worry.  Constantly.

I even worry about my worrying.  I worry that I have passed it onto my kids.  I worry about how to stop my worrying.  I’m even worried right now about writing about it.

I have always been an anxious person.  I can see all of the things that could go wrong with any given plan.  And it is not that I fully expect that these disasters will happen, but rather I am really good at coming up with a laundry list of what is wrong with a plan.  Clearly I’m a lot of fun to be on a team with.  My husband says that I would make an excellent risk manager.  Or a doomsday profit.  I’ll be whichever one pays more.

This skill comes in handy sometimes.  It is what allows us to have extra clothes when a kid barfs while we are out for the day; saves money in damage expenses when I am able to predict which priceless objects my kids are going to head right for in a store; we’ve never been to the ER with a broken bone; I’ve never been in a car accident; and we always get to appointments and meetings because I leave enough time to get everywhere.  It has been useful in project and event planning as well, because I seem to be able to see scenarios that could arise, and we can make a plan ahead of time for dealing with it, rather than having to scramble when it happens.

The downside is that teammates tend to get distracted by their fantasies of choking me to death, for dragging the meetings out too long, and my family leads a sheltered and unspontaneous life.  Not to mention that I have grown to hate the sound of my own voice.

I want to reduce my anxiety, because it makes me not very much fun to be around when it is at its worst.  It must not always show though, because strangely I have had some moms that I don’t know as well tell me that they admire how easygoing and organized I am.  My husband laughs when I tell him that, and sits expectantly, waiting for the punch line.

I have thought about going the medication route, but it never progresses beyond that thought.  I was on antidepressants when I had post-partum depression, and I didn’t like how I felt on the meds.  Plus I have watched my mother struggle with anxiety and depression her whole life, never finding the right medication, seemingly getting worse with every one, and even attempting suicide several times by overdosing on the pills.  Tranquillizers scare the hell out of me because of that.

I have been pushing my mother to get therapy, and we have taken a class on anxiety with our anxious child, so I think that I am going to follow my own advice and look into seeing a therapist myself.  In the meantime, I write.  It’s amazing how therapeutic it is to tell your problems to a screen.  Thank you for listening.  I see that our session is up.  I’ll show myself out.


An amazing collection of bright women who somehow manage to work, play, parent and survive and write blog posts all at the same time. We are the BLUNTmoms, always honest, always direct and surprising hilarious.


  1. Wonderful post. Thanks for sharing your story. You’re definitely not alone.

    • bluntmoms Reply

      We agree! And we smothered our anonymous poster with love from the inside here!

Write A Comment

Pin It