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It isn't always logical. There are times when it is, like when I'm on a tight deadline at work or under pressure to hit a target, and my anxiety increases.
That makes sense. The cause and effect is clear.
But when things are going well, when I should be feeling good, and anxiety rears its ugly head, and I feel overwhelmed and like I'm in a dark room and the walls are closing in on me forno reason, that's when it doesn't make sense. And it's often been those times that have sent me spiraling the most.
I take a few deep breaths and check in with myself and how I'm feeling.
This whole trip has been a blur of work, deadlines, reports, and of course, Wilby.
Overall, things in Australia have been going well. I'm feeling better than I have in at least the past two or three years.
Which is a good thing. But also, a new thing.
Part of me is waiting for the inevitable crash, for my mind to emerge from whatever anxiety inertia it's currently in and return to normal programming.
Just enjoy the fucking moment, Col.
I hear the thought in Wilby's voice because it sounds like something he'd say, and I smile to myself.
My phone buzzes. It's a text from Wilby. No way. What are the odds?
Wilby:Landed in Sydney. I hate that I had to leave, but at least now I'll always think of you when I'm here. Thanks for looking after the kids this morning.
Col:Glad you made it safely.
Wilby:I'm not just an exceptional pilot…
I let out an anticipatory chuckle, already knowing that whatever he writes next is going to be classic Wilby.
Wilby:I'm also exceptionally hung.
And there we have it, folks.
Wilby:I have to take this fucking meeting. I'll text you when it's done. I'm assuming the house is still standing?
Col:Aw, Wilby…you should never assume… Kidding. Everything here is under control. Don't worry about it. Good luck with your meeting.
Wilby:Thanks. You're a lifesaver. Okay. Gotta go. Try not to miss me too much!
I set the phone down on the wooden side table next to me and pick up my coffee, feeling relieved. I'd been trying my best to not think about him in that tiny aircraft all by himself, thousands of feet in the air. Why he willingly chooses to fly something that small is beyond me.
I don't think I'll ever be able to let it go, my fear of flying. Dad once suggested I try hypnosis, and I even considered it, but no. I don't need to be put under, or get diagnosed by a shrink, to understand that the root cause of my fear comes from what happened to Mom. It's as plain and simple as that.
And maybe, in some strange and twisted way, having this fear connects me to her in some way. So why would I let that go?
We all have limitations. Sometimes, it's worth it to push ourselves and break through them. But not this one. I can try to work on being more compassionate. More patient. On making more time for Dad and Brant and not letting working consume my life the way it does, the way I've allowed it to.
But working onthis? Nope.
I don't see the need, and as long as I can get by—which I am—I don't see the point.
My phone alarm goes off, so I get up and put the vegetables into the oven. Just as I'm about to start cleaning up, the front door opens and Polly strides in, clutching two grocery bags.
"Fuck me sideways, something smells good in here."
"Hey, Polly." I dash over to her, but when she sees my hands going for the bags, she moves them out of reach, walking over and placing them on the counter herself. "Do I need to start slapping you?" she asks with a wry grin, before looking me up and down. "Because I see myself very much enjoying that."
"Wow. You really are Wilby's grandma," I retort, and she laughs, not nearly as loud as her grandson, but it's still a big sound from such a petite lady.
