Some days, my body knows I’m anxious before my brain gets the memo. This afternoon, I looked down and realized, “Oh shit. Wasn’t I wearing nail polish this morning? I swear my nails were completely painted. And how long have I been eating this granola? Jesus, the bag is half gone.”
Do you have any idea how hard it is to ghost eat granola? Not granola clusters. Loose granola. The kind you have to scoop and carefully put into your mouth so as to not get it everywhere. And I didn’t just chip my nail polish. That shit was gone.
Then came the fun process of determining the stressor. I tried to speak gently to myself so as not to spook the anxiety demon, sending it into a panicked frenzy. “Hey there cupcake, something bugging you? It seems like you might be a little bit worried about something.”
When you rent a room in your brainship to anxiety, silence is troublesome. There is always something to be worried about, some fresh nonsense to be offered up as an unwelcome distraction. There’s never silence.
Except for today. Despite every sign that the silly sprite was plotting some fresh hell, the silence remained. I had a perfectly fine day and am having a wonderfully lovely evening. So I’ll ignore the lip biting and the sighs, the telltale signs that something is brewing, and enjoy the silence and the chance to paint my nails a new color without first facing the cold and fumy remover. But I’m watching you, brain.