Worryland

I describe it as sitting in a classroom, waiting for a big test, say, the SAT or its equivalent. Or maybe the feeling of knowing something too hot or too cold is going to touch your bare skin - that moment, the one of scared anticipation - that’s how I operate, how I feel, every second of every day.

They ask how they can help. How they can fix it. I sit on my therapist’s couch; it’s made of the kind of leather that is both too worn down and also unexpectedly comfortable. I tell him: too much abuse you can’t fix. I’m looking at the beds of my fingernails, maybe for answers, maybe asking to be left alone to inspect something insignificant. In both cases, I feel I can only help myself, which means I will stay stuck at square one forever. A game of Candyland where you keep spinning and never advance.

Because that’s exactly what it’s like - being trapped. Watching the other players obtain the chocolate fountain! And the lollipop forest! Not that those are actual elements of the game. But the feeling is there, my fear of being left behind as real as the stripes on the candy canes.

I watch others move on in their lives. I’m like an alcoholic, the ones who shake if they don’t have a fifth of vodka with breakfast. I’m shaking. My therapist might suggest breathing exercises, grounding techniques. But I sit, or rather stew, in the grip of something that is demanding something I can’t give it. And the thing is - I don’t know what that is.

Something is wrong. My neuron connections are giving out. I can use all these analogies, give all these examples, but nothing is going to undo years of trauma. And therein lies my problem - to use another analogy, I am Charlie Brown, slouching his shoulders, dragging his backpack across the ground behind him. I am “helpless.“ The “victim.”

I had a waitress once, and when I ordered, she said: “I love that for you.” My therapist is understanding, nods when I complain bitterly about my situation. But it’s not ok. I don’t love that for myself. I can’t afford to be the victim.

Let’s have this come full circle. I’m taking the SAT, and every answer seems to be the wrong one. I look up, raise my hand. The proctor comes over, and instead of helping, slaps my hand down.

I’m not sure if the proctor is me, or my anxiety. We are one, existing in an air-tight world where I’m never advancing, never loving the moment, lost in worry.