Fear
I’ve been thinking a lot about fear. I am a fearful person. And that fear translates to worry. Worry, worry, worry. I have a friend who said once, “Fear is the opposite of good.” If that is true then much of my time is spent ruminating over that which is not good. It’s not just the current events that have me fearful, I’ve been this way for years. It’s mostly big stuff: war, poverty, cancer, death, injustice, gun violence, the future, space. I worry about not doing the right things in my relationships with people, mostly my family, but also friends, neighbors, anyone really, even strangers on the street. I worry a lot about not being a good enough mother. A new worry since I had my son: What will happen to him? Will he have a happy life? I would give my own for the assurance of this last thing.
During the Kosovo crisis in the nineties, I had a mini meltdown, something I tend to do whenever any events turn to violence. My friend said to me, “I thought you were a person of faith, isn’t faith supposed to help you with this stuff?” He was absolutely right, and I agreed wholeheartedly with his comment. Still, I remained paralyzed by fear. My faith does help me - the Catholic Mass, sacraments, and prayer change my mental landscape for the better on a regular basis. But I find I need more. I need to talk to my perennially optimistic husband. I need to enjoy my son’s witty conversation and bright smile. I need to nurture my relationships with my parents, sisters, and close friends. I need excellent coffee, brownies, exercise, sunlight, fresh air, a good laugh a visit to a therapist here and there, a glass of wine. I need to clean out a drawer, bake a cake, organize something. I need to help people who need it, give my stuff away, give my money away. I need to shop sometimes, buy cute new clothes. I need to listen to music, podcasts, books on Audible, see art, read beautiful writing in books, newspapers, magazines. I need to control my exposure to the relentless news cycle. I guess I need a team of experts to keep me sane, a bundle of comforting rituals, sort of like covering myself in a constant patchwork of weighted blankets. I realize many of these things are contradictory, but that’s the way it is for my modern woman self. As I write this, every self-help article I have ever read bubbles up. Do we all need these things, everyday, whether we think we do or not? I say yes, we all do.
Writing is a natural activity for the fearful. I found a long time ago that busying my over-productive fear machine mind with a made-up story, essay, journal entry, or poem is a very good tactic to quell the insistent nervous Nelly pounding on the door of my consciousness. My friend and writing partner, Laura, says the exact same thing, so I know it’s not just me. When I write something, I have something tangible to show for the mental gymnastics. If I didn’t busy myself this way all I would have are two hands with nails bitten down to the nub, my teeth ground down to stumps.
It doesn’t help that I tend to enjoy suspenseful, disturbing movies and books. Not like apocalyptic disturbing, just dark, like husbands trying to kill their wives or drive their wives insane, or anything about a haunted house or asylum. Last night, it was my idea to watch a movie about an literature professor in the former Soviet Union during the thirties who was sent to the Gulag for ten years for appearing to have an opposing political view. Even in the dirty despair of her imprisonment, a little girl offered her a bowl of fresh raspberries through the wooden slats of the train the arrested woman was loaded on in a heap of others in similar straits.
That bowl of raspberries. I get that. My bowl of raspberries is my gratitude list every morning. I got this idea from Oprah a long time ago, and it’s a simple way to force the mind back to the present, to the good that seems to always be there. It’s simple, but effective.
Fear is a constant reality in my life. I can’t get totally away from it, but I can manage it, if I keep trying, practicing habits that push all the bad thoughts away, for a little while at least.
