I Worry
I Lost My Energy, but Gained a Thousand New Fears
I worry.
It is something I inherited from my mother.
She probably inherited it herself.
I worry about money, the people I love, an incoming shipment, the things I have to do tomorrow, the price of food, my weight … the list seems endless.
Since I have become disabled through long covid, my worry has increased.
I worry about people judging me in my wheelchair, if I have enough battery to make it back to the car, trying to get an accessible parking space, if I will have enough energy to do the things I need to, the latest medical examination ... and so it goes on.
There is a hierarchy of worries. The major worries tend to be immediate, situations outside of my control that keep me awake in the early hours of the morning, preventing me from sleeping. Money troubles, my son’s schooling, impending assessments all play out in frightening detail as I lie in bed.
The lesser worries, those that do not consume my thoughts, trouble me during the day and generally clutter my mind, like a cancer infesting my thoughts. Mercifully, the major worries are consigned to the background during daylight, storing energy for the night ahead.
The league table of worries shifts and changes throughout the day. My closest family will often try to tell me ‘not to worry’, or to ‘just relax’.
I try.
I pretend.
On the surface, I am not worried. I look calm and relaxed. “You are so laid-back, I wish I was like you” people say. If only they knew that my perfectly calm facade has been carefully constructed for years, each brick laid with careful precision, the cement sculpted with love and attention.
The doctors blame depression, as if the illness has caused my worry. They say it will all go away with the correct treatment. Their treatment is tablets. I take them willingly, and worry about what they are doing to me. When I feel down or worry more, they increase them or add new tablets.
I still worry.
Therapy has helped, but I cannot help feeling that I am destined to worry forever. In a strange way, that’s ok. Worry can be good, prompting me to do things and can sometimes cause spontaneous action that is needed. A critique of the change and flux in my life, which I am not in control of.
After all, even if I wanted to stop worrying, I do not have an ‘off switch’. If I did, I would worry about how and when to use it.
I worry.