I've always envisioned the worst possible scenario in most situations. I don't find it particularly morbid, it's always felt quite clever and logical to be prepared for something - anything - that could result in a public tragedy that I may need to escape from. Having a plan seemed sane. Having a plan was reassuring. If I was stuck on a bridge during rush hour I would look around the inside of my car and see what could be used as a survival tool were the bridge to collapse into the river. If I was sitting in a busy theatre I would always check out the nearest exits and create a path to take in my mind that would secure my safety were a fire to break out, or the roof cave in (obviously, the roof would have to cave in above other people or my plan wouldn't work, but I would have alternate routes in place.)
Once, when Matthew was very small, I put a big bag of flour in his Jolly Jumper and dangled it off my 2nd story balcony to see if it would make a viable escape pod for him in case of a fire. It did, for those who are curious. I never had to use it, thankfully, but felt immeasurably better having pulled a Michael Jackson with an innocent bag of flour.
There's nothing to be done in case of a plane crash over the ocean, which is why I loathe planes. They are plan-free, escape-proof cans of sure and certain death and I cannot out-prepare them once in the sky. So, I fight back with lorazepam in those instances of necessary travel.
This constant planning and visualisation does take it's toll on a person, though. Once I started experiencing sleeplessness, irritability, heart palpitations, lack of concentration/focus and night-sweats I went to the doctor thinking my thyroid was being a dink again. She suggested anxiety, I said I was sure that wasn't it - I'm not anxious. I don't clutch at my chest and cry, "Think of the children!" because Ariel the mermaid has tits. I don't call all of the hospitals when my husband is late (although, I have picked out a dress for his hypothetical funeral that makes me look vulnerable, pretty, and most importantly thin) so obviously I don't have anxiety. She humoured me with a thyroid test while I wandered off for a week to be indignant about her anxiety diagnosis.
I decided to humour her and looked up generalised anxiety disorder. I was shocked - I've been like this my WHOLE life, and it's a thing? Being scared of the dark and basements was just something I've always lived with - Graham does the laundry because it's in the basement and I don't like the basement so that's his job. Every precaution I've taken with my kids, every routine I've made for us, all of it has been based around what I felt was rational worry. I used to be irritated with Graham for not knowing the best way to do things, not realising there isn't always a best way, there's just the way that I worry the least about. The realisation was staggering. I was overwhelmed, I didn't know where to start as living a different way seemed unfathomable. What other way?
At this point my concentration was so bad I couldn't even get through a whole book. The busyness and flightiness I've had my whole life with multiple hobbies and activities to constantly stimulate and distract me was actually a symptom, but also meant this wouldn't be as simple as reading literature and changing my mindset. After bringing myself back to the doctor and admitting it was anxiety we decided on trying an anti-anxiety med just to bridge the gap between therapy and my current state of mind. It's too soon to know it's full-effect, but I did sit on a bridge yesterday and realised when driving away that I just sang along to the radio instead of running through my usual scenarios of escaping death.
I'm still coming to terms with it all, and trying to recognise what is normal and what is anxiety-produced measures of safety and mentalness. I do check fire exits when in a public place, but I'm pretty sure that's something we were taught to do as children so it doesn't count, but I no longer count the people on the bus to work out my rate of survival in case of a fiery crash - the formula for that being my distance from the nearest exit + number of people on the bus - the old/infirm/iPod wearing people that I can run faster than. No offense, non-survivors. Don't take it personally that I base my odds on survival on you not surviving, it's just anxiety.
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