October 31, 2008
Don't Worry, Baby...
... everything will work out all right.
I worry all the time. Really, I'm an expert. I say that I spin, because that sounds sort of lovely. But mostly, I worry. I worry if I say X, what will people think? If I do Y, what will people say? I worry nearly all of my waking hours in one form or another—and often my waking hours occur when other people are sleeping. When normal people are sleeping.
Like what? You say. Like when I asked up front for a freelance gig if I was going to get credit, and my contact said she was met with "stony silence." So I worried. I worried I'd said the wrong thing. Asked for too much. When honestly, the question was valid. Things like that happen to me all the time.
But guess what?
I'm going to stop.
Yep. Just like that. Cold Turkey.
I've done it before. Not stopped worrying. But stopped. On a dime. I had an eating disorder for nearly seven years. From Christmas Day, 1985 until August 4, 1992. And one day, I decided that I'd had enough of being cruel to myself. Enough self-abusing to last a life time. So I stopped.
It's not easy. I know that. But I've gotten to a point where I don't care. I'm tired of worrying. I'm tired of second-guessing all of my instincts. I'm tired. But you know what? It's a good tired right now. I swear to god. It's a relief.
Don't worry about me.
I'll be fine.