I Worry, Therefore I Am...

Back in the saddle blogging after several weeks. I wish I could say that I was off doing something exciting or newsworthy, but the truth is I've just been busy working. And when not working, I've been indulging in my favorite hobby: Worrying. And I use the remaining time not spent working or worrying on my second favorite hobby: Worrying about worrying.

This time of year is always particularly anxiety-filled for me. My life is generally anchored in my work, and I have a very busy season that starts in September, peaks in January, and then, come end of April, it settles down with a bit of a breather until September rolls around again. So, when allergies flare up, so does my anxiety; April-August are peak worrying months.

Without the distraction of too much work, I'm left to focus on the other areas of my life that I have been neglecting for eight months: Should I change jobs? Should I move out of NYC or somewhere else within the city? Was that crack always in the shower door? Why are those raisins in the refrigerator? Oh wait, I think those were grapes at some point ... Can I still eat them?

Some people feel pressure in work and relax when it dies down. Not me. I start to panic inside thinking of everything that I'm now going to have to handle. Work is such an easy excuse - I'm too busy to focus on that, it'll have to wait.

And this year with the accident and related annoyances -- doctors' appointments, bills, and paperwork, I've felt more maxed out than ever. So much so that I essentially took a vacation from dealing with it - shoving everything into a metaphorical box for a few weeks and refusing to even look at the mounting paperwork or deal with test results.

It was worrying about worrying that sent me to my doctor ("Are you sure that my brain isn't irretrievably broken?"), who suggested I might try a little talk therapy. Since there are few things I like more than the sound of my own voice, I decided to give it a try.

All went great the first session -- she asked me a lot of questions, and I told her all about me, a favorite topic. The second session, I showed up, said hello, she smiled at me, I smiled back. She smiled at me again, I smiled right back in my most charming fashion, although I was getting irritated inside. Sensing I wasn't getting it, she said, "I don't talk anymore, you talk."

Um, okay.

So, I talked for about 10 seconds, about what, I don't know, and then said, "That's all I've got." "That's okay," she replied, "We'll sit quietly."

Now, my version of sitting quietly is reading a book with my iPod on while Khloe and Lamar plays in the background. I don't know from quietly. I don't even sleep in peace, but instead have vivid dreams.

So after about what seemed like an hour but was really about 30 seconds, I said, "So, what's the deal here? How much longer is this going to go on with the no talking?" and she said, "Until you start talking again. It's up to you."

Okee.

Then she said, "I get the impression that you're uncomfortable being quiet." And even though, inside I was thinking, "No, what I'm uncomfortable with is paying to sit here in uncomfortable silence with a stranger when I could do this for free anywhere in this city, and if this is therapy, I just did that for 45 minutes on the way over here on the subway," I had to admit she was right. ''

My brain never stops and I'm always obsessing about something. I don't know how it is for most people, but I'm told that some people are actually able to relax every now and then. To me, those people are like unicorns. If you are one of those people, please self-identify, because I've yet to really find one, and everyone I ask says they are similarly tortured. Which I believe wholeheartedly, especially here in 21st century New York.

I can tell you this much -- I totally understand why people who have anxious brains self-medicate with drugs and/or alcohol. Or, in my case, food and work. Anything to turn down the noise. When I'm forced into periods of quiet, it's harder to tune out what's really important, as opposed to, say, how adorable Bo Obama is, so I cover that up with obsessions like, "Did I leave the stove (the stove that I have never once turned on for four years living in this apartment) on?" and "Let's use this relaxation time to determine a detailed evacuation plan for this building in an event of a fire."

I'd rather cover up with the noise with other things. Which is, apparently, the total wrong thing to do. So I'm supposed to try to sit quietly as much as I can, so sayeth the therapist, even if it's uncomfortable, especially if it's uncomfortable, because that's where all of the good stuff is waiting to be mined.

So far, none of the good stuff has shown up yet but it's definitely there; I just need to step up the excavation. Somewhere under old episodes of The Brady Bunch and song lyrics to every song released in the 80s, lie some key questions and answers to the questions above - and beyond, maybe even some juicy ones like, "What do I want to be when I grow up?" But like any archaeological dig, I need to be patient and careful. I don't want to destroy any precious artifacts nor do I want to lose any of those treasures buried on top of them like Sam the Butcher's last name (for the record, it's Franklin). All of that is what makes me who I am.

I don't know if therapy is something I'll continue forever. I've yet to see a bill so somehow I think that will, unfortunately, be a determining factor, and when I see that, I'll have something else to worry about. So I'll have to take quiet where I can find it, which sounds like an urban quest in and of itself!

Or perhaps simply the topic of a future blog post ...

PS, stay tuned for a second blog I'm launching soon with my good friend Mary D. called "The Hypochondriacs Are In." Bring your best Google searches of symptoms...