I have been thinking about the rabbit hole of anxiety.

You know, the one that has you twisting the covers in a knot during the quiet of night. I am rarely inflicted with these worries in the daylight. Have I ever told you about how I live with three drummers and that we have a drum kit set up in the basement that gets frequent, rotational use? Well, we do and it’s a great reliever of stress for the folks that PLAY the drums. The listeners, well? That varies.

Anyway. Instead of putting bandages on my anxiety I have been looking for it’s source. The inner meadow of unnecessary terror of the tiny. Like, waking up to a sink of last night’s dinner dishes or piles of paper you have been meaning to go through.

What has always surprised me is that at times these tiny situations don’t bother me at all. Like, at all. 

I look at them and think, Look how happy I am! I don’t have time for such trivialities! But the other times? Yikes. The horror is not mock, it is real. Over-reaction city.

After years of being ruled by the pendulum swing of happiness to anxiety I have figured out what was staring me in the face. The eye I had been avoiding.

Unspoken worries of the past.

They fester and breed in these warrens inside. Never seeing the light of day or working their ways through my voice box. Stress and worry rushing about like a pack of feral bunnies decimating garden beds.

I have decided to stopping up my fears, what people will think of me. It’s boring. So boring to worry about things that don’t matter.

Long held secrets are now finding their way out, rushing through my throat, sprouting wings and coagulating in the skies above.

Sometimes they descend. Mostly on rainy days. I am not equipped to deal with the rain. Midwestern sun blazing on the snowdrifts works best for me. Usually they hang out in the skyline, the one behind me. In the past where they should be. Not hassling me here in the present.

The current worries, they are real. I have five children. I should be worried sometimes. In fact, I would be a little nutty if I wasn’t worried. A healthy dose of worry keeps us out of the thunderstorms and tucked up in bed at a decent hour. But too much worry is weird and it will make my children weird.

So if you hang out with me these days I may be a little confessional.  And the pack of winged bunnies that follow me aren’t a plague upon humanity. It’s just me trying to not be weird.

reading: Runaway Bunny by M. Wise Brown


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