Is Worry Worth Writing About?
"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." Franklin Delano Roosevelt
I haven't been writing as much lately and have been trying to figure out what the deal is. I mean, this is normal for writers, I suppose. Writer's block, and all that jazz. Or, for anyone who does anything creative. Sometimes the juices just aren't a-flowin'. But, I think it's more that I've caught the worry bug, and I just don't like to put negative vibes out there, anywhere, for anyone. Today I realized though that if I don't put them out there, then they're just in here, in me, and that's the worst place of all.
Yesterday, there was a horrifying photograph in the Washington Post of a little girl who was burned in a Pakistani suicide bombing. I thought of NJ, of course, as any parent would think of their child. Anything that devalues the preciousness of life is disturbing to me now more than ever – sickening, paralyzing nearly. Yesterday when the train got to my stop, some drowning, heavy sadness physically overtook my body. I felt nauseous, and started crying as I was walking through the parking lot. Couldn't even wait until I got to my car. I hoped no one saw me.
The image of the little girl was awful, but it set free some oppressive heap in me that's been there for weeks – fear of anything bad happening to NJ, or my family, or, basically – me. What if I'm working too much, and not spending enough time with my family and that makes me sick, again? What if I'm not eating enough good stuff, and that makes me sick again? What if I need to exercise more (um, I mean, exercise at all, and yes, I do!), or give more, create more, love more, pray more? What if I'm waiting too long to get my ovaries out of my body, and that makes me sick? What if I can't have another baby and NJ never gets to have a brother or sister? What if I'm breathing wrong (not even joking)? What if it comes back? What if, what if, what if? This worry itself will make make me sick.
My friend, Ash, told me I should see a therapist after my surgery. It would be a lot to deal with, maybe more than I could prepare for, mentally. Maybe she was right. But can a therapist heal me better than God can? Talking is talking, and I'm being much too quiet. I know God is listening, and well, He's free.
A little Xanax never hurt anybody, either.
I haven't been writing as much lately and have been trying to figure out what the deal is. I mean, this is normal for writers, I suppose. Writer's block, and all that jazz. Or, for anyone who does anything creative. Sometimes the juices just aren't a-flowin'. But, I think it's more that I've caught the worry bug, and I just don't like to put negative vibes out there, anywhere, for anyone. Today I realized though that if I don't put them out there, then they're just in here, in me, and that's the worst place of all.
Yesterday, there was a horrifying photograph in the Washington Post of a little girl who was burned in a Pakistani suicide bombing. I thought of NJ, of course, as any parent would think of their child. Anything that devalues the preciousness of life is disturbing to me now more than ever – sickening, paralyzing nearly. Yesterday when the train got to my stop, some drowning, heavy sadness physically overtook my body. I felt nauseous, and started crying as I was walking through the parking lot. Couldn't even wait until I got to my car. I hoped no one saw me.
The image of the little girl was awful, but it set free some oppressive heap in me that's been there for weeks – fear of anything bad happening to NJ, or my family, or, basically – me. What if I'm working too much, and not spending enough time with my family and that makes me sick, again? What if I'm not eating enough good stuff, and that makes me sick again? What if I need to exercise more (um, I mean, exercise at all, and yes, I do!), or give more, create more, love more, pray more? What if I'm waiting too long to get my ovaries out of my body, and that makes me sick? What if I can't have another baby and NJ never gets to have a brother or sister? What if I'm breathing wrong (not even joking)? What if it comes back? What if, what if, what if? This worry itself will make make me sick.
My friend, Ash, told me I should see a therapist after my surgery. It would be a lot to deal with, maybe more than I could prepare for, mentally. Maybe she was right. But can a therapist heal me better than God can? Talking is talking, and I'm being much too quiet. I know God is listening, and well, He's free.
A little Xanax never hurt anybody, either.