Low Grade

I didn't use the word anxious until I was a young adult. I mean, I'd heard it, I knew the definition of it, I'd even spelled it right on a grade six spelling test. But I couldn't ever really distinguish anxiousness from nervousness, so "anxious" never made it into my vernacular.

When I moved to the West Coast, "anxiety" seemed to be a buzzword in my circles. So-and-so suffered from it, What's-her-name was attacked by it in the bathroom one afternoon, and This Guy took pills for it every day. 

Truthfully, I thought it was a farce. I mean, everyone gets nervous sometimes, but what the heck was wrong with these people? They had seemingly normal lives, with mostly-normal stress levels. They were definitely over-exaggerating things. They were suffering from a made up disease (like cooties, or the Coachella virus, or fibromyalgia).  Like cutting, I dismissed it as a "rich white person disease." It is the luxury of the wealthy and well-off to feel anxious about nothing.

I still kind of feel that way. Worrying is a luxury. But it's also become part of my reality. 

I don't have an anxiety disorder. I am not debilitated by it. And other than my daily vitamins, I don't take pills on the regular.

But hoo boy, am I living with some serious low grade anxiety. That uneasiness I've had around a week before my period, my need to organize my work and home space so everything is at least mostly in order, those irrational fears that pop up when The Intern is twenty minutes late, my heart palpitations now that we are surrounded by a veritable sea of moving boxes. . . 

Guess I've arrived. I've caught that imaginary ailment of the affluent.