As my partner and I prepare for our first getaway in two decades, I should be buzzing with excitement. Yet, my mind has other plans. Instead of reveling in the anticipation, it’s racing through a series of potential disasters, from minor inconveniences to catastrophic events. I am a chronic worrier, and this is my everyday reality.
With our flight just two days away, while most people would be thrilled at the thought of travel, my focus shifts to the looming 48 hours where anything could go awry. As I mentally catalog what to pack, I find myself replaying every surface I’ve touched recently. I recall a news segment highlighting the surge of flu cases. Did I use hand sanitizer after my last gym session? Did I disinfect the shopping cart during my last grocery run? What if we catch something before we leave, or worse, what if our children fall ill? They’re exposed to a myriad of germs at school. A simple cough is manageable, but a stomach bug? Our tickets are nonrefundable; we can’t back out, yet I can’t fathom leaving my mom to care for a house full of sick kids.
Speaking of my mom, she will be watching our children for an entire week. While she possesses decades of experience and has successfully navigated raising my siblings and me, my anxious mind won’t let go of its worries. She may have handled the chaos of child-rearing with ease, but now she’s in her “book club and cat lady” phase. Does she still have the stamina to manage four active kids? Will they listen to her, or will their bickering drive her up the wall? Have I prepped enough meals to ease her burden?
Then, as is often the case, my thoughts spiral into darker scenarios. I fret about my mom struggling with the kids, but what if something happens to my husband and me during the flight? What if our lives are cut short and she’s left to raise our children? What if she can’t cope, and they end up in the care of strangers? Are our affairs in order? Do we have sufficient life insurance to cover their college aspirations and their obsession with costly basketball shoes?
I can almost see my luggage tags floating in the ocean, the last remnants of my existence, while my children grow into troubled adults after being shuffled from one household to another following our untimely demise. I even envision relatives rifling through my belongings and stumbling upon items I’d rather keep private, sending me into a cold sweat.
I acknowledge that the scenarios I conjure are often irrational, and my anxieties are largely unfounded. (Just as I type this, my mind chimes in with, “The last victims of a plane crash didn’t foresee it either,” to illustrate its tenacity.) Yet, there’s a flawed logic in my worry; by anticipating disaster, I feel somewhat prepared. It’s a misguided form of insurance against the unknown.
I worry about everything, from mundane issues like a flat tire to extreme fears like global conflict or harm coming to my loved ones. I know that this anxiety won’t alleviate real-life challenges, whether they occur or not, and I’m likely just adding undue stress to my life (Oh great, now I’m worried about ulcers or a heart attack!). Yet, the worry remains.
Living with such an overactive mind is draining, forcing me to navigate life under a constant veil of vague threats. It’s a perpetual fight-or-flight response. It often robs me of sleep since my brain thrives in silence. I’ve adapted to this state, much like one does to an uncomfortable situation without realizing its severity. But I can’t help but ponder how much better my life could be with some professional guidance. Surely, it would be a significant improvement. I plan to seek therapy once we return from our trip—assuming, of course, that our plane remains airborne.
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Summary:
The piece explores the challenges of being a chronic worrier, detailing the author’s anxious thoughts surrounding an upcoming vacation and the various fears that accompany everyday life. It highlights the struggle of managing anxiety and the desire for professional help while acknowledging the irrationality of many worries.