My Mind Is Meanest While I’m Waiting

Dear Delyara, A friend says, “Can I call you later?” and my mind decides it must be bad news. The school nurse leaves a voicemail and I’m already picturing blood. My husband says, “We need to talk tonight,” meaning about the car, but I spend four hours feeling like my marriage is on fire. An unfamiliar ache shows up in my body and suddenly I’m mentally clearing drawers, picturing test results, rewriting the future. Waiting does that to me. It strips reality of proportion. By the time the truth arrives, I’ve already been punished by every false version of it my mind could invent. That is what I mean when I say anxiety is exhausting. Not because I think too much. Because my body commits to every possibility as if it has already happened. It makes me feel crazy in the most functional-looking way.