The Word of our Age?

a n x i e t y

I’ve been waking up at 3 am again.

It used to happen a lot, then it eased. Why it’s back, I don’t know — maybe the vibes are shifty. My eyes flutter open, I look at the clock but already know it will be sometime around three, and it begins: the living room rug pad needs attention, how is summer going to go this year, what about that mix — is it finished, why haven’t I heard from x, what’s going on with y, I should really get a new light fixture for John Henry’s room why haven’t I done that yet, why does it take me so long to get anything done, can I be honest about how I feel about that thing that’s been on my mind, what’s going to happen in twenty years, what will we do, where will we live, how will we live, who will help us get through life if so and so is not here, are we prepared, the attic needs cleaning out, do I hear the sump pump running in the basement, is it raining, should I get up and check to see if John Henry is still breathing?

I drop into doomsday thinking easily. I get frustrated when I notice what I’m doing — playing the worst-case scenario loop in my mind and ending up picturing my son and myself together but all alone, hungry, and bereft of comfort and safety — it’s the worst feeling and a downward spiral. My instinctive response to this kind of fear is to get controlling — focusing on the DETAILS because I know I can manage those when the big picture feels so out of order, making sure everything is clean, organized, uncluttered, checking and rechecking whatever; perfectionism rises as I push away my fear of the unknown, my fear of chaos. The good news is that I’m now noticing instead of obliviously continuing and telling myself I’m entitled to go rigid in the face of uncertainty. I stop myself and try to locate what sends me there.

I have such a hard time trusting myself. I guess that’s what anxiety is — a lack of trust that we’ll be able to take care of ourselves in a given situation. It makes me protect myself, which makes me closed off, which prevents intimacy, which makes most of the things that I’d like to feel — connection, joy, safety to be my authentic self — out of reach. It’s some deep stuff when I unravel it and see how I attempt to keep things from going pear-shaped. I began looking at how much gas was in the car when I was about four. I’d tell Mama we were running low if it was 1/4 of a tank or below. It’s funny, because I don’t remember us ever running out of gas, though we must’ve at some point. Or maybe it was that there was always just enough to get where we were going — Mama would coast into Earl Johnson’s store in the mornings on fumes and would sometimes have only a five-dollar-bill to contribute to the petrol needed to get her to work and us to school, some twenty-five miles away from where we lived. Maybe that made me nervous, I must’ve felt like we were always almost about to run out and would be stranded on the side of the road. A day late, a dollar short, Mama used to say. We got there somehow, but it felt like just barely. Ugh. Such worry and anxiety.

Everyone has it. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t slip in and out of it all the time these days.

But the thing is, I have WAY more than just enough to get where I’m going most of the time now. Everything is relative, of course, but things have changed since 1976, Frankville, Alabama.

Do I know that in my center? Apparently not. I’m still in fight or flight mode often and inappropriately so — not every situation requires that I go into a survival state. But I’m stuck there a good portion of my life. In some ways I still feel like that scared child who lived her life from a place of lack, a place of not having what she needed or at least being nervous she wasn’t going to get it, a place of needing insurance against the reality of being stranded on the side of the road or worse. I have to work at remembering that all is well in THIS moment and that’s really all we have. I have to work at remembering to slow down so I can keep some clarity on that. I have to work at remembering that my to do lists and organizer baskets aren’t going to keep it all nice and neat and within my sweaty, trembling hands.

The truth is, I have always been provided for in the essential ways, as has my son.

The truth is, we both are covered in abundance and barring several freak things that would have to happen in succession, we’ll figure out a way to be okay for as long as we’re on the planet.

The truth is, I borrow trouble from a future I have no real reason to believe will be troubled.

The truth is, even though I know all we have is now, I want to take care of tomorrow too because I’m terrified I’ll get there and won’t be ready. Ah — there it is. I don’t trust myself to be ready. I won’t be prepared and I’m going to fail the test. Well, who the hell is ready? No one!

More truth: I haven’t practiced surrendering it all enough.

Even more: I have to say the serenity prayer all the time.

Still more: I forget to do that too, and feel like I’m the only one who is nuts. I’ve put on a show of toughness and strength for so long, but I have deep anxiety about many things, have a hard time with chaos, and I know life is, on many levels, chaos. So I try to prevent disaster by concentrating on getting every little detail right so it maybe won’t hit us.

The most profound truth: It will. It will in some way. Disaster of some sort befalls us all. Those truths make me feel vulnerable, weak, incapable. PTSD rears its head and makes me question my abilities.

I am what I practice. And I practice many things — self-discipline is at the front of my mind. But I finally understand that my lack of calm and serenity isn’t going to be eradicated with more self-punishment or pushing myself into practices that feel like more work than I can handle. Instead, I’m starting to see that it’s the opposite. I can only soothe my anxiety with the practice of cultivating self-love, self-understanding, and healing.

I may be vulnerable, but another deep truth is that I am not weak and incapable. Anxiety tells us lies about ourselves.

For instance: I took John Henry to adventure camp in Colorado last summer. We had to drive three hours from the airport to where we would stay for a week, and I hadn’t prepared myself for the treacherous drive. I’ve been driving since I was 12 and could handle it, right? I hadn’t even considered the unfamiliar terrain (a familiar refrain — I can handle anything and don’t need to consider myself, least of all when serving others). Well, the drive was mountainous and the rental car had a low front right tire. I was alone with John Henry, and of course, all the possibilities started running through my head while my forearms and shoulders began to ache from keeping the vehicle on the road. Every time that low tire hit the thing that makes the grating you’re going off the road sound, I would cringe. I tried to breathe and not panic. I prayed. I prayed that the unseen hand that’s been on us since John Henry was born would guide us safely through one more day. I finally found a place to pull off the interstate and get some air for the tire. When I stepped from the car to the asphalt to use the air machine, a tire blew on the car parked beside us. It scared the hell out of me. Suffice to say, by the time we got where we were going, I was a mess. I was in serious self-doubt, talking myself into a self-defeating spiral with thought after thought about what a terrible mother I am and how I couldn’t handle a simple trip to Colorado on my own. (I know, I know). After I got John Henry to bed that evening, I had to find the wherewithall to remind myself that wait a minute, sister, let’s have some real talk — I’d figured out the entire trip by myself. I’d found the camp, vetted it, filled out form after form so John Henry could go, bought the gear he needed, booked a hotel, booked the plane tickets, booked the rental car, helped pay for the whole thing, and I had somehow gotten him there without so much as a scratch, the list goes on. And I’ve done things like that many times. I’m not incapable at all. I’m just stressed and forgot to put “prepare for a really tough drive you’ve never made before” on my to-do list, along with buying size 12 hiking boots and a large bag of gummy bears for the plane. Stress on top of stress makes even small events feel insurmountable.

I acknowledge that I’ve been in that state for years, maybe most of my life at least intermittently, and here’s where I begin to see the long-term effects of growing up with so much insecurity — it compounds with age if you don’t get yourself together. You start to wear down and stop bouncing back as quickly as you did before. I vascillate between dissociation and fragility. Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually stronger than ever and am starting to develop some real, honest, and clear-eyed trust for myself, but allowing feelings is risky business and makes me feel un-armored. Because I am. That’s the simple way to describe how living these days feels. I am without armor. The importance of self-love and healing is now the thing that is at the top of my to-do list. It has made itself known as the most important thing, lest the consequences continue to develop into things too heavy to brush off like I’ve always done — my anxiety will become debilitating, my control issues will be more damaging, and not only to me but those around me. This knowledge is an inconvenience sometimes — who has the time and resources to make healing oneself the priority? It can be challenging to balance the work with all the non-negotiable have tos.

Life is full. Some days it seems like too much, even on a general level. And I guess if we have enough of those days, we can start to vibrate with anxiety that every day will be overwhelming. I can be sure that plenty will be. But I can also be sure that I’ll very likely be okay. John Henry will be too. And though the details are important, my obsessions with order will not and do not save us. Exerting control will never affect the outcomes I’m most interested in positive ways. What will and what does, is a commitment to lifetime growth, more compassion for myself therefore for others, finding more JOY and FUN, laughing at the absurdity of things instead of being rattled by them, fostering deep connections with people and nature, nurturing my spiritual self, getting up everyday and vowing to beat back the beast of anxiety with all the valuable tools I’ve made time to put in my toolbox, and keeping that stressful response, the fight or flight response, in its place — reserved for real emergencies that really need me to use it.

If only I could get some sleep. I’ll figure it out or it will subside — to every thing there is a season.

I’m determined to leave my fifties a better version of myself than I started them. It’s hard to unsee what you’ve seen, and hard to unfeel what you’ve felt, so I’ve got my fingers crossed all of the seeing and feeling leads me to a more peaceful time. If nothing else, I’m asking questions, which I still think is a good thing. I reserve the right to change my mind on that, too.

One more thing: I want y’all to know I’m not beating myself up by writing about these things. I’m an artist, and it’s my job to reflect the things I find on my journey. I write, I make music, I make visual art, etcetera as a way of communicating. If anything, it relieves me to say how human I am after a lifetime of denying my right to be that. The only issue is that this is such a lifelong conversation — I feel like I pick up in the middle of it and end in the same place. Regardless, it’s what I’m doing right now. It feels right. This phase will turn into the next phase and that will turn into the next. I have my comfort zones like any artist, but I also like to turn those zones on their heads and push to find pathways to develop my thinking and therefore my work. Thank you for following my journey and thank you for listening. I’m developing a few other features for this platform, and I’ll probably start paid subscriptions in April. We’ll see how the plans go. Leave me a pledge if you are so inclined.

Sorry for the lack of audio on this one — I’m feeling a little under the weather and my voice is meh.

What I’m doing with watercolors at the moment — the one in the foreground is called wheel of thought. A work in progress, of course.

See y’all soon.

Lots of love,

Allison

---