Anxiety
Look. It's not about gender politics. It's not fully about journalism. It's an essay thing that popped out one day and now you will read it. OK.
1. But what if the day were bright? What if it were sunny and clear and sharp, and the cars whizzed by and your (my) feet and joints didn’t hurt those first few minutes after you woke, and the birds sang chirpy little tunes – actual tunes – and you hit the traffic lights perfectly, always at a fresh green – every last light – and you (I) didn’t look at your (my) phone excessively, and you (I) (I, I, I) didn’t worry about what people thought, about earning the respect of your peers and your family and your group text and that lady across the office or that dude over there? What if my (your) (but my) to-do list were empty? What if I got to the end of it?
2. But also, okay. What if I weren’t perpetually worried about corrections, about bias, the mobs, the professional news-media haters, the fuck I’m bored with this there are better things to write about.
2. But what if you didn’t second-guess everything? What if the memories of how mortifyingly A Lot you were (I was) in your 20s, how obnoxious in my teens, didn’t stop me in my tracks – literally halt me between cubicles or on the stairs – at least once a day and cause me to physically shake them (the memories) away – to (again literally) rattle a hand at my side or shiver my shoulders? And it caused me (you?) to wonder if anyone saw that – saw you twitch, saw you clench your jaw and jump a little, and do they (the people who saw that) now think that you maybe need some professional help, and hahaha to those smug bastards, because you (I) already have that, and speaking of which…
3. What if you didn’t need meds, and didn’t need to sit down once a week with a box of Kleenex and a kind woman you pay too much per hour, except it’s worth it, unfortunately? What if you didn’t need to go over your problems (“problems”) that feel so banal, so small, except that’s okay, because lately you’ve started talking a lot more about the news in therapy? What if you stopped needing help not only with your (my) own stupid little shit (because it’s all so dumb…none of it even worth talking about…your old traumas, the inflated concept of “trauma,” it’s just so dumb to bring up that shitty thing that happened that summer in college, at junior prom, when you were four) and anyway where was I?
3. (continued) Right. Anyway none of that matters because the big shit is so big, right? And fuck if you (I) (I, I, I) need help with it, who the fuck cares, because what if things could be better?
3. [I keep getting lost a bit here]
3. But also what if – what if – SOMETHING. What if ... SOMETHING about the big stuff? About democracy and refugees and rights and missiles and foreign aid and global authoritarianism, all of which you also bring to your therapist every week, because it really does make you sad, so sad you’re certain you’re about to implode…so what if…what? How much is too much to wish for? What if it were all better? That seems like too much. What if you could just feel better…oh, what a wicked thought, let’s not finish it. What if at least one could have faith, could have even any evidence, that it’s all improving? Or that anything is improving?
4. What if you gathered the things you loved – your (my) spouse, your (my) baby, that old sports jersey you love, and walked out of your life? Just ambled across the lawn, past the zinnias, down the street, across the Beltway (we’re definitely talking about me now) and to somewhere? What if I walked down the interstate at an easy pace, not hitchhiking, just strolling, waving gaily at the cars as they passed, knowing I’d just find the place? What if people asked where I’d (you’d) gone – maybe I kept my phone, and hey – more power to me – and I just chirped, “I felt like leaving!”? What if I (you) decamped to a cabin in rural Tennessee by an unpolluted stream where I cooked rich stews and braided my own hair and grew okra, which I’m (you’re) trying to remember if I’ve (you’ve) ever eaten, and became an expert at macramé? What if shit were that fucking carefree, huh?
5. What if the day were bright? And your baby’s nose stopped running (it’s been running for weeks, maybe months) and your own cough (also months) went away, and it were fall and so gorgeous out there that you (I, I, a million times I) felt your teeth ache, and you and your spouse stopped bickering over what movie to watch tonight and you finally got that promotion or award or whatever and you could finally do a headstand and you did your work and raked the leaves and made supper and went to bed and fell asleep within 10 seconds of your head hitting the pillow?
What then?
Housekeeping
The above essay came about from a prompt featured at A Writer’s Journal by Ms. Summer Brennan. Go there and subscribe if you want more guidance and encouragement on being a capital-W Writer.
Once again, I’m taking questions for a future Ask A Journalist post! I will only be taking questions from paid subscribers…if you have a question, please leave it in the comments!
If you have compliments, please leave them in the comments as well!
If you have criticisms and pissiness, please write them in your journal and process your emotions in a healthy fashion, and then only bring them to me if you really feel it’s necessary and will improve my life/writing in some way!
Holy crud, I’ve been doing this weekly-ish for a few weeks! I’m as surprised and delighted as you are. But I’m also taking a break next week, so…we’ll (I’ll) be back to our (my) sporadic-but-I-promise-still-rewarding schedule soon.
Links
A great post on Types of Guys by Ms. Marissa Lorusso. (CONTRIBUTIONS TO GUY DISCOURSE ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!)
A t-shirt whose Instagram ad totally worked on me, and now I own it and it’s overpriced but don’t judge I love wearing it OK.
An excellent poem by Rita Dove, whom I happened to meet last week because I was lucky enough to be a guest at the National Book Awards (brag, I know), where she won a lifetime achievement award, and I was at the afterparty and turned around at one point and — do not ask how, and I promise this had nothing to do with alcohol because I really hadn’t had much at all — I found myself not only staring at Ms. Dove but also, to my horror, that I had her hands in my hands (why? Why, Danielle?) and so I sputtered all I could think of (“It’s an HONOR!” [drool, twitch, die]) and fortunately she did not seem scared and I spat out “CONGRATULATIONS!” and ran away and my husband now has a delightful “thing Danielle actually did” story to share for all time. Anyway, she is great and has some great poems and I’ve been inhaling them since our encounter, and that link is just one sterling example.
THIS WEEK’S CLASSICAL MUSIC PICK: OK, it’s not classical. But I found this This American Life Background Music playlist on Spotify, and…ok, if you are as self-amused as I am, you can kill a good chunk of time playing the songs and doing a bored-sounding monologue over the top. (I made a birthday-present This-American-Life-style podcast for my husband years ago using some of this music, and it was MAGICAL, and I highly recommend downloading Audacity, doing some voiceover, and cackling delightedly.)
INTERNET THING YOU’VE FORGOTTEN EXISTED: The Reply All (RIP) episode “The Case of the Missing Hit” is one of the best podcast episodes of all time. It’s from 3 years ago, so…not an old-internet example like my usual links here, but I relistened recently and it gives me joy every single time. A great example of letting an episode breathe — not editing it to an arbitrary length, but also not making it chatty and 3 hours long — and creating magic in the process.
Your voice is so clear in your writing. It's remarkable and wonderful. Thank you.