My Anxiety and the Unknown; COVID- 19

I am all over the place lately, leaping from fear to peace. I am reflecting what is happening all over the globe: Chaos and fear, yet a slowing down of activities. Sometimes I obsess about all kinds of things: Will I get this illness? Will I die a horrible death? Do I have enough tp? What if one of my caregivers gets sick and spreads the virus to others? What if I am left with no caregivers? How do I clean properly? Did I wipe down the doorknobs after someone left? What if I forgot? Anxiety loves this kind of stuff. It thrives on it.

And then, suddenly I am peaceful and feel wide open and content. Calm. And more connected to nature. The trees around my house seem more vibrant than ever. I watch the ducks in the pond happily waddling about, and I breathe more deeply. The red-winged blackbirds sing their delight at being alive and dive in and out of the cattails. Sometimes I go outside and sit on the earth and cry. I don’t know what I’m crying about, but tears run down my face. I sob. It feels good to do so. And I feel supported by the earth when I do.

Yesterday, while I was out there, Simon, our cat, came and sat with me and then curled up in my lap. We both surveyed the pond, the meadow, the hills. And I thought: If all humankind died, the earth  would heal and that thought gave me peace. I love my friends, family and community, and sometimes am able to love all humankind, but, as my mother used to say, “We are the most destructive species on the planet.” She was right and it’s a hard fact to sit with.

Sometimes, I open my heart to not knowing. Not knowing if certain people I know and love will survive. Not knowing if local businesses will survive. Not knowing how long the virus will survive. And these thoughts take me to the big “I Don’t Know” – the mysteries of The Universe. And this thought leads to Freedom.

 

 

Rainbow

This morning I go to my friend Rainbow’s house to pick up a CD she has made with her “old man” Donovan.  Rainbow is an old hippie who has basically tie-dyed her hair purple and green recently.  We get to talking about all sorts of things and then she says, “We’re both the sensitive type.  And sometimes that’s hard when life gets really dark.”

I nod my head agreeing, and give her arm a squeeze, wondering what she’s been going through lately.

“But I think that sensitivity is also a gift,” she adds.                                                              Yeah, I think.  I forget this, but it’s true.                                                                                      “We feel things so deeply, don’t you think?  And others!  Real empaths.”                                I nod again.  “Sometimes I feel I don’t have any skin.”                                                          “Yes, yes!,” she says enthusiastically.  She can become easily excited.  “That’s it exactly!  But that sensitivity gives you the ability to write poetry.  And the free hugs you used to give at Mariposa.”

I consider this.  “I guess you’re right.  That sensitivity we share has a positive side, although when things become really difficult, I forget that.”                                                    “I know!  I know!”  She’s almost jumping up and down.  “Me too!  But we can’t forget the flip side!  Energy is energy!  Sometimes we name it “anxiety,” other times we can name it – oh I don’t know – “The buzz of creativity.”  We can’t forget that buzz!  It’s magic!”  Rainbow has a unique way of putting things.                                                                         “Like you and your music and your big heart,” I say.

She ducks her head momentarily embarrassed, then says, “When we feel other folks’ pain, that can be draining sometimes.  But it also means we can offer folks a lot of love.

“You’re right,” I say.  I’m glad to hear these words from her right now.  Lately, I have only seen the downside of sensitivity:  The inability to use computers for too long because how it affects my nervous system, how I get almost every flu and cold in the winter because of a compromised immune system from too little sleep over too many years, and anxiety that shows up too frequently as far as I’m concerned.  Not to mention epilepsy.

“Plus,” she goes on, “It seems like other folks don’t experience deeply the sweetness of the world.  Like dew:  It’s fantastic how it sparkles!  Or how the sun can pierce through the dark clouds and right into your heart.  They see it, they feel something, but it’s not a Big Event, you know?  They’re on to the next thing.”

“I get what you mean.  I often wonder what it’s like to be other people.  To feel not what they feel, but how.  Often, they seem to me – oh, I don’t know – not hardened exactly – but… more protected somehow.  Some people hardly ever cry.”

“I know,” Rainbow says, “Can you imagine?”  Her eyes widen in wonder.

I think about my mother whom I could count on one hand the number of times I saw her cry.  And I never saw her sob.  I remember her saying once, “Why do people have to talk about their feelings all the time?”  She wasn’t a cold person.  Warmth emanated from her.  She just had thick skin – she was born that way.

We go on to other things:  her upcoming gig, what movies we’ve seen lately, our very different upbringings:  hers Catholic and strict, mine, unorthodox with few boundaries.

I then tell her I need to get back home and we hug and say goodbye.

When I reach my car, she yells, “I love you!”

rainbow reflection on water flowing over rock
Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

I blow her a kiss.

“Keep writing poetry,”  she adds as I’m about to open the car door, “The universe needs us!”

I toss the CD into the car and turn towards her, fashioning my hands into the shape of a heart.

Thanks, Rainbow.  Thanks for the reminder.

A Family Inheritance

Anxiety runs in my family.  I inherited mine from my father.

My mother often told the story of when my father first began his teaching career.  Every morning before work he would vomit from nerves.  Eventually he got this down to every Monday, and then when he became more confident at his job, he stopped.  Every time my brother and I were told this story, we would laugh, including my mother.  We didn’t understand.

He couldn’t stand being late.  When we would travel, he’d pack days ahead of time.  When going to the airport, we would have to arrive hours ahead of schedule, or he would get upset, often yelling at us.  His fear of being late carried over to other events when promptness was not called for – for example when going for an outing, he’d announce to the family what time we would “need” to leave, only to blow up when we weren’t ready a half an hour before the scheduled time.

His anxiety took the form of hypochondria.  If he got a headache or a slight fever, he’d worry about it as if he had some strange or daunting illness, asking my mother repeatedly to feel his forehead or listen to his heartbeat.  She’d roll her eyes and say, “You just have the flu for God’s sake!  You’re not dying!”  But by the look on his face, I could see he was frightened.

At restaurants, much to my family’s chagrin, he’d become agitated, running his hands through his hair repeatedly, waiting for dinner to arrive, long before it could possibly be ready.  He would flag down a server and ask them when our meals would be ready, his voice sounding a little desperate, while the rest of us hid behind our menus.

As he got older, his anxiety increased, along with his controlling behavior.  Once while I was visiting with my partner, his car was in the shop and was supposed to be ready early afternoon, but he got a call informing him that they ran into a snag and the car wouldn’t be ready until much later.  He exploded and berated the receptionist on the other end who was only relaying the news.  There was really no rational reason for him to be upset, he didn’t need to go anywhere that day, and, if that need changed, my partner and I had a car.

My parents lived about 2 hours from me.  When returning home after visiting them, he would often call my landline long before I would arrive to see if I made it back ok, and when he found out I wasn’t there, he’d become anxious.  I think it was my last visit there before he died, that he called my house three times before I made it home.  It didn’t matter how much my partner tried to reassure him that I was probably just fine, he didn’t calm down until he heard my voice.

It took me a long time to recognize that these behaviors were coming from a place of anxiety, especially when he acted controlling, impatient and angry.  It wasn’t until I began to analyze and compare my own feelings and behavior with his and recognize that they too stemmed from anxiety that I began to understand more fully his experience.  Although I try not to manipulate and control those around me like my father did, there are situations where I have to have things a certain way or I become very anxious.  There is a felt sense of great urgency when anxiety takes over, especially in triggering or stressful situations, and for me that happens most at bedtime.  I have to be in my bedroom at 9 and if my partner begins a conversation at 8:50, I get impatient and irritated with her because of this urgency.  I need to check and re-check to see if the front door is locked, the stove is turned off, and the cats have enough food and water before I turn in, or my stomach goes into knots.

I want to say here; I loved my father very much.  He was much more than his anxiety disorder and I hope the following poem I wrote 3 months before his death demonstrates that.

How Are You?

 

For many (say 4) nights in a row I have slept pretty good, for me.  I know if others experienced these nights, would probably have something else to say.  But I’m happy with how I feel.  Wow.  Happy.  That’s a miracle to me.  I almost feel like a “normie” – what I call an able-bodied person.  And yet.  There is also a nervousness in me like I’m looking over my shoulder wondering how long this stretch will last.  Another night?  Please?  The rest of my life?  Please?  I know the last plea is highly unlikely, but I like to hold out for a miracle.

Do you ever have good days?  What do they look like?  Do you get nervous about another shoe dropping like me?

So today I’ll have a “good” day I imagine.  I’ll be more active.  I won’t feel this pressure to act “normal” around others like I usually feel.

Which brings be to this topic: “how are you?”  I’ve come to hate that question.  It makes me feel squirmy.  And sometimes resentful.  Do people really want to know the answer.  Sometimes I bump into others at the local natural food store, people I don’t know really well, but well enough to stop my cart and say hi.  And as usual they ask, “How are you?”.  Sometimes, because I just don’t feel like getting into it, I’ll say “fine” – it’s easier that way.  Sometimes I’ll just shrug my shoulders and make a face which translates into “not so good”.  Sometimes I’ll be bold and say “shitty”.  Sometimes I’ll say, “Right now, I’m good”, which really means “I’m doing my best to stay present because I know when we do everything is pretty much ok that way.” 

But mostly, unless it’s a good friend, I won’t get into the details.  I don’t think most people really want to know the details. They don’t want to know I’ve been awake most of the night and that anxiety, dread and self-hate took over.

I have a good story about this kind of thing though.  Once I was in Safeway and saw a woman from afar, I knew (not well) who had cancer and was going through treatment.  Our eyes met and after that you can’t pretend you didn’t see each other.  So, I waved and smiled and proceeded to push my cart up to her and she shook her head vehemently and turned away.  I received her message loud and clear, that she did not want to interact whatsoever.  I didn’t take it at all personally.  I understood.  And I appreciated her honesty.  Perhaps next time someone I don’t know well asks me how I’m doing and it’s a difficult day for me, I can be just as honest and say something like, “Not well.  And I don’t want to talk about it.  And I don’t want to know how you’re doing because I’m too tired to listen to your story, whatever it is.  I can’t be polite.”  And then walk away. 

What do you think?