Gazing Comma Navel

MOTH thinks I am a pessimist, because I am constantly worrying about what could happen or what did happen or what what's currently happening might mean. It really bothers me that he would see me as so negative, because I don't want to be seen that way. Other than a brief period in college, for which I blame too many Melissa Etheridge videos, I have never wanted to be that dark, twisted, damaged person. (I have, however, often wanted to date that person, which is another topic all together.)

I maintain that I am an optimist, because I do see all those negative, worrisome possibilities and yet continue to move forward. I got married, I had a kid, I went back to school, I moved across the country, I left everything I knew and started over. And I was terrified about all of those things, but I did them anyway. I think that's optimism. Not that everything's going to be OK, but that it might not be, but I'm going out there anyway. It takes a certain amount of faith in the universe to walk out your front door when you're fairly certain that the hive under the garage is full of killer bees, you know?

Part of what I've had to come to terms with about my own anxiety is that it's always going to be there. It's not something I can just will away. I don't mean that in a defeated way, but that I have learned that I have to figure out how to manage it rather than spend my energy trying to fight it. I try very hard not to indulge it, but sometimes I only manage to tread water when I want to swim. So I don't get into panic mode, but neither do I relax and enjoy the moment. It's like I'm out there on the surfboard, crouching, not being knocked down, but I can't stand up and ride the wave, either. (What's with all the ocean/water metaphors? DON'T KNOW. I am not an ocean person...I've watched Shark Week, you know. Murky depths are not my scene.)

One of the questions my therapist posed for me last week was about living in the present. Being in the moment. Now, my therapist is a little, as my friend C says, "dream-catchery," but she's not wrong here. I struggle with being able to be present and relax in the moment and not think about what just happened or what might happen or what could happen IF I LOOK AWAY FOR A SECOND AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE CONSTANT VIGILANCE!! The way my brain works, I'm able to see all these possibilities in every moment--good and bad, but why spend energy worrying about the good, right? When I could be dedicating myself to anticipating every possible negative ripple and preparing for each?

What a weird way to live, right? And I'm not, like, constantly miserable or anxious or anything. It's just that I'm seldom really relaxed, either. I have trouble feeling like this, whatever it is, is "enough" in any given moment. There's always something I'm missing out on, something I should be doing, something I need to be thinking about. My hamster-wheel of a brain is always turning, and I keep running, like the thought of just getting off has never occurred to me.

I sort of manage to do this with Tankbaby. I mean, he's just so darn delectable and fun and all-encompassing that I do sometimes find myself just reveling in his sweet, weird babyness (see also: mondo kisses instead of bedtime). And sometimes, when I'm reading a book with him or walking around the neighborhood, I'm wholly there, sucking it all up. But, probably more often, I catch myself thinking about how big he's getting, imagining him as an older kid, worrying about weaning, trying to figure out if I want another, etc. And, as my therapist would point out, whenever I do that, I leave--at least in some way--the present that I'm in.

Weirdly, I was very much about living in the moment when my mom was sick and I was around her. Because it was too painful to remember the blissfully ignorant past, and even more frightening to think about the future, I actually did manage to stay very much in the present when I would visit her. Even sitting in the chemo room, I was just...there, making jokes and being slightly uncomfortable and trying to make personal connections with the nurses. And then we'd leave chemo and go to a play or go home and make dinner, and I just kept taking it moment by moment. However, I don't think that's quite the same thing, as it came less from a Zen place of acceptance and more from a white-knuckled terrified denial. I wasn't relaxing in the moment, I had it in a choke-hold, because it was all I could handle.

One of many lines I love in Suzanne Finnamore's Otherwise Engaged is when one character, imitating Deepak Chopra says, "If you think of your mind as a seething serpent, why would you walk toward it?" Or our inimitable Anne Lamott, who says, "My mind remains a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone." These two quotes pop into my head when I think about meditation, and the idea of just sitting quietly with my hamster-wheel brain makes me roll my eyes. But I keep considering it, because I've gotta learn a way to quiet the shoulds and coulds and maybes and whatabouts and whatifs. And I don't drink, so blackouts are right out. What's left, you know?

I'm not done thinking about this, but I am done writing about it. For now. Head-shrinking again this Wednesday, maybe I'll have be awarded with great clarity. Or possibly a root beer. Both sound nice about now.