with my order, which I'd given her via telephone 90 minutes earlier. Somehow, no matter what I order, or how little I feel I order, the total always comes to fifty-plus dollars. So there was financial angst to consider. (This on top of three separate back-to-school lunches at fifty bucks a pop that I've: a) treated my children to; and b) not told my husband about.)
But before Mary Kay Lady leaves, she asks me if I've spoken to her daughter, who lives in California and, really, is my bestbest friend in the world and I was supposed to fly out there this summer but I'm a scaredy-cat about flying plus the tickets would have been about a thousand dollars because I sure in heck wasn't going alone and then think of all the extra money I'd need to spend on dining out and souvenir stuff and admission to things and so although I clearly should have called my California friend by now ... I mean, it IS August, I just haven't because what do I say, "Sorry, can't come. Too expensive, plus I'm a scaredy cat. Oh, and I've been battling these scary-butt PVC's all summer and I'm afraid I'll get on a plane and have a panic attack and my heart will spazz out and I'll die 30,000 feet in the air."
So, no, I told my friend's mother. I haven't talked to her.
OK, so there's friend anxiety piled onto cosmetic expenditure anxiety and then -- THEN -- I call my mom, which I should not have done, because she's extremely agitated and down in the dumps and feeling sorry for herself because yesterday would have been her and Dad's 45th wedding anniversary, only he got lung cancer and died four months later and now she's a grieving widow, only not one of those mildly tearful, soft-talking grieving widows. My mom is impossibly hard to communicate with (she's a vociferous type) because she is, in fact, a recent widow, a truth that only a heartless daughter would ignore.
So I'm supposed to go visit her this afternoon. But I don't want to go.
More anxiety.
And then, like a supreme idiot, I go to Wal-Mart to buy saltine crackers so I can make my special meatloaf that I know my mom likes only there are about a million and a half people shopping there because it's sales-tax-free weekend in Missouri. And that's when the PVC's got really bad. There I am, meandering my cart around hordes of people when they start. I use some self talk I read about doing recently: "You're OK, Kathleen, you'll be fine. You've had these before and they always go away and you don't die."
And I did, in fact, survive the shopping excursion, which brings me here to the typewriter.
If you, dear Reader, have any advice for me in dealing with life's anxieties, please pass on your helpful words.
I need some assistance.
They started when the Mary Kay lady popped in around noon with my order, which I'd given her via telephone 90 minutes earlier. Somehow, no matter what I order, or how little I feel I order, the total always comes to fifty-plus dollars. So there was financial angst to consider. (This on top of three separate back-to-school lunches at fifty bucks a pop that I've: a) treated my children to; and b) not told my husband about.)
But before Mary Kay Lady leaves, she asks me if I've spoken to her daughter, who lives in California and, really, is my bestbest friend in the world and I was supposed to fly out there this summer but I'm a scaredy-cat about flying plus the tickets would have been about a thousand dollars because I sure in heck wasn't going alone and then think of all the extra money I'd need to spend on dining out and souvenir stuff and admission to things and so although I clearly should have called my California friend by now ... I mean, it IS August, I just haven't because what do I say, "Sorry, can't come. Too expensive, plus I'm a scaredy cat. Oh, and I've been battling these scary-butt PVC's all summer and I'm afraid I'll get on a plane and have a panic attack and my heart will spazz out and I'll die 30,000 feet in the air."
So, no, I told my friend's mother. I haven't talked to her.
OK, so there's friend anxiety piled onto cosmetic expenditure anxiety and then -- THEN -- I call my mom, which I should not have done, because she's extremely agitated and down in the dumps and feeling sorry for herself because yesterday would have been her and Dad's 45th wedding anniversary, only he got lung cancer and died four months later and now she's a grieving widow, only not one of those mildly tearful, soft-talking grieving widows. My mom is impossibly hard to communicate with (she's a vociferous type) because she is, in fact, a recent widow, a truth that only a heartless daughter would ignore.
So I'm supposed to go visit her this afternoon. But I don't want to go.
More anxiety.
And then, like a supreme idiot, I go to Wal-Mart to buy saltine crackers so I can make my special meatloaf that I know my mom likes only there are about a million and a half people shopping there because it's sales-tax-free weekend in Missouri. And that's when the PVC's got really bad. There I am, meandering my cart around hordes of people when they start. I use some self talk I read about doing recently: "You're OK, Kathleen, you'll be fine. You've had these before and they always go away and you don't die."
And I did, in fact, survive the shopping excursion, which brings me here to the typewriter.
If you, dear Reader, have any advice for me in dealing with life's anxieties, please pass on your helpful words.
I need some assistance.
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