Anxiety, unfortunately, is not a sexy condition to have. It's not romantic; it's not Heathcliff-on-the-moors-moody. It's not windswept and dark, and there is no mournful cello concerto written to accompany it.
No, it's ugly and loud, a chord broken not by the fading of the sound, but by the snapping of the strings. It is incapable of reason or being placated or soothed. It can't be put to bed because it doesn't sleep. It's more like a maniacal knitter who keeps dropping stitches and ripping them out, refusing to put the project down, even for a day, an hour, a minute.
I don't have an answer for anxiety. I wish I had. But I think some of us are just, sadly, unfairly, programmed this way. Would it be different if that anxiety had a legitimate place to land? I have to think that if I, like my ancestors, still hunted for my survival, channeling this heightened energetic nonsense into listening for the caribou, the moose, the deer, channeling that energy into something designed to...
I was thinking this, this morning, while lying in bed, wanting to get up, but listing the chores of the day inside my head. See, this is the thing: I like chores (most of them). I like being busy (most of the time). Well, perhaps 'busy' is a troubled word...I like having purpose.
There. That's better.
But thinking of those things? Listing them in my mind? Gah! Death. Seriously--it puts me back to bed before I've even gotten up. Instead, I try to move that energy to my body and just do the thing--put my feet on the ground, do the first chore, the second, and before I know it, I'm blessedly freed from my brain. And I'm happy--happy in the doing.
It's such a relief, the doing and the losing of oneself in the doing--the joy of purpose. But our brains just delight in conveniently forgetting that little experiential truth because, what, it makes them less vital? Maybe.
Anyway, here's to losing ourselves in the doing and to the joy of purposeful occupation.