Mostly, I am worried that someone will break into my house in the middle of the night, come right into the place where I sleep, where I am trying to sleep right that instant, and kill me. With a gun or a knife or with their bare bear hands.Mostly. That is the primary concern, but it is far from the only one, and even this one primary concern gives birth to a seemingly endless parade of baby concerns – all these tiny worries swimming around in the stomach of the big worry like fishes inside a whale.
Once I have worried that someone will come into the house and murder me, I start to worry about how they will do it. I have this terrible fear of guns, but it seems to me that if I have to choose between massive head trauma caused by a gunshot wound and being stabbed, repeatedly, hands waving in what looks like it could be a seizure or a new dance move but is really the only stupid struggle I can manage, the bullet is the best way to go. All this worrying between bullets and knives ignores the possibility of being strangled, of course, but we’ve got to narrow the field a bit, so I toss that tiny idea back and focus.
When I’ve worried about the nature of my death nearly as much as it’s inevitability, I begin to worry about my worrying. Worrying ages you prematurely, it causes lines and wrinkles and, I’m sure, any number of other things that I’m told are unattractive, physically, and because I am so worried about all of these problems caused by my worrying, I cannot stop worrying. More than the ways I am making myself less appealing, I worry that all my worrying is for nothing, because I am worrying about things that either are or are not going to happen, regardless of my behavior. I am wasting large amounts of energy and time on all this worrying about things I cannot possibly change. If someone is going to end my life with a gun or a knife or their awful bear-hands, they just are going to do that, whether I lost all my sleep imagining it or not. This builds a new wrinkle in the worry brain, as I realize that I really ought to be concerned as to whether this acceptance of the inevitability and unchangeable nature of certain events means I am giving in to some rising fatalism in my blood, and this is a terrible idea, terrible, terrible, I believe in free will, I believe in impactful actions, I believe in choices, I do, I do, I do. Destiny has no place here, and I am troubled by the fact that there is clearly some part of me that disagrees with the rest of me, and now I am beginning to worry that this war between the vast majority of me and the Falkland Islands portion that is apparently hiding in some tiny spot, maybe by the liver, maybe, maybe somewhere near the the bottom of the spine or nestled cozily between two ribs, will escalate as I age, and I will never find myself in agreement with myself again, ever.
Now I am worried that I don’t know enough about the Falklands War, and I am worried that this reveals that there are many subjects about which I know nowhere near enough, there are all these fucking moth bite holes in my knowledge, and there are not enough minutes in hours in days in years for me to fix this, there is not enough time, there is never enough time for anything really, and that is not a worry so much as it is an understanding, and this forces me to realize that daylight savings time is coming, maybe not soon but definitely some time, and this will be a day packed with worries, worries, worries and all their synonyms, because there is nothing quite so alarming as the offhand subversion of the linear nature of time, and that is an endless hole for me to fall into, and now it is morning, everything is light and I have not slept and I am still worrying and I have to stand up, I have to stand up and walk and dress and move and speak and smile and nod and navigate and drink coffee and read a book and work and speak some more and stand again and sit and walk and I have to do all these things, all day.
(I am in the shower and I am secretly worried that all this worrying is why you don’t, won’t, can’t love me and then I am secretly worried that it is not, because if it is not I still do not understand and sometimes, most of the time, I believe that I can live with anything I can understand, and I would like to give your not loving me a name and put it away with the rest of the things I do not like but do understand.)