©2021 Michael Raven
I don’t recall being filled with anxiety on the levels I’ve felt over the past year or so. I think that I must have felt it at one time or another and that this can’t possibly be a new experience for me — that I somehow masked it from myself or called it something other than anxiety — but these experiences are becoming more frequent for me over recent months.
Call me Mr. Jitters.
Part of me thinks that it will all go away when I get out of my normal routine in about ten days. Part of me wonders if it isn’t a precursor to something more profound on the other side, or after I do leave. Regardless, I am both absolutely exhausted and, at the same time, wired like I’ve hit eight shots of espresso in a single gulp (I don’t recommend it; I was ill for the rest of the morning when I did it on a lark as a barista).
And I can’t put my finger on just why that might be the case.
I know I’ve mentioned this in a past post, but it is driving my thinking this morning and, rather than inundate you with an absurd little essay of around two-thousand words about something that you would probably care even less about, I thought I’d revisit this in the hopes that it would deflate the feeling a bit to get it out in the open.
It’s the itching feeling of doom in some form. Lose my job? The world goes to hell (well, that might arguably be an improvement on the state of things)? Civil war? Crashed plane? Drowning while Jell-O wrestling with a woman in a kiddie pool? I don’t KNOW.
Well, the last one seems highly unlikely — I don’t know that I’ve ever been invited to such a thing and if I had been, second thoughts must have creeped in and I was too drunk to recall the initial offer to wrestle in Jell-O — and I somehow doubt I’ll get any such offers in the near future. That said… I’m not sure what kinds of things they get into in Portland, so I suppose it is still a remote possibility.
[See — deflecting my anxiety already with dorky humor.]
I wish I could think of something solid to grasp onto, something to weigh me down and to take away this floaty, tense sensation that gives me all kinds of muscle spasms and makes me toss and turn at night.
Or maybe I just need to learn how to fly and leave all the shite behind.
Smiling while I sip my quad-shot expresso (I have learned since the eight-shot episode) while sitting in my business class seat in the skies over North Dakota. Looking at my invitation for some interpersonal wrestling…