I don't know when it happened, specifically, or if this has been an ongoing thing for me more than usual, or what, but lately I've really been starting to worry. Again. Some more. A lot. Enough that it ... well, it makes me worry about my worrying.
There's an A&E reality show in there somewhere, right? They do shows about hoarders and parking wars and interventions -- shouldn't there also be a show called "Dr. Strangemom: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Fact That Absolutely the Whole Entire Universe is Conspiring Against Me"?
Or are we now stepping out of the worry zone and wandering directly into the minefield that is paranoia? Even more so than usual, I mean?
Some of the stuff I worry about is completely ridiculous and self-defeating: for example, I worry that I don't get enough sleep at night. Why? Because I work too much, or read too much, or watch too much TV. I actually lay in bed when I should be sleeping and worry about this stuff. See? Self-defeating. Ridiculous. I also worry about my husband driving home at 2:00 in the morning when the weather is bad. I worry that he doesn't get enough sleep. I worry that telling him about the things I worry about somehow suggests that I don't trust him to take care of himself, which is absolutely not the case. I just, you know, worry about stuff.
I worry that Shae isn't eating enough. I worry that she eats too much of certain things. I worry that she isn't getting enough exercise and intellectual stimulation. I worry that she is smart in all the wrong ways. I worry about what she thinks of my answers to some of her most common questions these days -- "Why didn't I grow in your belly?" and "Why don't you have a baby growing in your belly?" These are normal pre-school questions, right? But I worry that the actual answers to these questions will damage her, somehow. I worry that some of my psychological damage is communicable, somehow.
I worry about myself, too. Am I getting enough sleep? Am I getting enough exercise? Am I developing some kind of eating disorder, with all this dieting? I think what I'm doing is healthy and reasonable, but is it? Is it really? Do I look any better? Why don't I feel like I look better? Do I feel any better? Why don't I feel like I feel better? When will I feel better? Should I find a therapist? Do I just need a vacation? Should I go tanning? Start taking better care of myself, or at least different? Are these the kinds of questions that only highly insane, emotionally fragile, mentally unstable, psychologically damaged people ask?
Will I feel better if I just give in and eat a Tastykake? Tastykakes make everything better, don't they? Why do I keep doing this to myself? This can't be healthy, right?
And why do I worry that if I stop worrying about this stuff, even for a minute, that I might suddenly cease to exist?