Anatomy of Worry

Let’s be honest: if my anxiety levels fought someone else’s anxiety levels in a cage match, mine would probably win. This isn’t bragging. This is fact. There isn’t a person who (personally) knows me who hasn’t, at some point, told me to “shut up” or “chill out” or “calm down” or, simply, lately, “relax.” It’s understandable. Sometimes, I am like Woody Allen on steroids. My voice goes up an octave and I start speaking quickly and flailing my arms and hands, and, on really good days, I might even start crying, if my brain feels up to transmitting those kinds of emotional and physical signals. During my first year of college, my roommate told me I had to be the most neurotic person she’d ever met. She also had a habit of saying calmaté when things got really strenuous; I have yet to determine if this is a proper usage of Spanish.

I’d like to think my anxiety is often prompted by things worth worrying about, that my neuroses is just. As of late, it’s become easier to convince myself of this. First, there was finding housing for the summer. The thing about real estate—or at least Dublin City Centre real estate—is that it’s very in-the-moment, very blink-and-you-miss-it. Due to the country’s fairly recent economic boom, people are moving here in droves, which means competition on all levels. The fact that I’d only be needing a home base for four months, and the fact that I’m not yet a working professional, and the fact that some places I looked at wanted people who could move in immediately put me at a disadvantage. In the middle of April, faced with the prospect of living in a hostel or homelessness, I panicked. I took the first option that presented itself as feasible. In doing this, I failed to ask the right questions. I failed to make the right inspections. And while my flatmates are awesome and things could be much worse, I’ve since learned how unfortunate impulsivity can be (see: my recent list).

Next, there was immigration business. Knowing I’d only been given an allowance of thirty days in Ireland, the thought of having to choose between leaving the country and living here illegally/risking deportation was a lot to swallow. I’m not built for those kinds of decisions. It’s difficult enough answering the question, “Where do you want to eat dinner?” Fortunately, the proper paperwork was accumulated and my passport is now stamped through the end of August. Problem solved.

Now, it’s medical. Let me preface this by saying: I’m fine. It’s not serious. Don’t worry. Really. I just have anxiety because…well, because I almost never get sick, and suddenly I’m in another country and damn if karma hasn’t come to kick my ass. Some stuff’s been up. Some recurrent stuff. Some stuff that’s been checked out, but needs to get checked out again. Really, though. I’m fine. No worries. Believe me. I’m not a walking zombie, nor am I in danger of becoming one. The anxiety’s just popped up because…well, because shit happens, you know? One day you’re fine, and the next, you find yourself in a waiting room tapping your foot at a million miles a minute, nervously awaiting test results for a disease you never even knew existed. This is life. People get sick all the time. Our bodies aren’t foolproof. You can take vitamins and pills and sufficiently exercise and look both ways before crossing the street and still find yourself damned. Someone very close to me went to bed and woke up with cancer. One of my best friends nearly died our first year of college because he abruptly developed some rare illness with some long scientific name I don’t remember, and the long scientific name I don’t remember caused his heart to palpitate until it stopped and he flatlined and had to be resuscitated. I’ve heard myriad stories about aneurysms. Anything is possible. I’ve just been trying to breathe and hope for the best, even though relatively bad news may be in order. Not death. I’m not going to “meet my maker” or anything like that. But I may have to hear a few things I’d rather not hear, some things I’ve been told I might have to hear sooner or later, some things that will force me to alter my lifestyle in ways that’ll displease me, though they’ll be necessary.

But again: this is me working through my anxiety. I am fine. Or I will be, and this will all blow over, one way or another.