What my life is

 

When I was about 24, I called my biggest brother and whined and woed about how my friends were traveling more often and making more money than me and just generally living more luxurious days and nights than I was.

 

Ten years later and what else is new, am I right? I kid, I kid, but then again not really.

 

My brother calmly listened during our decade-ago phone call, said "mm hmm, mm hmm," and finally said, "I'm hearing a lot of what your life isn't. But what about what it is?"

 

This has come back to me in years since; it was a gentle reminder to shift perspective and realize just how much our cup runneth over, especially in moments when we trend toward bellyaching.

 

This is not a commentary whatsoever about not being allowed to have problems in the face of basic needs being met. I could give you a whole laundry list of things I am carrying around with me right now, yet I am not interested in getting into the argument of whomever who lives wherever having it harder than me for obvious reasons.

 

I will say that I think a lot of those whomevers are better than I at measuring what their life is than what it isn't; in many ways they can be better than I at preventing their chin from dipping too low.

 

But again, I am not here to initiate or carry on that discussion.

 

I just want to focus on what my life is. You don't even have to read on, this is really just an exercise for me to feel better. So move along with your day, please, or if you so please, continue to read on. And, here we go:

 

What my life is

by the Daily Bailey

7/30/19

 

My life is a cat that snuggled next to me all night last night, save for a trip to his dining counter.

 

My life is texting my dad-joke-loving brother a bunch of groan-worthy memes.

 

My life is FaceTiming with my nine-year-old niece and thinking to myself, "Who on earth is this kid I am talking to??" loving her suddenly adopted grown up turns of phrase.

 

My life is organizing my closet full of my many clothes and realizing I have an outfit, a pattern, a wrap for all seasons.

 

My life is planning two weeks away later this year to see family, and deciding to pass on other opportunities for travel.

 

My life is reconnecting with an old friend, and texting on the daily with a pretty new one.

 

My life is tomatoes and cucumbers diced, salt and pepper sprinkled on top. Three birthday parties in one weekend and subsequent new Facebook friends the days following. Doing an hour long workout and only growling during the planks.

 

Chomping gum, some days mint flavored, others watermelon.

 

Aiming for my macro percentages and feeling like a boss when I get close.

 

My life is light beer more than craft beer, meat without bread. But raisin bread for breakfast, with butter because yum.

 

Pink toenails and red fingers. Two pairs of gold/silver sandals, one set of straps in a braid fashion, the other more of a rope.

 

Workouts inside with the occasional brave journey into the outdoor sun.

 

My life is reading, once again. Ahh, sweet love above this interaction with words on a page. How many years the paragraphs have lit my nights, why should I have ever suspected they were anywhere but just around the corner waiting for me to return?

 

My life is a car that is essentially empty of stuff!!!!!!!! Those who really know my shame around my messy vehicle can imagine how much healing breath this offers me. My life is a trunk full of empty tote bags, at least 50 in total, some probably on their way to Goodwill or to unsuspecting friends who will soon possess a little piece of me.

 

My life is being grumpy, frustrated, asking a lot of why, yet trusting that this will swing back into calm breeze and emotional ease.

 

My life is siblings who love their kids, make me laugh, and fight for better lives for us all.

 

My life is the partners of those siblings, who treat me like a friend, work tirelessly in their jobs, and brighten my brothers' lives so in a way I can't thank them for enough.

 

My life is a possible five mile walk in tremendous heat after work, and two girls who are willing to do this August race at a "let's just get it finished" pace. No pressure, just pals.

 

My life is a supportive partner who lets me cry like a toddler. Who, together with me after tears have been dried, marvels with me once again at the fact that I could not be more like this girl.

 

My life is Friday Night Lights season one, Tami and Landry and Riggins, oh my.

 

My life is blogging approximately once a week, which hasn't been the case in many moons.

 

My life is habitual scrolling of social media, with occasional scheduled breaks from the madness.

 

My life is jealousy of people I know, sheer excitement for others, impatience to plan and contentment to be in the moment, even though a lot of moments are grumpy.

 

My life is tickets to a LEGO pop up event, a Tegan & Sara show, vague pending dates with friends and couples.

 

My life is fizzy water in the fridge, chilling for my arrival home. Bubbles to snap at the surface and make my teeth grit together after the first shocking gulp. Hydration and community. People who love me and check in via text. People who encourage me in my fitness journey and rejoice with me every time I get some of my bravery as an airplane passenger back.

 

My life is more than enough lipstick, journals, books, dresses, swimsuits, deodorant sticks, dumbbells, shampoo options, DVDs, cross stitch projects, and songs in my phone to call upon for any mood or occasion.

 

And so many tote bags. My life is bag after bag after bag, inside which I can't collect fast enough the blessings being poured out always. Yes, always, even yes, when grumpiness and confusion are present. They each get a bag, too, and may they find friends to nestle with them inside the slouchy canvas, to whisper secrets to like kids at a sleepover, giggling as connection and kindness win out.

15 ways we can buoy each other up

 

1. Provide compliments. If you think a particular item of clothing flatters someone or you appreciate the way another person makes you giggle, say it. Don't keep it to yourself.

 

2. Be generous. Be willing to part with material things you're done with, pick up flowers to present to a host, offer to buy the first round at happy hour, or make a friendship bracelet. There are plenty of things we can do that don't even have to involve monetary usage, and countless ways to be creative with what we already have in order to brighten someone else's life.

 

3. When you think someone will like something -- a TV show, a musical artist, an ice cream flavor -- text them and let them know.

 

4. Avoid the jugular. Try to intentionally begin conversations without focusing on things you and the other person disagree on. There is always enough time to argue; make space for neutral topics and calm air.

 

5. Be honest when you're feeling down. It can only improve trust and camaraderie between people when you offer first to speak truly about what's on your heart. What's more, it can make a fearful person more brave to express their own struggles, and in voicing your personal heartache you help lance some of that poison that comes from keeping a thought a secret.

 

6. Suggest small actions. When someone tells you they're depressed or anxious, give them only a baby step of advice: walk for five minutes, drink one glass of water, change your clothes and go buy a soda. When you can, offer to join them.

 

7. Take care of yourself. Keep those fuel levels topped off and regulated, so you can more easily do the other things on this list. If you need a night off, say thanks for the invite and stay in and read that book, brother. If you need the opposite, speak up and ask someone to meet you for coffee to get you out of your isolated funk.

 

8. Put forth your utmost to have fun. If you're engaging in hobbies purely for the fact that they make you happy -- embroidery, running, talking to strangers -- people will take notice in a way that inspires them to conjure up their own joy. It's when we get competitive and do things for the feedback that it get hairy, but simple contentment is a wholesome goal to aim for.

 

9. Pray for people, talk to the universe on their behalf, send good juju or simply hope that others are having a good day. Wish them well from afar through a difficult work meeting, ask a higher power to assuage loneliness, and trust that they will be strong and capable in the face of their challenges, letting them know you're available to debrief later. 

 

10. Reach up. Help someone get an item down from a high shelf. Ask for a handhold to assist you when you've been sitting too long. Look up and see the sunshine so you can remember it's there and reflect it back off your face onto the people stuck in fluorescent sludge.

 

11. Put good out there, whenever you can. Fighting and irritation and hangriness are going to come visit us no matter what, so fill in those pockets in between with kind gestures, affectionate hugs and arm touches, and silly stories so that we all can live more balanced, knowing that rest will always return amidst the deserts of stress.

 

12. Let each other (and yourself) off the hook. Give yourself a cheat day with your diet. Forgive the person who didn't tip you. Let someone rant and rave at you about something trivial in their day just this once. No sense in counteracting all the little irritations with more irritation. You don't have to let everything go, but every once in a while, try letting something go. Remind yourself you're not a toy, and if you get wound up, others aren't necessarily going to come and release you; in some regard we are responsible for reducing our boil to a simmer.  

 

13. Try not to speak poorly of those who aren't in your presence. Recognize that your opinion can spread ill will to those who listen, and venting doesn't necessarily help you come around to believing that this person can change their behavior down the road. (I know this sounds REALLY preachy, and I was afraid to write this post because of that; just know I'm terrible at this piece of advice and I'm writing it so that I can hear it because I need to).

 

14. Surprise and delight. Again, this doesn't have to be costly, but where you can, catch people off guard in a good way. Let your employee go home early, bring a dollar store birthday balloon to a party, write a letter and smack some real postage on that sucker and see how good it feels to lick that envelope and mail out some happy. Lower your expectation of an enthusiastic reaction, and remind yourself that you're definitely making someone feel good.

 

15. Depart the harbor in hope. Expect easy seas, and keep faith that if things get rocky, we'll figure it out together. Be a champion for discovering and utilizing the skills of every last person in your crew. Help each other learn, mediate across tension bridges, and set sail with the triumph of knowing that you're going to do everything in your power to make sure all parties return safely and boy if we aren't going to at least try and enjoy our time untethered.

 

Be quick to grab those ropes when we dock, shake out lifejackets and tuck them under seats. Hydrate the seasick, guide disembarking children, and suggest the party not end here, tired and windblown at shore. Stumble your soggy boat shoes just a few steps further, and be sure to raise a toast to your newfound shelter; and to each other, for forming a team and weathering forward to solution. Cheers, Mates.

The facts of life (at this moment)

 

I am (mostly consistently) counting calories and sticking to a daily limit.

 

I am both finding myself jealous of other women's bodies as well as content with my own.

 

If I read for 10 minutes, I will fall asleep.

 

I have zero library fines.

 

Max wakes me up around 6 a.m. each day requesting scritches, and he bumps his head against mine. It takes me a few waking moments to figure out what's going on, but it is the best alarm.

 

Ice cold water is my jam while sitting at my desk during the day. I shiver and refill my bottle and recognize that my behavior is crazy.

 

I am working out with a personal trainer again.

 

My cross stitching activity has decreased, my reading has increased (as has my napping).

 

I got to see my family last week and it reset me in so many ways. Special and precious are they.

 

There are fresh sheets on my bed, which research shows increases the joy of entering slumber about six fold.

 

Four plus years in, Alex and I don't have a song, but we are considering Don't Worry Baby by the Beach Boys and Dire Straits' Romeo & Juliet.

 

I frequently have no idea what I'm doing with my life. At times this feels like a free canvas that is MINE, at others it feels like the GPS of my heart is not available.

 

I feel politically apathetic, and I bet if people knew that they'd be upset.

 

I feel, as I have for the vast vast majority of my life, that probably nothing is in my control. Yes, I can make my own decisions, free will freshman philosophy discussion blah blah, but I don't ever believe that my final call determines the final call, if that makes sense.

 

Michelob Ultra has 2.3g of carbs and this pleaseth me.

 

I believe in time I will complete the LA Times crossword I began a week ago.

 

A large stack of books sits above my bed, and I wondered as I built the tower if they would hurt me while toppling in an earthquake. I did not, however, relocate the pile.

 

I recently sat next to a pilot on a flight to Denver, and his kind, chatty presence helped me tremendously in the face of my air travel anxiety.

 

My five-year-old nephew is fearless in the swimming pool, and I am baffled by this.

 

My parents finally donated my brother and I's trumpet, the one that got lugged through knee deep snow, five days a week from approximately 1994 - 1999.

 

If you sleep on the day bed in Mom and Dad's basement, it is very dark save for a light on the DVD/VCR combo.

 

It is difficult for me to get a lot of protein in my diet. I do not crave it. Minus runny eggs. I do crave a leaky yolk. Even though I think the protein is in the whites? See? Not easy.

 

Others might disagree, but I feel that this summer as a whole has been less oppressive than the last few in LA.

 

I struggle to read or watch anything that is highly or widely recommended, because the pressure is too much.

 

A pair of adorable cross stitch bibs are on my Amazon wish list, but I am refraining from adding them to my cart.

 

I am trying to turn a mental corner with some people in my life who don't seem to take an interest in me. Trying to move forward without resentment and ill will; just recognizing that the connection isn't there, disappointing as it may be.

 

Last night I bought beets and corn, tuna and Spaghettios.

 

I think my Instagram account isn't working properly, as it appears I am losing several followers, and when I add someone as a friend, hours later it looks as if I never requested them.

 

Tonight I could exercise, read, stitch, shower, sleep, or go see a friend who's in town. I couldn't tell you what I will select to do.

 

A friend who I haven't known long but feel quite connected to is on her way back from Europe. I look forward to hikes and happy hours with her (and will resist pouncing on her schedule right away, as she probably needs to get past the jet lag and, I don't know, maybe wants to see her boyfriend first).

 

My mama fixed my pink sweater and I am so joyful.

 

I have gum at home, but I wish I had some on hand to chew right now.

 

It has been warm in LA, and we sweat when we walk, but we walk on our breaks anyway. Because we can, and it is motion, and it is sun.

 

I find myself holding onto clothes rather than getting rid of them. I tend to have a binge-purge/shop-donate pattern about me, and I find that if I just wait a bit I will re-appreciate clothing that I may be tired of now. Also I am trying to be gratefully aware of all that I have and get comfortable with living in that which is already provided.

 

A friend picked her wedding palette, and I am so excited to find a textured dress to wear in the woods as she moves her life forward into a union that is already so full of love.

 

I have no patience when it comes to waiting to plan special events for my people, and I can't wait to celebrate this cutie pie, kind, beautiful bosslady bride.

 

I am shivering as I type this, something Alex would notice before I if he were here by my side. Our companionship is so easy it feels like the sea; calm waves meeting outside a boat, taking shade in her sails. Afternoon warmth glimmering between mast and fabric, sparkling contentment on our heads as we share the silly details of our day. A younger me feared I would grow bored from the simple things, but today's me says this off-menu item was exactly what I meant to order. And to this I say thank you.

When the reader loses her place

I went to the library during my lunch break today, after paying a large amount of fines to get my patron status back to "good."

 

I checked out some classics, some kids' literature, a book about finance and a guide to vitamins. I got back to my car and wanted to read right then and there, for the rest of the afternoon. But alas, it was time to return to work.

 

I texted Alex about my haul, and told him I'm unsure I'll read even one of them in full, or even start most of them. I had a great time picking them all out, couldn't stop myself from growing the pile in my elbow even higher, all the while knowing that I may simply return them in a few weeks, untouched and undiscovered. My brain bounced between feeling guilty for the risk of building more fines, then over to a place of happily picturing myself doing what I once did on the daily: read.

 

My text conversation with Alex turned quickly from silly to sad. He said he could relate to reading voraciously for years and today not being quite as interested. I explained that sometimes it feels hard to read, as if there is too much pressure to finish a book or enjoy something that was recommended, so much that it feels almost as if I've forgotten how to read. What was once nearly instinctual has become a chore, something that other people do but I can no longer keep up.

 

This all sounds dramatic, I'm sure. But it's hard when you lose a piece of your deeply dug habits, especially when you never saw it coming. 

 

From about the time I graduated college until a few years ago, I read every night before bed for 30 minutes or more. Every night, minus those few evenings a year when exhaustion won out. But mostly I fought sleep to get words into my head. Numbered pages were my most important meal of the day.

 

***

 

It's true, according to Goodreads, that I've read 40 some books this year. But most of those were picture books and most were read in the first few months of the year. Since then? Basically nada.

 

Last year I had a brief love affair with the New Yorker. Read it with giddy glee...for about three weeks, then I let the subscription take my money until I finally faced the music that this wasn't meant for the long term and cancelled my payments.

 

When we shoot pool, Alex jokes that I'm usually good to play for about 40 minutes, then I lose interest. He's not wrong; I switch off with no warning or reason, and I wonder why the beer-advertising lamp above the table is still lit since clearly I'm done. Shouldn't life be on our schedule?

 

In my mid-twenties I ran three to six miles a day at least five days a week. For a whole year. Outside in 90 degree humidity, on a treadmill indoors when snow caked the curbs of the 24 Hour Fitness parking lot.

 

Then I went to graduate school, ran a few times in the first month of classes, and ultimately stopped. I managed to train for and run a half marathon a few years later -- when I was unemployed, of course. What else is there to do when you don't have a job? -- but since then? I've never run more than six miles at a time, and it always feels like a fluke when I do.

 

***

 

So what's with all this giving myself titles, and being upset when the nametag loses its stick and flutters into the trash can? For years, I called myself a "runner," a "writer," a "reader," without hesitation or feeling as if I needed to flex my credentials for people to believe me. Today I find that others don't seem to be too concerned whether or not the amount I participate in something qualifies me as a member of the team, but I am quick to correct them if they assign me as more heavily committed to a hobby than I really am. I only want credit if I'm currently established and obsessed. Otherwise don't group me into a family; I haven't earned the kinship.

 

Did I mention this probably sounds dramatic?

 

What I've learned -- in this process during which I am still learning -- about breaking up with a hobby is that it is a little dramatic. Because there is a grieving season involved. But also, I wonder if the separation is maybe natural, and furthermore, perhaps a blessing. Or at least not that big of a deal. Not something to cry about, even though we do.

 

I used to read all the time, now I don't. What's the big deal? People still by and large think that I'm smart. At least I hope they do. I never felt as if I needed to read the classics to prove myself, so why do I care now when someone says, "You HAVE to read Ready Player One!," that I can't get myself to focus long enough to get through chapter one?

 

I mean for crying out loud, SO WHAT??

 

So...well, that was me. And I thought without even really thinking about it that it would always be me.

 

And I think there's the key, to the blessing I was talking about. To the not-that-big-of-a-deal piece.

 

Being "a reader" is not who I am.

 

I want it to be a big part of who I am, but even when it was a big part of who I was, it was never the full me. Reading has certainly shaped me over time, structured my knowledge base, peppered the tidbits of Julie Andrews memoir trivia I offer up at parties.

 

No one ever asks for Julie Andrews memoir trivia, so it is up to one's self to get it out there in the world.

 

I want to be a reader, or at least someone who reads frequently, but why? Why exactly is this so important to me?

 

Your guess is as good as mine.

 

But I think the thing to realize is that we are never going to be the things that we do. And we are ever changing in the degree to what we do and how vigorously or seriously we do them. When we are students, we do a lot of coffee drinking and highlighting and complaining. When we are new parents, we do a lot of teaching babies to moo and quack, we refill a lot of sippy cups, we enforce a lot of bedtime. When we are faced with illness or trauma or fear, we do a lot of crisis containment, a lot of catching our breath, a lot of saying, "I love you."

 

Do you ever think back to a time, even in the last several months, when something had you tangled and trapped with worry? And realize, Hmm. I'm completely past that now.

 

We are never (exactly) the same as we were before or as we will be later, but we are always here, and of value. I think the struggle is trying not to get too attached that we used to "be a runner" and now we're simply "someone who runs." It's not easy, especially with over-achieving, success-driven American standards flowing through our water source, but I think part of growing up (or at least, part of my life, personally, right now) is learning to recognize that we still hold meaning and purpose, no matter what, where, or when.

 

***

 

I have been rethinking calling myself "a writer," as it seems that anytime I sit down with the intention of writing something for publication, I cry.

 

No, literally. I cry.

 

I get cranky watching Alex type type type away next to me, and I pull out stationery from my bag and write notes to my nieces and nephews, most of whom can't read.

 

Because that's easier. And makes me happy, whereas forcing myself to do something because I should, because it's my destiny, is not.

 

One of my bestest friends recently told me that no matter how much I do or don't write, I have still affected several lives in positive ways without even filling a well with ink. It was sobering and novel to hear that.

 

And frankly? Freeing.

 

Another friend said she loves my words, but that she loves me more. "Because you are your words," she said.

 

Anything I put on a piece of paper is borne from Bailey, the ever-changing person who sometimes runs, sometimes reads, sometimes cries and wanders and babysits and crafts and makes messes and cleans them and avoids confrontation and boldly speaks her mind.

 

It's all me. None of it is fully me. But all together it is me.

 

***

 

It's still hard to know that a dozen paperbacks are baking in my passenger seat right now. Hard because I know I may not read them. I may accrue fines and pay them in shame and wonder why I even visit the library in the first place.

 

But then I remember why: because I love that place. The library gives me peace, quiet, opportunity to come into communion with sentences of letters that match the codes in my heart.

 

I remember the tiny, crowded branch in Colorado that offered safety during thunderstorms. I remember the carrels where I would tuck myself to do algebra, treating myself after to a trip down the Babysitters' Club aisle. I remember collecting quarters from Mom to buy animal crackers at the café, then her collecting me from my studies to take me to confirmation class.

 

I have spent much of my life in libraries, in bookstores, in musty smelling pages that disappointed when Rhett snubbed Scarlett but lifted when Jo found her way.

 

I have checked out more books in my time than I have read; this is a fact. In fact, this is basic math. We are consumers driven to get more more more, and it's not my fault the public system allows me to have 30 titles at once. We have been pretty well trained to take on more than we can maintain. This is 21st century first world life.

 

I have no idea where I'm going with all this, but here might be part of my point:

 

When I was shopping today for my volumes of free words, I felt, at least in part, good. In the face of knowing I may not read them, I didn't put them back. I took them to the counter and complimented the coffee mug of the page checking me out. She offered to renew my titles on the front end so that I wouldn't have to worry about it later, and with a little faith I said yes please.

 

Once upon a time I was a reader.

 

Today I am tucked somewhere in chapter 34, decorating a nightstand in a room where a cat sleeps. Trying to figure out what I'll say next. Getting those words just right before sending them out into the world.

 

Meanwhile being relevant, being a friend, being a girl who, sometimes, reads. And what a gift that I know how, so someday sometime I can meet some friendly words who right now are waiting eagerly in the stacks for just the right moment to say hello and feed my spirit.

The Privacy of Anxiety

 

My parents have two cats. One petite with a belly, the other ginormous. I love to pick both of them up, even though Petite squawks in complaint and Ginormous scrambles to get down. I can't help but pick up all felines I encounter. It is deep, deep in my DNA to do so.

 

Whenever I pick up Ginormous and he scrambles, my dad reminds me that his favored animal is a "ground squirrel." Dad believes there are two categories of house pets: ground squirrels and tree squirrels. The latter are OK with being held up high, the former need a steady footing to be content with a lift off the ground.

 

It has taken me some years to figure it out, but after several anxious vacations on cruise ships, many squeezes of Alex's arm on airplanes (or, when I'm flying solo, squeezes of strangers' arms), and a couple of recent earthquakes, I now know for certain: I am a ground squirrel.

 

I like my steady footing. I want the surface beneath me to remain still, solid, supportive and trustworthy.

 

Roller coasters? Not a problem. Those are designed to move along a planned, tangible track, and they have constraints to hold one along the course.

 

Karaoke? I'm on it. I've been acting silly in front of others my whole life, and the possibility of missing a Celine high note will only cause me to giggle with barflies afterward; I won't, rather, question if the break in continuity has affected my safety.

 

***

 

I've found myself inside several private anxieties recently, and it really has me thinking about this fact that we so often keep worries to ourselves.

 

There are so many reasons, for me anyway, to decide to keep things quiet instead of air them out:

 

Sometimes I'm afraid that if I speak my fear, the person who hears it will confirm that it is based in fact. Worse, they may do this in a callous manner that makes me feel as if I am wrong for worrying at the level that I do.

 

Other times I fear that speaking it will cause my listener to become anxious herself, about something she wasn't previously giving thought or energy to. I don't want to bring others down with me.

 

And sometimes it's just downright embarrassing to admit that I'm scared about something, especially if it's irrational or out of my control, or both. When my brain is on repeat, I doubt that others will understand why.

 

***

 

Over the years, I have feared: earthquakes*, fires, floods, tornadoes, plane crashes, sinking ships, nuclear war, cursing people via my negative thoughts, intrusive violent thoughts, suddenly becoming schizophrenic, etc.

 

*(Even when I lived in Kansas).

 

Yeah, I'm a real treat at parties. I don't ever damper the mood of the room.

 

I have been in seasons of very intense anxiety in my life. I have felt shaky, physically uneasy, for days, or weeks at a time. I have feared that God would smite me, even though in other times I felt exactly the opposite -- that I am loved and precious, forgiven and whole.

 

A few things break through the stubborn, crusty surface of terror -- social gatherings, easy chores, creative crafting, and of course the strongest and most reliable: a good, hearty laugh. As Anne Lamott says, "Laughter is carbonated holiness." So incredibly true are her wise, reviving words.

 

And, I am slowly learning, that time is the most proven catalyst to pass us through our tortured streams of thought.

 

Graciously, my seasons of extreme unease have always passed, sometimes overnight, sometimes just...I don't even know when or how -- it just lifts like vapor.

 

I'm not kidding, though, when I say that some of my seasons have lasted entire years. Of course there were moments in there where I felt a little more calm, silly, regular. But take me back to a moment of isolation, insomnia, or boredom, and wham! Right back at Square DEFCON One.

 

***

 

Here's the other curious thing about all this: we so often look, seem, and act like we're fine, even when we're not. Sometimes especially when we're not. I've lost count the number of people who have marveled at how put together I am, once I open my vulnerable mouth and start showing them my insides, messy just like theirs.

 

"But you're so well-adjusted, so high functioning."

 

Yup.

 

And there's the rub.

 

And the survival.

 

I'm not saying that hiding behind fears is how to get through something, in fact absolutely not. I think step one is always to find your safe people, who won't discount your feelings, won't shame or mock you, when you bring your skittish, scaredy cat pieces to them, sometimes 100 or a thousand times over.

 

But I do think that sometimes the best thing we can do for ourselves is to do what we would do on any other, not-anxious (or less-anxious) day. Throw in a load of laundry. Pay your gas bill. Floss your teeth.

 

And get around people.

 

For me, when I get very frightened, I literally tighten up, scrunching my limbs as close to my core as possible. I'm a ground squirrel, though I may seem like a flailing, brave, karaoke-singing tree squirrel. And I can tell you from years of depression and anxiety and boredom and agitation that isolation is nevvvvvvvvvvvver the answer.

 

Ya hear me? Never.

 

***

 

After Friday's earthquake, Alex snuggled me for a long time and I told him I didn't want to be away from him, even in the kitchen while he was in the living room. I had left tomatoes half-peeled when the foundation underneath us gave way, and I needed to finish that soup (which I did, eventually, and we tried not to fall asleep in our bowls of it at 11 p.m.).

 

"The only time you get to be brave is when you're scared," Alex said, bolstering his belief in me that I could return to chopping veggies (as well as offering to come be near me and help cook).

 

"What is this, a Pixar movie?!" I retorted.

 

"Yes. Yes it is."

 

***

 

Here's the thing. I hate being scared. Always have. I'm sure you do, too. Even if you love horror movies and haunted houses, something at some point gets you out of your tough shell of safety. I hate -- we hate -- uncertainty. The fact that anything, anyone, could be taken from us at anytime is the worst.

 

Cue Jean Ralphio: the wooooooooorst!

 

But here we are: Living. Paying our gas bills. Texting each other to make sure we have food and water on hand, saying we're scared, and then picking up a bag of chips to take to that backyard BBQ we were invited to before all this anxiety interrupted everything.

 

I honestly don't know where I'm going with all this. Part of this is simply me journaling out the thoughts I've been carrying around since Approximately Wednesday.

 

I suppose my takeaway for you is similar to all my other takeaways, when I get on my preaching box: find your safe people. Speak the privacy of your anxiety. You don't have to vocalize it constantly, and for goodness sake at some point we literally have to force the conversation away from current affairs and back into Seinfeld quotes. Always revert to 90s sitcoms when you can; that's another piece of the survival pie.

 

It is an awful mystery to be so alone and so similar to each other all at once.

 

But wait for the break. Wait for the break in your fear, in your ache, in your financial drought, your loneliness, your grief, your boredom, your whoops-I-drank-too-much-coffee hyperactivity.

 

She'll come. And one day you'll find yourself in the kitchen peeling tomatoes and you'll notice, Hey. I'm all good. And you'll lift a head in thanks, dry your hands and scuttle to the living room to plant a peck on the cheek of a Someone who helped get you through.

 

The break always comes. And safe people are holding hands in a chain around the perimeter, ready to catch you in a game of Red Rover.

 

Red Rover, Red Rover, send Mercy right over.

 

We've got this. Just keep catching each other, y'all. And notice our friends on the sidelines, who haven't been invited to play. They may have a secret just like yours.

 

Xox,

Bailey and Max