Anxiedote

Please accept my apologies if your problem is depression. Depression is my problem too, but not today. Today my problem is anxiety, and also tiny little bumps on my forehead. Not a rash, just a buch of little blech I hate the word - whiteheads, or maybe hardheads - that I keep patchkying (messing) with, causing them to make a slight barely visible scab. They perpetuate themselves like a little colony of chorale singers calling to me every day: you are skanky, in the chipmunk voices. They're little and irritating in every way. Yes, that's anxiety for you. It permeates every pore.

I am naturally anxious about my anxiety and I hold onto it as if it is my life raft and without it I will drown in the misery of acknowledging real feelings and the slow mild mediocrity of life. Anxiety is fast, pert, I-can-do-anything type stuff, without the mania that is probably not in this category, although I have nothing against mania per se. It's just that my anxiety remains within the realm of the real so that there's no one to tell me that my goals are unrealistic: I can stay up for hours working; I should worry about my job; I could do a little better; my mom might need a phone call; there is too much laundry waiting. Must remember to worry more! Picking at my forehead as I consider this reminder.

One useful trait in anxietiacs is that we can multi-task our thinking. I can drive to work and plan my day. No sweat. I can drive to work, plan my day, talk on my cell, and work out a lesson in my head. I can drive to work, talk on my cell, plan my day, work on a lesson, and worry about stuff all at once. In the middle of multi-thinking - as opposed to multi-tasking - I'll realize I haven't been back to the dentist to deal with that old filling. By the time I am at work, I have heard the headlines, said good morning to a couple people, figured out what I will do when I first enter the building, and finally learned all of the lyrics to Tracy Chapman's obscure song about a sailor.

Some days I get the anxiety hangover. Same ride to work. Radio's going but I can't concentrate on it. Houses slip past. Squirrels stop by and I roll down the window to chat. I call my mother. "Hi, Honey," she says, in a vaguely southern accent. I have the idea that I am heading toward school, but the anxiety shift to my stomach has changed my speed to such an extent that I almost think I'm depressed. But I'm not. I'm happy as a clam. Just bored, or even a wee bit boring. No fast music, or multi-thinking, just a gal in a car going to her job. It's a relief from the tension, but then it's a bit of a downer, too. Not to fear: this little anecdote has a happy ending. The anxiety always returns! I have hundreds of things to do, my mind races, I talk quickly, and I worry about each item in overlaps, in triples and quadruples. Right now I am worried about staying awake to do work, managing my arguing children, editing this writing, scheduling my writing group, doing the laundry and remembering the phone calls I hafta return. See? I'm okay. And I'm just about to pick at my forehead.