Plenty & Famine

Invariably there are times of plenty and times of famine.  I want to be on the mast of a ship in the middle of a storm with my legs long since blown off screaming at the thunder and lightning and asking god if that’s all he’s got.  But I’m not.  I’m here on the ground, long ago having decided not to be a tumbleweed and to put some roots down.  What if something bad happens?  What if the bottom falls out?  “Ah, I’ll worry about it when it happens”.  Being mentally prepared doesn’t make it any easier.  I’ve been there before.  If I had one wish, I’d tell the genie I just don’t want to worry anymore.  I don’t care how it happens.  Give me everything I need to stop asking “what if” or give me an O’Henry twist no one saw coming.  As long as I don’t have to worry.

I have a tendency to overthink things, but when I hear stories about a  fellow co worker who left the company and hasn’t found a job in two years, I start to twitch.  There was a meeting at work.  Whenever someone tells me not to worry, I worry the most.  “You say that as if I have a choice”, I think to myself.  It’s as if I’m hyper aware of all the variables.  I hate being that sensitive.  I can’t find the switch to turn it off.  Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to overly strong men who come to confident conclusions without considering all the outcomes.  Hold me close and tell me everything’s going to be ok, daddy.

I think I’m going to ask my doc for anxiety meds, or at least see if he can point me in the right direction.  I think I’ll do it before the digital rectal exam.  I’m afraid I won’t want them after.