Most of my posts are cheerful.
That’s how I like to think of myself: optimistic, bouncy, generally good-natured.
But I also wrestle with a lot of anxiety. It used to be worse. There was a constant chatter in the back of my mind. An ironclad need for control. New situations, traveling, large social events where I didn’t know people–all of those things made me anxious. Still do, to some extent, but with the help of anti-anxiety meds, I can handle and even enjoy them.
I think the scariest thing sometimes is being happy. I’m married to a brilliant, funny, generous man. I have wonderful friends. I love my house and the city I live in. And now I’m doing something I love, something I feel is my calling–and sometimes it terrifies me. My book is going on submission again. What if it sells? That’s the point, I know. But it scares me almost as much as the idea of it not selling. It’s been my forever dream, and standing on the precipice of achieving it–it feels like standing at the top of a cliff. Makes me search out the snigglies–little dissatisfactions to chew on, busywork for my mind. What happens if you get something so huge, something you’ve been working toward for years? I know there are many, many steps to follow–and other dreams–more books, for instance, and being a mama. And this book may not sell; who knows? But if it does–
Part of me worries the world might cave in on my head. Is sad stuff bound to follow? My husband assures me that it will, inevitably, but not as a consequence of the good. That it’s not a system of checks and balances. That we should snatch up our happinesses without peering around the corner quite so fearfully.
I’m trying to rewire my brain, I suppose, and that’s hard work. And I’m curious–anyone else whose fear of failure is rivaled only by a fear of success?