Last week PJ, over on her Books in Northport blog, talked about worrying, where it comes from, whether or not we can stop. If it does any good. At first I thought I didn’t worry that much. And I told her that the worst things that had ever happened to our family happened suddenly with no warning and since that time I had not worried much because I didn’t think anything worse could happen.
But now I wonder.
Is it true I don’t worry much anymore? Or do I just not recognize it as worry because it’s such a natural process after years of…well…worry? Is what I consider good planning just another way of worrying? Are the lists I make before a trip actually physical proof of my worry?
When I turn away from the national news, not wanting to hear more am I really just stuffing worry back down inside? Did the great recession reactivate worry that had been lurking in the far reaches of my mind and cause me to go back to work? Is this really my worry, or am I shouldering a cultural worry fueled by twenty-four seven news reiterating the concerns of our nation and the entire world?
Has worry become so prevalent that I don’t even recognize it as such anymore? Or has age softened my brain to the point that I just don’t know I’m worried? Should I worry about this?
Maybe I’m just not a worrier. Or maybe ignorance is bliss.