Ever-helpful WordPress has started to give prompts to help you blog. Today’s topic: What do you worry about?
Oh WordPress, how little you know me. What do I worry about? What DON’T I worry about.
I am a chronic worrier. You name it, I’ve worried about it. If I haven’t worried about it before, I’ll probably start worrying about it now that you mention it. There’s just one exception to this trait of mine, and it’s somehow my health. I guess enough people do the “worrying” (read: assumptions and judgement) about that for me that I can let it go.
Here’s a list, in descending order of things I worry about. Because I love lists, and hey, maybe this will be cathartic or some shit.
Money money money money. I hate money. If money ceased to exist tomorrow I would be so happy. It is the number one source of stress in my life, and I don’t even look after it any more. Sir does all that now (so that I can worry less) and I still worry. I worry that what he thinks is enough for us to live on isn’t actually enough to live on. I worry that even though we have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies, very little debt and a very nice life; we’re doin it rong. What about savings? How are we ever going to afford, like, stuff? You know, the stuff grown-ups have like houses and cars and shit? And lastly, can we get take-away tonight because we forgot to buy groceries again?
I love my boyfriend so much that it frequently terrifies me. What. the. fuck. am I going to do if I mess this up? I genuinely don’t know how I would deal with that. I can’t even picture it because my brain doesn’t have the power to imagine something that I think might actually destroy me. That’s the BIG worry, which doesn’t worry me all that frequently. I know Sir loves me, and by god if he’s stuck it out this far I don’t think he’s going anywhere. But that big worry has lots of little worries feeding into it. Tribuworries if you will (hahaha, I crack myself up.) How is our dynamic affecting our relationship long-term? If the dynamic breaks, do we break? Are we being D/s enough right now? Am I not being subby enough? Am I nagging? I hate nagging, so tell me if I’m nagging. I’m nagging you about nagging now, aren’t I? Oh god.
See this post in all its whiny glory.
If you take the above three aspects of my life, combine their failings, and view them through the eyes of some well-meaning, but ultimately fairly conservative religious country-dwellers — that’s what I worry about with my family. That I am disappointing them on several fronts. I didn’t do things the usual way, or even the right way, and thankfully they have been so supportive of me. But for some reason, though they’ve never expressed any judgement of my life or my choices (apart from constantly hounding me to move home move home movehomemovehomemovehome), I live in perpetual fear of being a massive failure in their eyes. Or rather, I live in fear of them *realising* that I am already a massive failure by conventional measures of success. Aaaaany day now, I’m sure.
This is the one aspect of my health that I give a crap about. It could also be why I don’t set much stock in the omgdeathfat bullshit that flies around my head day in and day out — let me work on getting out of bed in the morning and then we’ll see about eating anything, never mind going for a run and having a healthy snack afterwards. When reaching a basic level of happiness seems so unattainable as to be farcical, when you can’t even really remember what happiness actually really *feels* like anymore, the concept of physical health is irrelevant to the point of absurdity. And while I’m much luckier than some in that when my life is good, I’m good; I fret about the bad days coming. Because I can’t cope with the bad days — for some reason, I’m not built for it. I dread the process of crumbling, of regressing to that dark place where nothing matters to me and the only solution is to take some meds that may help me get up in the morning, but completely inhibit my ability to care.
It’s slightly ironic, then, that one of the things I worry about is losing my ability to worry. No matter what, I’d rather be my anxious, neurotic, slightly demented self than a shadow of it.
Filed under: musings, ranty | 6 Comments