Why worry? Be happy. I'll tell you why.

This week I decided to air a personal problem that has plagued me for many years.
 
Lately, an event that occurred in my childhood in the late 70's has been back in the news.  This tragedy had nothing to do with me personally, but, because I heard a lot about it on the news, nonetheless strongly affected me.  If you have been following the news, you may have heard that Captain Jeffrey McDonald, a doctor and former Green Beret, has a new appeal pending in his conviction for the especially brutal murder of his wife and children in 1970.

Although the crime was years old by that point, it was much in the news because of the trial.  Something about the horrific nature of the crime was deeply disturbing to me.  There were other equally frightening things in the news at the time, but this is the one sticks in my mind.  

Every night, I would worry about crime and random misfortune.  Things on the TV, whether the news or fiction, added to my worries.  I worried about things happening to my parents, to my younger brothers (one of whom was much younger, and the other being prone to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without telling anyone), and other relatives.

Eventually, I told my mother about this, in very general detail, just that I was worrying a lot.  Trying to soothe me, she told me that she, too, used to worry a lot, until she realized that the things she worried would happen seldom actually did.  It was a reasonable answer, a good one, in fact.  Unfortunately, I took it to heart in a completely wrong way.  

Even though I knew, rationally, that it wasn't the case, on an emotional level, I began believing that, if I worried sufficiently about something, I could - somehow - stop it happening.  

If that sounds to you like a recipe for trouble, you are right.

It wasn't healthy for me, but, to a remarkable degree, it kept me happy, at least on a surface level, for a long time. Even though I knew, rationally, that it was false.  Even knowing what I know now, it still whispers seductively to the inner child.

Of course, I did stress more about problems than was good for me, but I managed to keep things in order well enough.

On a Friday night in April 2007 - I remember the event very clearly, I was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom at our old apartment, washing my hands - the reality that, no matter how hard or sincerely I worried, some things were inevitable  - it was only a matter of time - hit me.  

I felt like I had been tapped in the face with a baseball bat, minus the ugly bruising, concussion and broken nose.

I started having panic attacks, trouble sleeping and difficulty making decisions.  


The habit of worry was so deeply ingrained, that I couldn't just stop.  In a way, it is rather like an addiction. 

When we bought our house the next year, I worried about every little problem we found after moving in.   I remember a couple of sleepless nights over the minor issue of a small leak -fixed with some caulk - along a nail that pierced the siding of the house.

One of the worst problems with my out-of-control anxiety was that the effect of starting a Facebook account was not to bring me closer to friends but to make me angry with them whenever they disagreed with me on some issue I found important.  I took every difference in opinion personally.  

(That we all sometimes assume that everyone on our friends list shares our views and post things insulting to any counter view does not help, but that is the way of even the best of us in these times, and perhaps an issue for another post)


It also didn't help my situation that my mother's health, especially her mental health, has undergone a change for the worse in the last year and a half.   She has had diabetes for the past twenty years and has not taken good care of herself for the past few years.  The effects on her memory, mental state and mobility have been disturbing, to say the least.  I don't know how my father deals with it.

By the beginning of this year, I felt like I was being eaten from the inside.   Things I normally enjoyed didn't please me as much as they used to; often, I even found them stressful.  Sometimes I started crying for almost no reason.  Interruptions to my work routine made me angry and scatter-brained.    

At my lovely wife's suggestion, I finally took the problem to my doctor who helpfully prescribed something for my depression and anxiety.  

What I want everyone to know is that getting a prescription for some anti-anxiety or anti-depression drug isn't giving up the struggle against your anxiety and depression. Getting on a drug that actually helps you is just that - it's getting help.  It won't be the end of your problems, but it will help you begin dealing with the problem instead of just suffering.  You might still need something else, possibly even some kind of counseling, but it is a start. 

The drug didn't solve my problems, but what it did do was take away the worst of the anxiety and allow me to step back and look at them more rationally.  I can look at the future and things that I don't want to happen, but that I know are inevitable.  I may sigh with sadness at the thought, but then I can go on.  I don't worry as much as I did before.  I don't have as much of a problem with stress.  

Something else that now seems obvious, was that the subconscious worry, even more than an office job in the Dilbert world, was what was most detrimental to my creativity.  I've been game-mastering an RPG for six months now, and, even when I'm not sure where I want to take the game next, I don't think about stopping.  It's been almost ten years since I've been able to do that.


I am not well yet, and, like an alcoholic presented with a tasty cocktail, the worry keeps tempting me.  The difference is that I can now say, "no thanks."