The worrier.

This is me. From birth even, I was the most anxious, fretful kid.

I hid things. Ruminated over them like a bad story you force yourself to read, just to finish it. To figure it out like some grand trouble there was an answer for. Thinking, then, it would wrap around tightly, consume, and last forever! Or become unbearable! Or I'd be in trouble! My stomach churned at every academic test, soccer game, dance performance, to the point where I'd gag. I don't know how or when I got over that. But maybe it just turned into another form of worry. Changed over like the seasons, transitioning from one state to the next. Hiding in the breeze and coming forth in the hot summer sun.

Ebbs and flows. Lays in the deeply strong, frighteningly accurate intuition I have (more, a post perhaps, about that later, I think).

Now though, this worrier girl, I'm unsure where she went or where she's been. I do not miss her, but I do anticipate her sometimes. Only this time, I can whisper, ah, there you are. I know you well.  I knew of you at a young, young age, and you weren't recognizable. A threat. I knew you as a teenager, in your early twenties, you were a terrible thing.

But now, as a woman, can identify you, worrier girl. I can ease you.

1 comment:

  1. People say I'm a worrier, but I feel like I don't worry enough. Overthinking is my forte, but I'm thinking of the wrong things. Why can't my worrier girl get her priorities straight?

    The Life of Little Me