Hi, my name is Shelli, and I am a worrier….
I can’t help it, I worry about everything. And, when there is nothing to worry about, I worry about the fact that my life is too perfect and that something bad is about to happen.
Stephen wonders if God is going to give me a special corner in Heaven one day, along with a whole long list of things to worry about. He thinks that I am not happy unless I am agonizing over something.
Now, while I would love to disagree, I have to admit that he does have a point! Just today, I have worried about whether Kayla’s temperature has gone up again while I am at the office, whether Stephen had enough petrol to get to his meeting on time, why one of my employees is feeling a bit down, whether I am going to be able to reach my goal of getting to the gym even ONCE this week, if the pain I have in my back is actually some weird debilitating disease that will leave me in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, and what I would choose if I had the choice of going blind or deaf…
And it’s only 8.30am.
It has gotten so bad, that I woke up at 3am this morning worrying about whether I spend enough time reading to Kayla and would she be educationally challenged because she watches CBeebies for three hours a day when my “How to Raise a Happy Child” book strictly FORBIDS children from watching TV for more than an hour a day.
I actually thought this was normal behaviour for any adult worth their salt, until I asked Stephen what his worries were (stupidly thinking that this would be a bonding moment in our marriage!)
“Hmmmm,” he murmured thoughtfully. “I’ll have to think about that one…”
Think about it? I have a list of my Top 100 at a moment’s notice!
“Maybe that I won’t finish the Argus in under five hours?” he eventually replied. “Or that the world runs out of chocolate? Or that Grey’s Anatomy never ever ends. Ever… Stuff like that?”
I was gob-smacked.
“But when you see me backing out of the driveway, don’t you worry that I might be hijacked and that you will never see me again? Or that I get some terrible disease?” I asked.
“Nah!” he laughed. “Anyone in their right mind would be too scared to hijack you. And we have GREAT disability cover.”
And that was that.
Which worried me. Did his lack of concern mean that I was the one who loved more in the relationship? Maybe he was having an affair. And if he WAS having an affair, what was the best way of dealing with it?
It was all very concerning.
My friend Annabel says that worry is like a rocking chair – it gives you something to do but it doesn’t get you anywhere. Which reminds me. Stephen is afraid of rocking chairs. Was this some psychological damage from watching scary movies at a young age? And what IS the best age to allow children to watch scary movies? Especially Kayla, who is so sensitive. I wonder WHY she is so sensitive? Is it something I have done?
My dad suggests that at the end of each day, I hand my worries over to God. He’s going to be up anyway. Which is FABULOUS advice. But what then happens the following day? Do you take them back and worry about them a bit more? Or do you keep handing them over to God? Besides, I always feel a little bad asking God for things when so many other people need His help more. Maybe I have serious self-esteem issues? I wonder where those came from? Maybe I need therapy. But it is SO expensive when we need to start saving for Kayla’s school fees. Which reminds me, which school should she go to?
My pharmacist suggests taking Rescue Remedy to calm my nerves, but I am holding out for the hard stuff. Like Prozac. My GP suggests taking up yoga, but I always worry about what the person behind me thinks of the size of my bum when we are doing the Downward Facing Dog. SHAPE magazine suggests exercise (can’t be bothered), my younger sister advises a change in diet (hate vegetables) and my brother-in-law recommends an alcoholic beverage (am considering this as a serious option).
But the bottom line is that I am going to have to stop worrying about everything or I will either end up in an early grave (so to speak, I far prefer the idea of cremation) or alone with only a dozen cats for company because Stephen would have grown tired of my constant navel-gazing and run off with his secretary.
My only hope is that Kayla will end up as a total worrier-about-everything, just like her mother, and we can soon spend endless hours on the phone each evening, discussing each other’s deepest fears. While our respective husbands send prayers of thanks to the Almighty that they have been let off the hook and can watch the Rugby (or, in Stephen’s case, the National Geographic Channel) in peace.
But what if she’s not? What if I never have any one to talk to about my worries?
It is all VERY VERY worrying….