Do Not be Afraid

I wake up most mornings afraid.

I’ll lie there, paralyzed, thinking of all the things that will be expected of me, everything I will demand of myself—how unprepared I feel to face it all.

Birdsong brings dread.  So does the rising sun. 

I don’t know why.

I’ve somehow survived every morning so far—at times agitated, at others grimly determined, sometimes depressed, sinking deeper into my mattress, almost always with dread tightening around my throat.

Even so, even if I rose later than I had planned, even if it took more than I had in me to drag myself out of bed, even when I was afraid, I still rose to meet the day. 

But this dread only grows worse, convincing me that each new day will be the one that finally does me in.

It is cold poison in my veins. It’s like there’s a rattlesnake coiled at the edge of my bed, poised to sink its fangs into me the moment I open my eyes.

I get sick with anxiety at the prospect of getting out of bed—and at the prospect of staying there, unable to move.

I am afraid of life, I think.
This surprises me.

I used to wake up excited.

The cacophony of birdsong and the warm light filtering through my window felt like a celebration—like the whole world was greeting me with open arms.

Now I get so worried about everything—about nothing—and if you asked me, I couldn’t even tell you why. When I poke and prod at this fear, it melts away under the slightest scrutiny, until I realize there was never anything to be afraid of.

I wish that helped.

It doesn’t.

I think part of the problem is that my focus jumps from one imagined crisis to the next with no reprieve. 

This past week, for instance, I had a job interview. And oh, how I worried.

The pilgrims, faced with a failed harvest and winter closing in, were not half as worried as I was in the days leading up to it. The Pompeiians, with old Vesuvius smoking over their city, did not feel even a sliver of the dread that gripped me at the thought of sitting across a table from people while they asked me questions. 

And do you want to know something?

It went great. Better than I could have imagined. I was offered the job a few days later. All that self-doubt and terror for nothing.

And what did I do on the drive home from that world-ending interview?

Did I breathe a sigh of relief?
Did I laugh to myself and pump my fist in the air triumphantly?
Did I even smile?

No.

Instead my mind—cruel, neurotic bastard that it is—immediately fixated on the next stressor. The next crisis. The next deadline. The next outcome. Painting behind my eyes, like a wannabe Zdzisław Beksiński, the grim, lifeless hellscape that was to be my tomorrow.

It never ends.

When I’m striving toward my ambitions, I worry that I’m neglecting other equally important parts of my life—joy among them.

When I’m planting flowers in my garden or stretched out on a folding chair in my yard, novel in hand, I am overcome by the sudden fear that I’m wasting precious time, that I’m missing my chance, that I should be doing something other than simply being alive.

I am tired.
Tired of sacrificing myself on the altar of worry.
Tired of fear being my God.

When I open my eyes each morning, I don’t want the first thing I feel to be terror.

I want, for once, to not be afraid.