The main thing I’m worrying about these days, oddly, is that, after six months of therapy, I’m not worrying about everything like I used to.
Which is supposed to be, you know, a good thing.
I literally worried myself sick, with the help of the Google machine, and WebMD.
Case in point: I once convinced myself that I had a rare strain of pneumonia that people get from being exposed to bat dung in caves.
And god forbid something good should happen.
Something good happening was just a setup for something really bad that was about to happen.
I couldn’t even leave home without thinking, well, this is the last time I leave home.
Every driver on the road was either drunk or texting or having a heart attack or just plain out to hit somebody head on.
Checking my email: also perilous. Somebody might be out to sue me for something that I wrote, something I said on a podcast.
I’m the most boring guy in the world, but what if the cops knock on my door and want to take me in for questioning for something I didn’t do?
What if the IRS says we’re not up on our taxes?
Is that what sent Al Capone to the slammer?
One of my puppy dogs might inadvertently scratch my carotid artery while giving me kisses.
The tree I’m sitting under on a Sunday afternoon while reading a book – maybe a branch falls and hits me in the head.
The really odd thing is, I lived the first 49 years and change of my life this way, and didn’t know that it was unusual.
I’m still coming around to the idea that I don’t have to fight against myself and against the world in my head every minute to be able to get to the end of the day.
The first epiphany to that end came not in therapy, but on an exercise bike.
I don’t know why, but the thought popped into my head, I feel like if I’m not worrying, I’m letting something happen, but the truth is, if I’m worrying, I’m making something happen.
I’d like to be able to say that this nugget of wisdom changed me that moment, but, no.
That was last summer. I’d say it’s only been the past few weeks that I’ve been able to allow myself to come to the realization that life isn’t out to get me.
I’m even allowing myself to be, gulp, happy.
Sometimes.
OK, a little more often than sometimes.
Baby steps.
I’ll get there.
Story by Chris Graham
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Chris Graham
