Worry.

Not every pimple on your ass is cancerous. Too harsh? Just to make clear, it's not my intention to be callous and devoid of compassion, but rather to acknowledge that our society has somehow birthed a bevy of whiny fusspots and fretful worrywarts. And, admittedly, I, too, can succumb to the lunacy, carked and spooked by fabricated apprehension. “What if...” is a most common inquiry, anticipating misfortune from the onset. It's as if people go from the youthful “oh boy!” excitement for all things new to banking on a blitzkrieg. What do we know about worry? We know that the fixation is agonizing and seemingly endless. And, when we are not the actual worriers, we can provide excellent advice to anxious others, offering that worry is, in fact, a needless emotion, wasting time and energy without having any impact on the events about which we are overly and ineffectually concerned. Some priggish word wonks might even offer that the word, worry, descended from the Old English wyrgen, which meant “to strangle,” and, later evolved in Middle English to worien, which meant “to grasp by the throat with teeth and lacerate.” [American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language 4th edition, (Houghton Mifflin Company, 2000)]. Although kindred of snooty logophiles would very well discern the etyma as powerful prognostication of an unenlightened era, others would most likely walk away, stare blankly, or find a heavy object which to thump the snot's head.

With all seriousness, has anyone, through worry, ever altered the outcome of a situation? Or, have they just altered their own health, enduring heartburn, insomnia, headaches, and the occasional coronary? The hours squandered scrutinizing the endless unfortunate possibilities of a situation are hours one cannot get back. And yet, it is both consuming and common. Nowadays, people feel anxiety about incidentals as frequently as people through famine epochs felt hungry. In all honesty, it's kind of embarrassing.

One of the problems with worry was birthed from the psychological concept of, “Getting in touch with your feelings.” In the 1970’s and 80’s, the idea of an authentic self took over with therapists across the land, which is all good and fine. But humanistic psychology morphed and altered into a stew of cognitive-behavioral/constructivist/psychodynamic/schema therapy, so that “I feel” statements and “I messages” have hijacked communication and thought processes. Since we’re getting Gestalten with it, let me just say that it is an intuitive function to form a schism of expressed and suppressed feelings. It is as natural as blocking a punch or blinking an eye; it’s the body’s spontaneous reaction to protect itself. Not every emotional response requires dissection and analysis and repetitive examination. This does not mean one should be neglectful of detrimental changes in and of his or her body. I am, from more personal experience than I care to have, an advocate of regular physical exams, as well as prompt attention for possible problems. Typically, women wait too long to have lumps in their breasts examined. Also, men avoid routine rectal exams because the exams are rectal. While these reactions are completely understandable, the consequences of prolonged avoidance will be much more humiliating and quite possibly, devastating. Regarding worrying about others and outside events, it is kindly to be concerned and compassionate, unless it escalates to causing an aneurysm. Then, not so good. Constant anxiety, even if there is a bad run of plights, only compounds the situation into an all-out pisser. Sometimes, rather than brood over a bugaboo, it is a better choice to take your car in for an oil change, eat Thai food, and nap. This was not my light bulb moment, but rather the wisdom of a friend who thought my spinning head might be overcome from centrifugal force and shatter. I have to admit: spending thirty minutes doing something nice for my car, followed by Spring Rolls, Pad Thai, and rice pudding, effectively slowed the G-force, allowing me to sleep soundly for a couple hours, even if the borborygmi frightened my animals.

We have a tendency to worry about the wrong things. Before my latest surgery (a complex sinus/nasal undertaking to correct a septum deviated into an “S” shape, a missing sinus wall, multiple humongo turbinates, and numerous bone fragments embedded in tissue, all of which contributed to brutal monthly sinus infections), I was concerned about my appearance changing and my voice being altered, neither of which occurred. What I should have been thinking about was how to shower without having drips of blood stream from my nostrils. Ultimately, I figured it out. It turned out to be the first time I have ever showered with two strings dangling from my nose; yes, the age-old boxing solution was utilized. I showered with tampons stuck up my nares, a lovely moment exhibiting my sexiest side. As I stood naked and wet with the strings swaying, I thought to myself, 'Well then, I hope I don't die suddenly. Being found in a situation such as this would certainly be unsettling and also leave a legendary aspect to my lifetime that I would prefer not to have.' The absurd situation made me immediately reminisce about the time I passed out while alone in my apartment. That in itself was ill-starred; however, combined with eating leftover Chinese food at my kitchen table and wearing only a thong... bad, dreadfully bad. Fortunately, I awoke on my own without subjecting others to the state of affairs. Once again, I had not worried about such a thing happening, but evidently, misgivings would have assisted me to take appropriate precautions.

Granted, as I have stated previously in my life and most likely will forevermore: I am emotionally stunted in many, many ways. Growing up in a family of Marines is entirely different than growing up in a military family. Case in point, say you’re having a dumbass contest to see who can handle the spiciest food. Military families eat jalapeno peppers with a few haberneros thrown in as a dare. Marines will immediately suck down Bhut Jolokia peppers (recognized as the hottest pepper in the world, just beneath law enforcement grade pepper spray on the Scoville scale), and they will do this without pause to exhibit their superiority, even if it means blowing out their duodenums. There exists a level of recklessness, under the guise of honor, within Marine families. Even as civilians, pain is never exposed, weakness never exhibited, and all family members act as stoic war hawks, ready to confront any adversary. The less others know of one's vulnerabilities, which are very few, mind you, the less likely to be assaulted and have boundaries encroached. The Jarhead way of life is transferred to children, so that scrapes, cuts, and bruises are incidental and deserve no recognition. If anything, minor abrasions command a “Ooh-rah!” before moving on.

So then, during the medical madness which has become a huge chunk of my existence, what “feelings” do I have? After having three surgeries in 5 ½ months, as well as dealing with that persnickety lil' thing called MS, if I am rarely willing to discuss possibilities, if I'm not in need of a solid cry, if I refuse to explore and belabor the emotions involved, are there concealed reasons behind it, something going on other than my upbringing? Yes and no. I truly am not of the mindset to become upset about something I cannot control. Also, I believe I have a responsibility to be the strong one, to continue purporting sangfroid as I have for some time now. I explained to my psychologist (yes, I have one) that I may open up to some people, but if I sense they are becoming uncomfortable, I revert to staidness. She inquired as to if it was better for me to be distressed than others. “Absolutely,” I affirmed. She paused and then said, “Excuse me. I have to cover my eyes. Your halo is blinding.” She has a sarcastic panache that I find oh so irresistible in my mental healthcare professionals. It wasn’t until later while talking with a friend that I disclosed the primary aching woe which was of concern to me: I worried about being alone the remainder of my life. Though I have the most amazing group of friends, I am single. As we all know, hugs from friends are entirely different than being held by someone. Through all of these doctor visits and procedures and hurry-up-and-wait outcomes, I have gone to an empty bed every night. I miss having a significant other; it worries me that perhaps I’ll never have one again. After long days of poking, prodding, and medical verbiage, I sometimes wish for someone to hold me, to wrap around me and say, “C’mon, try to sleep. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” My friend was elated to hear me exhibit mortal characteristics, almost impressed and proud by my warp from automaton. It was yet another slight fissure in the wall that bulwarks my humanness. Every narrow chink that allowed light and vision has always been applauded by my friends, shared among them as a milestone achieved, despite the jumbo gap between me and the emotional development paradigm. But, who of us doesn’t some of the time long to be held and comforted by another? Who of us, even self-reliant, solitary individuals, content without frequent companionship, doesn't end a troublesome day with a sigh, yearning another to be lying beside to wish a peaceful sleep and sweet dreams? The tenderness of a beloved offers ease unmatched by friends and family members. Before dew drowns thine eyes, I shall concede that even this lone wolf has an immense vat of latent sap. The worry I feel is not dying alone, but rather living the remainder of my life without experiencing love one more time. Ugh. I'm a bit nauseated after that divulgence.

Because humans worry incessantly and are confounded as to how to make it stop, we often engage in diversionary activities. Lacking skills and tools to properly temper the anxiety and render it powerless, we embrace distractions, flipping red herrings through our own paths and pretending that they just came about, like magic. If we're crocked or stoned or pie-eyed, maybe we won't think about the bad thing; there's no doubt our luck is about to change if we hit casinos and racetracks and furiously rub loose coins on scratch cards, because damn if we're not due to get money for nothing and chicks for free; the emptiness we feel from the unknowing must be able to be filled if we gobble constantly, quadrupling our portion sizes and suckling down fats, oils, and sweets enough to scoff the food pyramid's apex into bloated blubber; perhaps we should spend money we don't have on things we don't need sidetracking our mind malaise with a shopping mall zombie shuffle. I've tried a couple few of these in my lifetime, all of them confidence games played upon ourselves, straying swindles devised to rid our gnawing anxiety even with the chance that opting this will run riot and pathologize our panic. I reckon one of humanity's most endearing traits is the ability to dupe itself any day, anytime.

So then, what to do, what to do? Maybe, just as those with uncontrollable rage often are encouraged and/or mandated by the court system to take anger management courses, those individuals with acute anxiety should be required to take part in worry management classes. Might work, right? Until that becomes a common option for out of control killjoys, all we are left with is the universal advice passed through the ages since the time of Plato: trust your gut. Listen to the “still, small voice within,” which does not continue to “the still, small voice within that shouts and whines and sobs to everyone in earshot's scope.” Sometimes when you’re bleeding, it doesn’t hurt, and sometimes when you’re hurting, there is no blood. Be honest, but without contrivance, without projecting cataclysm. The omnipresent maxim to pick your battles could easily be extended to choose your weeps. What I’m saying is: people, really, c'mon, show some restraint. If you can’t get through a day without continually worrying about your neighbor’s sick parakeet and whether your co-worker gave your boss a memo and the global warming effect, take a sedative; if you are worried about the divorce of the Gosselins or Kim Kardashian's badunkadunk or the vapid swellheads from “The Hills” or any other nonebrity offal, take the entire bottle of sedatives washed down with a fifth of vodka. Seriously, this world is too much for you.


A clarifying addendum: The author pointedly expressed that one should not worry about Kim Kardashian's budunkadunk, not that it shouldn't be viewed and/or glorified.