You, I was told as a small child, are a catastrophiser. A catastrophiser, a worrywart, a panic merchant. They told me this kindly, patted me fondly. I was not fooled. Because, of course, if you are any of these things you are adept at dowsing for undercurrents. From their pained expressions I gathered these were not qualities so much as burdens. But I was not unduly concerned. Such excellent words. Catastrophiser! How complicated it sounded. As an adult, having fulfilled their prophecies, they still tell me I am these things, although less kindly now, no longer soft-pedalling their exasperation.
Recently, though, I experienced an epiphany. You may recall, two weeks ago I wrote of my anxiety. By chance I spoke of it on the radio too. I felt daft afterwards, as if I had revealed my true self; unhinged, devoid of poise. Normally I would try to keep a lid on such feelings but like a king tide they kept coming, bigger, higher, more edacious than ever before, until I thought I might never surface. Then one of you threw me a life raft. My preserver offered no miracle; she simply said the key thing with anxiety is to treat it, either through exercise and meditation, or medication. And the more I pondered this, the more buoyant I felt. And although nothing had yet changed, just the intention to make change lifted me.
On the Monday I rang my doctor. Discovered he was in Zimbabwe for a month. No mind, my newly equanimous self thought, see his absence as opportunity. I rang a friend who meditates. She sent me the link to an app. On the Tuesday it was my birthday. Part of my anxiety, I suspect, had been around this. Not so much the ageing, as a sense of dread, that the day would be ruined by small disappointments, unmet expectations.
Subconsciously, perhaps, I had been setting this up. Lurching, in the approaching days, from tiff to tiff with my husband. So on the big day I arose early and, guided by a bloke called Andy, attempted a 10-minute meditation. It was hard, but I enjoyed the feeling of my chest rising and falling. My husband had a cold, he had not organised a gift. No mind, I thought, look at these beautiful cards from my children. My husband suggested we go out for lunch, but his nose streamed and he was grumpy. No mind, I thought, these smashed peas are delicious. Perhaps I would go shopping, buy myself something. The school rang. Could I please pick up my daughter, she needed to vomit. No mind, I thought, when my son got home we could walk the dog. Eat some cake. I'm too sore, he said, showing me a grazed knee. No mind, I thought, I'll go by myself. And the day was so fine, and the sun on my face so good. And I thought how tired I had been of all that rain and all that mud, and wondered if I hadn't had a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder. At dinner that night my daughter vomited everywhere. No mind, I thought, at least she missed the hot chips.
