I’m my friends’ crazy girlfriend, a yellow-spined, white-faced, blue-tufted worry-warbler who always fears the worst--things like lying in bed deathly ill for one hundred years; being shamed, scorned and rejected by small animals; being so weak I would succumb to doing something awful and get caught in the act; waking up to the thunderous sound of dozens of ants crawling in my ears; or getting food poisoning from chocolate bits in my favorite ice cream.
It’s written in books and magazine articles, even in the Bible, that worrying is wrong. It must be wrong, because of the volumes of writing containing a zillion ideas for how to stop worrying, and I well know what will happen to my health if I don’t stop!
I'm so worried about my worrying, I’ve tried everything to stop worrying: drugs to sleep; tranquilizers to relax; medications to keep away the highs and lows; meditation and yoga to quiet my mind; projects to distract me; praying in bed, in churches, and in the car on my way to everywhere; handing “it” over to whatever invisible entities might be lurking out there —Jesus, God, angels, the Mother Mary, or friends and relatives who’ve passed on to the other side; and reading self help books, religious books, and magazine articles. I regularly surf the Internet and watch TV shows to learn all about everything that worries me, hoping that knowledge of each worry will alleviate my fears. It doesn’t.
I still worry—always. And somehow, it all adds into the mix--the rich, deep texture and color, fragrance, flavor, and melody—that is my life. I embrace it all, and that really worries me!
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