One Thousand (Stressful) Nights

                                                                                                         Photo by Gene Devine on Unsplash
​
Nightfall, for me, augurs anxiety. Here it comes, people. The struggle to sleep—to finally fucking rest. Tonight, like every night, will be typical. I will toss and turn, a la a human rotisserie. The phone dings softly at nine o’clock (to remind me to wind down for bedtime), and I am at the starting gate of the anxiety races. There she goes folks, number seven, she’s off and running at Churchill Downs. She’s shooting for a low number—something like 120/80.

I put the cuff around my arm and count to five. Breathe in five…breathe out five. That should get me to a low, average, normal number. I sit quietly, sweat dripping from my thinning hair over my forehead rivulets and into my rheumy eyes. My heart pounds under my Johnny Was t-shirt. I can feel it behind my eyes. My foot taps reflexively…one heart-attacky, two heart-attacky. My pulse is 108. Yikes. The more I obsess about dreadful things, the higher it spikes. 

My death certificate will read: Death by Anxiety. Please note that I would like deep red roses on my coffin. 

Yes, I am the Queen of Anxiety.  It’s what I do to myself when my life gets too good. When I have solid friendships, a solid tummy, a solid day of 1200 calories. When I've held the sugar, held the fries, the mayo, the syrup, the gravy.  

Hold, hold, hold, HOLD me.  

I’m needy even when I'm not asking for something. You can read it in my eyes, my body language. When I get needy, I get lonely and when I get lonely, I eat. I know I'm not alone. 

Why have a slice of salami when you can have the whole salami (followed by nausea, acid reflux, vomiting)? Why self-sabotage at every good turn? These are questions for therapists, philosophers, my HP. 

The answer may be that I have no STOP button.  I am a bottomless pit.  My middle name is MORE.

I want more, more and actually MORE, thanks.  More this, more that. More all of the above.

As I write this sentence, I can feel the urge form in the hole in my heart ... or my stomach ... or my soul ... on repeat, the anti-Scheherazade, I want more—more of the same. 

Why? 

​