Don't worry. Be happy.

I worry.

Hmph. When stated so simply, it seems so non-threatening.

I assure you, though – that statement has pretty much dictated my entire life. In fact, I’m not sure the words “I worry” even fully encompass what I mean.

I dwell. I wonder. I obsess. I lie awake. I toss and turn. I play out scenarios. I tense. I am consumed.

Those are closer. To say that I worry is as big of an understatement as saying that Donald Trump has spare change.  I fall into the depths of the “what if” despair daily and although I am able to function quite normally, the knot in the pit of my stomach grows every day.

Examples.

We took Quinn to an amusement park – a bona fide amusement park – not one of those “put-together-by-rubber-bands-in-the-mall-parking-lot-carnival”  jobbies. A real amusement park, mandated by state laws and safety checks and thousands of satisfied , gleeful riders every day. He was completely un-terrified and wanted to ride every single ride, (including upside down ones) front car, every time. I was happy about this, considering I had spent the majority of my life too afraid to even get CLOSE to a roller coaster and never wanted him to know that kind of fear.

So, did I enjoy our day, as he exploded with joy and energy and fun, riding everything for which he was tall enough? Oh, no.

I worried.

What if the ride breaks? What if that hinge comes loose? What if the safety belt snaps? What if his harness isn’t tight enough? What will I do? Are there doctors on site? Where is first aid? Would it even matter?

My mind raced faster than any one of those coasters, totally irrationally.

And it isn’t only Q. I worry about people I don’t even know. God help us if we drive by someone homeless with a “feed me” sign. I can pretty much guarantee you that at some point, as I am lying in bed that night, I will wonder (and worry!) about whether or not someone fed that poor soul.

My family. My job. Stories in the newspaper. Weather. You name it, I will worry about it.

I have always been this way, but it has definitely gotten worse in the past 2-3 years, and because I knew it wasn’t healthy, I tried to fix it – did some yoga, practiced meditation, tried an herbal remedy and ultimately, saw my doc.

She says that this is completely normal in women ages 29-37 (obscure ages?) and that hormonally, we ebb and flow in the worry department. She says in a few years, I will likely “return to normal” which I find questionable, as I was never really ‘normal’ to begin with.

We are working together to discover a remedy to my angst, and I am hopeful that we will find it.

Until then, I will be over here, worrying about it.

J