Anxiety | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Anxiety

Picture of [Im]perfection

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 7 Comments

As you may have guessed, the last couple of days have been rough. I never know what might be a trigger until I’m rubbing my eyes on the other side of a long tunnel, emotions bloodshot, wondering what the hell happened. Thank goodness for work. I’ve heard distraction recommended as a coping strategy for PTSD sufferers, and it was actually a relief to have to get out the door early this morning and focus on teaching a class. It snapped my mental energies back to the here and now, and it always does my soul good to be around people and places who don’t remind me of anything. Later, an irrational translation client had me laughing (I apparently “ruined” the central Italian landscape with my un-poetic word choice and grammatical consistency; I guess it’s true that the pen is mightier than the real world?), so I think it’s safe to say I’m back to myself.

I often wonder how these episodes are going to end up affecting my girls. I worry that seeing me sad and struggling to cope will traumatize them, but at the same time, our conversations during the hard times are incredibly precious. The girls know that my sadness is only occasional and has nothing to do with them. They know their mom is human and fragile and willing to be honest with them about both. They also know love. They’re experts in it already, and their hugs and notes and daughterly concern add up to the most healing treatment plan I can imagine.

Thank you for your encouragement too. I always ricochet between feelings of stupidity and feelings of guilt whenever I let on that I might not be the picture of psychological perfection (might not, mind you). Authenticity will probably always be a struggle for me considering my background. However, Jennifer pointed out that naming something is powerful in lessening its hold, and I’d like to think that writing about it goes a step further—aims typeset floodlights into the shadow, illuminates the sniveling nightmare, and says I’m not afraid to expose you (even if I am). I’d also like to think that my honesty with the girls will help them flip the tables on their own fears one day, though hopefully with less neurotic two-stepping. More than anything, I’d like to think that my ability to write this today means that love is the one winning this struggle.

10Jan

Dramamire

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

I feel like I should preface whatever comes out of my fingers next by saying that sometime during the night, my brain tripped into a custard quagmire and is now up to its eyeballs in thick, eggy blandness. I have nothing interesting to say although you might think I would considering I’m hopping on a Florida-bound plane Sunday morning and have less than a week to arrange for my family’s survival in my absence and to talk myself out of any dramatic airport scenes. There’s a slight possibility that I’m not looking forward to the trip. (Maybe that explains why I spent all morning avoiding my damn to-do list? And now I’m swearing. F—crap.)

Here’s the thing: While this trip really isn’t a big deal—just a skip over the pond to renew some documents and eat fried okra as much as possible—my imagination has taken it upon itself to prepare me for any eventuality. The following is a sample of likely trip outcomes, courtesy of my flair for the dramatic:

Blizzard-hurricaness bury the plane during my layover on the East Coast, pulling down frigid air from the melting polar ice caps that freezes everything on contact and ushers us into the second ice age just like Dennis Quaid predicted; I miss my flight.
I arrive safely, but the U.S. customs official revokes my citizenship because I chose to live elsewhere, and I am forced to spend the rest of my life wandering the airport countryless à la Tom Hanks.
I forget to leave detailed instructions for our washing machine (which no longer has indicative markings because the factory painted them on with a special air-soluble glaze), and my family runs out of clean clothes and slowly dies of scabies while I search in vain for free wi-fi.
Everything goes smoothly and I’m allowed to return home, but my ears explode on the flight due to pressure changes and the fact that they are world-class wimps, and the resulting spatter of gore gunks up the landing gear resulting in a spectacular crash; my corpse is recovered and donated to science who rejects it on the grounds of earlessness.

I guess what it all boils down to is that I don’t want to leave my husband and girls, even for a week. The thrill of adventure is notably absent this time; travel-related calamities are no fun without my little family to share them with. True, I’ll get to read entire books uninterrupted on the plane, and I might even get to eat my Sky Chef boeuf bourguignon while it’s still hot, but… I’ll miss them. A lot. The end.

Custard, take me away…

6Sep

Pollyanna With a Mortgage

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

Everyone else is in this recession too, I think. Everyone understands the feeling of Not Enough, the rubber band stretched between temples, winding and winding and then releasing with a snap of nausea that knocks out the stomach.

By this, I am trying to tell myself that you will understand if I write about trying to find renters to offset our mortgage in the States and about the nosedive my imagination takes when each prospect falls through. Chances are, you know that pinch.

But the pictures, I think.

This morning, I uploaded an album of snapshots for friends and family who couldn’t spend the summer with us. In photographic form, our summer has been rich and eventful, punctuated with adventures and saturated with color. In reality too. With some creative budgeting (and a willingness to sleep on the ground), we’ve been able to get our traveling fill. Our last few months have been fantastically fun. How could I possibly complain about Not Enough when our treasure trove of happy memories is overflowing?

I don’t want to try so hard for positivity that I replace my honest voice with Pollyanna though, I think. Our basic needs are met, and we are enjoying life, but that shouldn’t discount what I’m feeling right now.

Which is anxiety, pure and simple. A job I had hoped, hoped, hoped to catch sailed neatly into someone else’s hands, and I’m having difficulty keeping those first slender tentacles of panic at bay. And the house. What does one do with an empty house halfway across the world? Well, worry over it until your jaw forgets how to unclench itself, if you’re me.

There’s got to be a neat ending somewhere in here, I think. Maybe some enlightened realization that our happiness depends so little on the number in our bank account that I wouldn’t even care if we ended up destitute. Or maybe an affirmation of trust in those sudden miracles that light up our world from time to time. Perhaps a well-aimed punch in the ear for being so self-centered when current needs around the globe far outstrip our own.

But the drab truth is that I’m not as enlightened or trusting or selfless as I wish I were, so in lieu of a neat ending, here’s a hope that you do understand the feeling of Not Enough, that we can be complicated and human together, and that you’ll punch me in the ear when I finally acknowledge Pollyanna to be right.

23Mar

Malady Du Jour

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 7 Comments

Today’s malady du jour: vertigo. I woke up this morning to a head skipping like a scratched disc, waves of dizziness repeating ad nauseum. The doctor, diagnosing by phone as I was in no condition to leave the house (or, um, the bed), suggested it might be an inner-ear infection, which I want to make sense. I could use some extra sense right now, and perhaps a mysterious bug caught in the mazes of my head can explain the host of physical-mental symptoms I’ve been muddling through. Like headaches, great and small. Backaches. Stomachaches. Leg-aches. Heartaches. Draft folders crammed with half-written e-mails and blog posts I can’t seem to finish. Telephones ringing off the hook while I put another pillow over my head. Panic attacks. My body closing in on me until I have to force each breath. Loss of appetite. Loss of motivation. Loss of that little somethin’ somethin’ that used to add sparkle to my days.

“It’s probably a milk allergy,” assured one friend. Another one told us of an endocrinologist where I could get my thyroid checked. Another friend suggested I ask for antidepressants, while yet another one told me about some great counseling services… 6,000 impossible miles away. Suddenly it’s not just the vertigo making me dizzy as I spin through the options and consider the frightening subjectiveness of medical diagnoses. I start to feel claustrophobic at the thought that I live in a non-English-speaking country, but I should be honest: I wouldn’t know where to start looking in the States either.

I go to the doctor in a few days, and I desperately want to solve myself before then. I am reluctant, embarrassed, to explain the multitude of ways in which I am sucking right now, and I would love to tell him, “Look Doc, I seem to be suffering from a food allergy. Please to medicate.” Doctors appreciate it when patients diagnose themselves, right?

The one good thing about this prolonged mystery illness is that, as it slowly drains the color from life, my priorities come into sharp black-and-white focus. I may not be able to accomplish much right now, but I can snuggle my girls for a long afternoon nap… and realize how much more important that is than cleaning or shopping or worrying about everything I’m not getting done. The world won’t stop if I’m unproductive this month, and perhaps marinating in the love of my sweet family may be my best treatment plan.

22Feb

Fail/Pass

Posted by: Bethany in Sunday Scribblings 8 Comments

They’re sleeping in the next room… or at least the older one is, curled up neatly on her bunk bed where I left her, propriety intact. The younger one is still dancing around in her slipper socks, strewing books and toys across the floor and shouting “Da da da da da!” in blatant disregard for all known rules of naptime. Instinct tells me I should be stern with her, but I can’t help giggling. I adore those girls.

In just over a week, my oldest turns four—an impossible, terrifying, glittery-pink age that will suit her perfectly. I don’t know how this happened, and it occurred to me that the girls may be in dentures and Depends before I reconcile myself to their growing up. It’s like getting hit over the head with a final exam for which I’ve never studied: How can you raise your strong, vibrant preschoolers into strong, vibrant women? Present your answer in 14 years or less.

Uh, I have no idea. My own formative years were sponsored by the decade 1860 and the planet Mortificationus; no help there. I’ve worked with children from infancy through college age without ever unraveling the mystery of parenting, learning which colors and patterns work together to keep the kids out of therapy. I know an encyclopedia’s worth of Don’ts, but only two and maybe a half Do’s. This scares me.

The only two things I have going for me are that I love my daughters, as immensely and achingly as a mama can, and that they trust me. I doubt every molecule in my body from time to time, but they haven’t yet learned the logic of parent = human = fallible. And even though that feels like cheating, their good impression of me boosts my confidence until I begin to think I could actually nurture them without any disastrous side effects. And maybe it’s not cheating at all…

Because my daughters absolutely can trust me to stick with them through the best and worst times of their lives. They can trust me to give them honest answers on sticky topics and to encourage their independence. They can trust me to teach them about boys and bodies and creativity and forging a future. They can trust me to read family bedtime stories as long as ~~I can force them to sit still~~ they’ll let me. They can trust that their precious hearts, their technicolor personalities, and their treasure troves of dreams are held securely in their mommy’s love. And they can always trust that when I embarrass them beyond all hope of recovery, I’ll be able to embarrass them further still with a cautionary tale from my own childhood.

I may pass this exam after all.

28Jan

The Death of Chipper

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 5 Comments

My mental dialogue lately has been about as opposite from chipper as possible. (In fact, I completely despise the word “chipper” and would love nothing better than taking a sharp, rusty eraser to it. Case in point.) I’m partially proud of myself for not letting this negativity spill over onto my blog and partially guilty for not having the balls to write through the rough times. Either way, I’ve missed you, sweet Internet.

I seem to have come down with a raging case of Incurable Motherhead that has left me flat on the freshly-scrubbed bathroom floor wondering if I will survive the month. The choices do not look good from here: 1) Live in abject squalor, forego cooking, and largely ignore my family so that I can make a foray into the world of writing… or 2) Continue to be a tolerable housewife and mommy while stifling 97% of creative impulses because free time? Doesn’t exist so much.

You mamas whose children are finally in a less-needy stage of life—Was it this hard for you? I feel terrified that if I give up on my daydreams now, I won’t be able to pick them back up once life has settled enough to allow for them. I’m likewise terrified that if I don’t find contentment now, my girls will grow up with an aloof and unhappy mother. Occupied, distant, unfulfilled, absolutely not the kind of parent my little girls deserve.

And now you all need antidepressants. Apologies.

I’m unsure where to go from here—should I redirect my lagging energy away from cleaning or blogging or venturing out of the house or occasional grooming practices?—but I assure you: it will not involve the word “chipper.”

3Jan

Tums for the Soul

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 8 Comments

Since blogging last, I have:
Baked cookies for everyone we know, and them some.
Taken girls to the doctor for seasonal maladies, discovered the doctor was not in, and tried again the next day. And again the next day. And again…
Finally Skyped a doctor friend in the States at 1 a.m. to find out if we should be panicking over Natalie’s fever or not (Answer: not).
Finished Christmas shopping.
Loaded up on groceries.
Cracked the code of crunchifragilistic caramel corn.
Used up the last of our wrapping paper.
Painted.
Made a mental list of the dumbest holiday song lyrics ever (Winner = Emery’s “God, please make a way for Santa’s sleigh”).
Put Sophie back to bed 4,687,721,003 times.
Concocted a white-chocolate-blood-orange cheesecake that will be the death of all other cheesecakes henceforth, amen.
Hosted Christmas Eve Brunch, complete with Christmas Casserole, games, and intense theological discussions.
Watched our girls open their gifts and hit the ceiling with explosions of sheer joy (a tent! a dollhouse! finger puppets! story books! Legos x 10⁴⁸⁰!).
Hosted Christmas Dinner, complete with chili, cornbread, and assorted fight-and-make-ups.
~~Guzzled~~ Delicately sipped ~~three gallons~~ a bit of eggnog.
Read an entire book cover to cover (over the course of three days… but it totally counts).
Edited and uploaded reams of photographs.
Conquered the slopes with my new snowboard.
Worn the same sweater three days in a row.
Rolled sushi with the hubby (a fork may have been necessary at one point… shhh).
Gone on a hot date.
Wound up lost on spaghetti-sized mountain roads in the dark.
Attended two parties.
Swept under the shoe pile (lordy).
Been asked by a new acquaintance if I’m expecting a boy or a girl.
(Note: I am not with child. Not even remotely.)
Eloquently told the new acquaintance, huh?, at which point he dashed away.
Laughed.
Cried.
Laughed.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Cried.
Laughed.
Been kissed by hordes of Europeans in celebration of the New Year.
But not gotten any spumante.
Twisted and shouted.
Participated in Italian group karaoke.
Finally finished a giant puzzle that Dan and I gave up on several years ago.
Climbed Mount Laundry and lived to tell about it.

The one thing I haven’t done is sat down to write, which had a lot to do with the flurry of guests and baked goods and teething Sophies. It also had to do with the stampede toward 2009… life getting off the couch to boogie, and my perspective getting trampled into the chocolate-stained rug. Symptoms of my new year include sweating palms, hair loss, and repeated trips to the chocolate bowl.

I’ve had over a year now to get used to life with two little ones, but I honestly feel more overworked than experienced these days. Soul-searching is limited to five minute bursts between dirty diapers and boiling pasta until my mind is impossibly fragmented and just. wants. sleep. You know that feeling, yes? Last New Year’s Eve, I had inklings of a lush, creative beautyscape ahead, but this year, I’m swerving along a tightrope with a chasm of housewifery below and aspirations obscured by neon signs flashing “Selfish! Selfish!” and “Untalented: YOU!” Miles away from champagne and fireworks, I know.

My belly has been an awful character lately (aside from making people think I’m pregnant, though that is certifiably awful): gnawing at me from the inside-out, tying itself into knots, whispering with clenched teeth that 2009 will be a wasteland. It won’t. I have to believe it won’t, but damned if it doesn’t look just like dirty bathrooms and tumbleweeds from here. Anyone have a burst of inspiration to share? An extra sprinkle of optimism? Some champagne-and-fireworks wishes that I can pop like Tums and transform my stomach from a gremlin to an upstanding citizen again? Because I’m not so good with tightropes, and Mount Laundry’s no longer waiting to break my fall.

Page 4 of 7« First...«2 345 6 »...Last »