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
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