Worrywart

I’ve tried on a lot of names for my condition. This one fits.

Ididn’t learn until I was 23 years old that not everyone has a book of “back-up plans” for every possible contingency. Not everyone has panic attacks after driving past roadkill, convinced it’s still alive, convinced that it’s following the car, convinced that it’s a sign that her son is in danger. Not everyone checks the Keurig three times to make sure it’s off before leaving the house, because it might not be off or the cat might’ve bumped it on and then it would overheat and burst into flame, burning the house down.

Not everyone thinks the way I think.

The second visit with Therapist No. 7 consisted of a series of questions, which I answered as truthfully as I could. I knew it was time to try another round of therapy, because for the previous two weeks I’d been obsessing about my tongue.

It was too big for my mouth. It didn’t fit neatly between my teeth; it lolled around in there like a beached whale, diseased, dying. I couldn’t focus. So I answered his questions, trying not to let my whale tongue fumble the words.

You’ve seen several other therapists, counselors, psychiatrists, tried medication?

Yep. Six other mental health professionals, two year-long bouts on antidepressants, no changes. What brought you here?

My tongue is too big for my mouth and it bothers me.

I’ve had some bad days recently.

Because there is something wrong with me, and I need to find out what it is.

I’m good at defining myself — I fit each piece of me into a box. I’m organized, mostly. I’ve got my obsessive box. My depression box. My mood-swing box. My phobia box. But there are still some things scattered on the floor, and I need help sorting them and labeling those boxes. (Silent pause)

To be blunt, I want to know what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve tried on every hat in that DSM handbook — bipolar, antisocial, depression, obsessive compulsive, borderline … and I can’t find the right one. Tell me what is wrong with me. (Pause) Did I mention my tongue? After reviewing my life, Therapist No. 7 told me I display the classic symptoms of generalized anxiety disorder. I had a textbook childhood of an adult with anxiety, and I’ve got a family history of anxiety to top it off. There are probably other issues, too, but I should use that as my base. It fits better than depression ever did, which always felt like a shirt that was too big. I didn’t realize, until he pointed it out, that I was anxious. It was just my natural state. I didn’t know it was something to be fixed.

When I was 8 or 9, I found a book titled “The Worrywarts” at a school book fair. I brought it home to my grandmother, who cackled when I told her it was for Pappy. My grandfather spent most of his time sitting in his rocking chair in the dining room, and whatever time he spent out of it was devoted to warning my sister and me to “be more careful!” “Don’t go near that railing, you might fall through.” “Don’t run, you’ll slip!” “Careful with that peeler, you’ll cut your thumb off.” “Sit on the bucket and don’t fidget, you’ll topple on your ass.” My grandmother hushed him, telling him to let us be kids. We called him a worrywart, just like the characters in the book: Wombat, Weasel and Woodchuck, who used humorous alliterations to worry about silly things that might happen if they wandered the world.

I can’t remember the look on his face when I gave him that book, but I know my sister and I laughed at him. Looking back, I wonder if I hurt him; he never read that book to me, and I don’t remember sitting on his lap after that.

One day soon after, he came over as we were getting ready to ride our bikes. I kissed his bristly cheek and told him, “We’re going to be careful, Pappy.” He nodded his head. I thought of the way those worrywarts in the book never tried anything new because they were too preoccupied with what might happen, all those exaggerated “what ifs.” I put my helmeton and rode away.

Later that week, he died. A heart attack — he spent so much time worrying about us that he never worried about himself. Or maybe the worrying weakened his heart. But whatever it was, his heart quit working and suddenly my worrywart was gone.

Do you want to change something?

Eventually. For now, I just want a label for this box. Worrywart. That’s me.

Calley Tinley, a writer living in Herminie, received the Joan Didion Award for Digital Writing from the University of Pittsburgh-Greensburg and was a fellow at the Chautauqua Writers’ Festival in 2016.