I have something that has precluded me from writing. It actually precludes me from much more than that. It’s a knot in the pit of the heart of my soul’s stomach. It’s the ever-tied christmas light rope that only tightens with each tug in efforts designed for release. It is anxiety. It is depression.
This will be brief, for I am in the throws of questioning every menial decision in my entire life while simultaneously attempting to sweep in under the rug. I have both anxiety and depression. I have a friend that is a skilled pediatrician who also deals with depression, but when I spoke of my mix with anxiety is when his eyes widened. Many understand depression to certain degree. It comes and goes, but the anxiety is omni-present. This anxiety can wash over when I look at check out lines in Target. I wait and analyze. I finally dive in and choose a line only to be convinced that it was the worst choice possible. While this is a standard refrain for a stand-up comedian, it’s something far more sinister for me. Everything drips with butterfly effect. Every decision could be the thing that takes me down the wrong path in life. It’s that huge, but essentially that simple and it keeps me up most nights.
What if I wear the wrong shoes and I need to run to save my own life or another’s? What If I choose the wrong outfit and a job that would finally bring me an unknown level of professional happiness slips through my unknowing fingers? What if I cut someone off on the road and it’s their final straw before they do something awful or cause a wreck? I hate even talking about it. I honestly feel judged by the unknown. But it’s fine. So it goes, right?
I am audibly sighing and grunting while I finish this. It’s in the universe now. It had to come out at some point. Maybe it shouldn’t have been here. Maybe this is the only place for it, but it will at least be out of my hands once published and I can go on worrying about other things.