A Sobering Realization

Those who know me may or may not be surprised to know that I have anxiety.  It’s never been diagnosed (outside help? in this economy?) but I feel that I’ve done enough research on my own and, you know, lived my life long enough to know what I’m dealing with.  And I’ve always taken pride in and been relieved that whatever is going on in my head is not enough to keep me from living my life.  Now I’m not so sure about that.

I had a long conversation with a coworker today.  This conversation has been coming for a while and was one of those times when everything that has been bottled up for too long comes out.  We went over all the ways we’ve clashed in the past months and tried to explain our very different viewpoints.  I admit that I went into the conversation thinking I was the only wounded party, but I hope I’ve moved all the way past that now.  But even as I was trying to defend myself without excusing myself, I realized that my explanations for my actions all went back to anxiety.

I don’t communicate well with others because it makes me anxious if I think someone is upset or angry with me.  I imply that I don’t trust others because I really don’t trust myself.  I do things myself because it’s easier than asking someone else to do it and maybe having to confront them.  All these things—most of my failings at work, in fact—come out of my attempts to protect myself from that sick feeling in my stomach, from the tightness in my chest, from the frantic racing of my thoughts.  And it makes me wonder what else in my personality is formed by the fear that is never far from my mind.  Do I write letters because it’s the easiest way to reach out to others?  Am I so eager to make it as a writer because the only safe job seems like one in which I can stay home?

It’s a hard thing.  Everyone wants to think that they’re in control of themselves, if not of their whole life.  And it’s miles easier to blame others than yourself for your problems.  But I can read over my arguments in the texts—and yes, this conversation happened over text, which is also telling—and I can see the repetition for myself.  Everywhere that there was a problem, it came back to just one thing.

It’s disheartening, and it scares me a little bit.  I do think that good things come out of my anxiety—it makes me sensitive to others, and it teaches me to be careful.  Too careful?  Too sensitive?  Maybe so, though I never thought so before.  But what worries me most is, does having so much of myself built by a weakness, make me weak, too? 

I hope not.  I’m learning as I get older that the more one knows oneself, the more positive of an impact one can have on the world.  I’m hoping that this is just one more step in my education about myself.  I’m hoping that having seen the faults in my own personality, I can tread more carefully and work around them.

I have a prayer for this that I’ve been repeating more and more as time goes by.  It’s very simple: “Let my words and actions be governed by wisdom, not weakness.”  And it has helped me, a few times, to do the right thing when it would have been easier not to.  I still have a long way to go, of course, but maybe if I keep at it, I can build up a part of myself that isn’t touched by fear.

Reflections on 2019 and 2020

The turn of the year is always strange to me, and this one has been stranger than most.  Between stress from changes at work and a few other factors, I never did feel very festive over the holiday.  I kept waiting to be excited for Christmas—though I can be somewhat of a Grinch in the weeks between Halloween and Christmas, usually my mood has turned by the time the shopping is done.  That didn’t happen this year.  All the way up to Christmas itself I remained tightly wound and wishing it would all be done.  Even on Christmas Day I was ambivalent.  I take from this a lesson not to let myself get too worried about Christmas traditions—cards and gifts are all very well, but not worth the sacrifice of my peace of mind. 

As for New Year’s, I was a little wiser, and chose rest over my traditional trip to Richmond to visit friends.  I did stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, but not to watch the ball drop or to celebrate—I only knew the new year had come by a glance at the clock from my reading chair.  And now 2020 is here, and only now am I beginning to feel thoughtful.  What will this new year—and this new decade—bring?

Normally I take a searching look at the previous year around this time, and perhaps I’ll do that again, but this year I don’t quite feel up to it.  2019 was fairly innocuous.  I’m not ashamed of the fact that I spent most of the year at home reading books.  I’ve set myself a solid reading regimen that I have kept to faithfully, and I use it to educate myself both in general, with books about society and history and psychology, as well as in my craft with classics and bestselling works in my genre.  Allow me to take this moment to strongly recommend Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice, as well as Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, both excellent and beautifully complex science fiction stories.  In addition, I completed my own science fiction epic, the Youngest series, which I hope to push hard towards publication this year.  And speaking of publication, small pieces of my own work were featured in “From the Depths” out of Haunted Waters Press, as well as on Typishly.  It’s a small start, but a start nonetheless.  For all that, I would gladly trade several adventure opportunities.

I did get out of Roanoke a few times, mostly at the end of the summer.  I took a road trip to Syracuse and Boston in August, and at the end of the same month I went to my cousin’s wedding in Nashville.  And music keeps me busy almost as much as the written word—the Roanoke Symphony Orchestra performed first a concert of Russian classics, then its typical holiday Pops concert, which continues to grow in both size and extravagance.  I’m also ever more proud of my children’s choir, further proof of my deep appreciation of small things.

I write all this mostly as a way of keeping record, so that someday I can have it for reference.  In this way I suppose that my looking back is a way of looking forward.  Usually that’s the only kind of looking forward I do at the new year, but I find myself thinking more and more about what’s to come.  2020 is, after all, the year I will turn thirty, so I suppose it’s natural that I should expect some big changes this year.  But I hope I can remember not to be disappointed in myself if those changes don’t come.  I’m happy with my lot, and more and more I’m learning not to compare my life to that of others.  I have my own timeline to follow, and no one knows it but me.

With that in mind, I continue on with my day and my month and my year.  Time continues on, fast and slow all at once, and we can only follow.  Happy 2020, everyone.