In the morning

I am a crackerjack worrier. It’s in my DNA. More than half a century ago, when there were fewer people going fewer places, my siblings and I spent time with my paternal grandparents in Macon, North Carolina – average population 168. There was a post office, a store, a couple of churches, and not much else. Once a day, a train came through the heart of the half mile town. That was big entertainment. Shepherding us children to the corner so we could watch it rattle past, my grandfather - a steady, measured man - seemed to take my grandmother’s words of caution in stride.

“Be careful, Robert! Don’t let go of their hands!”

My memory, albeit dim, is that there were seldom any cars on that road, in that tiny town with no stoplights. The train moved through at a respectfully slowed pace. Still, Clara imagined the worst.

“I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”
― Mark Twain

Whether by nature or nurture, my father was similarly anxiety-prone and either transferred it to or fertilized it in my mother. Jittery genes unite! It was bound to happen. As a ten-year-old, I subjected my mother to at least a month of sleep deprivation, for it was she I shook awake in the middle of the night when I couldn’t settle myself. Unlike my hazy, train-watching memories, I remember those consecutive nights of insomnia quite vividly.

I hated being the last one awake, but the more I focused on getting to sleep before the house went dark the more restless I became. It didn’t take long for a pattern to set in. Head on the pillow, face held taught in the most unrelaxed position imaginable, I learned to loathe the mechanical mrm-mrm-murmur of the clock radio as its illuminated numbers rolled past every minute of my sleeplessness.

If I do say so myself, I’ve come a long damn way. I’m no maverick, but I don’t usually let my nerves take complete control of the joy stick. I’ve only panicked to the point of calling the police once in thirty years when my husband didn’t show up as expected. Turned out, he was in jury deliberations and not allowed to use the phone. He might not have remembered to call anyway (we’re still shaping that particular habit) but he had a solid alibi, and I got my fill of humble pie.

I’ve moderated. Years of living with people who note when the cuckoo’s left the clock will do that for you. But, I still haven’t managed to get the witching hour entirely sorted. I’m not afraid of the dark, but darkness is a growth stimulant for my monkey mind. I can work myself into a lather no matter what the hour, but daytime episodes can’t hold a candle to the hyperbolic dread I manufacture in the middle of the night. I’ve sought relief from all the self-help articles, nutrition experts, fitness advocates, holistic therapists, and supplements I could access. While almost everything helps for a little while, I’ve found, as yet, no cure.

At one time, staring down that lightless tunnel would have triggered its own wave of trepidation, but if I’ve learned anything along this road it is that when it comes to worrying, I am the master of my own universe. Oh, the irony! While I’m anxiously trying to control outcomes, the outcomes remain uncontrollable. So, I remain anxious. Jane! Stop this crazy thing!

Professionals call it future-tripping. It’s like a staycation in purgatory. And, the absolute best method I’ve found to deal with it is to treat it like a guest, a somewhat irritating, really-glad-you’re-leaving-soon guest. I mean, like a nincompoop, I answered the door when she knocked, so I guess now we’re having a sleepover. Does she ever stop talking? It’s late and I’m exhausted, but she’s not getting the message.

Instead of actively trying to answer her banter, I bore her into submission. When she remembers something I forgot to do or pokes at my pet insecurities, I ask her the same question, over and over: Is there something I can do right now, in the middle of the night, to address that? So far, her answer has never been yes.

I don’t turn on the light. I don’t look at my phone. I sleep again, or I don’t. And, daylight returns either way.

~Elizabeth