Things over which I have absolutely zero control cause me anxiety – because I have to plan for their eventuality – the Pacific Northwest is overdue for a 10.0 earthquake. Family obligations cause me anxiety – because family is the basic unit of the social fabric – the whole of society could unravel simply because I didn’t water Aunt Martha’s garden while she was vacationing with “Uncle” Steve in Ibiza – eventually. A job that I quit TEN YEARS AGO causes me anxiety – because I didn’t put my whole heart and soul into it after receiving my twenty-five cents an hour raise – and the managers knew, and were disappointed in me.
Ah-HA! And we’re finally getting somewhere. Anxiety. Has its roots in self-esteem. If people with strong anxiety are anything like me, they are anxious because they KNOW they can never be good enough to justify their existence. And it doesn’t matter if the family vocally appreciates what I did for Granny Turkdean (yes, of THOSE Turkdeans) – I obviously could have done more, and now Cousin Jethro is going to have to take up the slack after he finishes his twelve hour shift at the Gas ‘n’ Gulp. It doesn’t matter that the house hasn’t burned down in the last 95 years – it could burn down tomorrow, because I didn’t investigate and prepare against any one of a thousand possibilities and when it does burn down tomorrow it will be my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t been an absolute bumbling thick-headed slug, the managers would have given me a decent raise instead of the head office mandated absolute maximum of twenty-five cents an hour. And my wife is so much more attractive, intelligent,and motivated than I am – she’s obviously going to leave me if I don’t do all the things right now – and she’s right to do so.
During the day, while I’m awake and aware, I can fight this. I can tell myself that Aunt Martha thanked me for how good her garden looked, and that Granny Turkdean baked my favorite rhubarb pie and gave me the whole damn thing to take home. The company didn’t give anybody a raise bigger than twenty-five cents, never promoted anyone internally, and folded under its own weight. No one can control earthquakes. And my wife hasn’t even so much as mentioned my geeky pastimes that take up half a room, let alone complained about them, or left me for a millionaire robot butler sex god.
During the day, these are sufficient arguments and I can get on with things – even if I do still have to make these arguments to myself more or less constantly.
But at night.
At night, the subconscious is in control. And those dreams. Those damn dreams. It all comes home to roost. Everything, all in one dream. Traveling with the whole family, except that the hotel is in fact a book store where I work, and the floorplan keeps changing so that I can’t find anything for the customers, and there’s a flash flood pouring out of the ceiling, and nobody seems to notice or care except the managers who are telling me that I’m not selling enough car insurance, because I’m distracted by Uncle Jerry necking with my high school crush Megan on a pool float in the flooded Music section. What the hell? You call this a restful night’s sleep?
And so I wake up tired, having slept poorly, and have less energy to fight off the intrusive thoughts of generalized unworthiness.
Which causes me to sleep worse the next night, with even more vivid dreams of me being the source of all the world’s failings.
And so on.
And why does my brain do this to me? Why does my subconscious loathe itself and me as a whole?
Fuck me if I know.
And I never will.
Because I’m a useless parasite.
And someday, the few people who seem to tolerate my presence will discover this and leave me. Probably because I didn’t stop the tour bus from rolling backwards down hill in an avalanche into a tornado at the Farmer’s Market.
