Anxious

 

                                                                         Anxiety

Where does it come from, this thing called 'anxiety'?  Have you felt it at times during your life?  What brings it on?  What chases it away?

In the late 1960's, when I was 9 or 10 years old, I had a lot of anxiety.  My sister had joined the group of women who would follow Francis Schuckardt.  From her letters home, there was much to be afraid of:  One World Government, 3 days of darkness (Biblical reference, supposedly.), and of course - the Communists.  We were going to be persecuted like none before us in history.  The devil was unleashed from Hell to wreak havoc on the world, and in 1976, in the person of Jimmy Carter, the anti-Christ would arrive.  Wow!  That was a lot of crap for a 9 or 10 year old girl to take in.  I didn't worry about those things too often.  They scared me.  From our farm in the country hills outside Kalispell, Montana, I would hear a group of motorcycles pass by on the highway, and it would scare me:  Hells' Angels, for sure.  

There was a lot anarchy and chaos in our country at that time.  Protests against the Viet Nam war; Civil Rights riots; Countercultural movements; political assasinations; the Beatles; and the emerging generation gap.  For some, it was a scary time.  Others lived through it as just a phase in history.

And then, there was my mother.  I believe that she was probably in the throes of a mid-life crisis at the time the changes in the Catholic church were introduced in our parish.  She had already been ultra conservative politically.  Then, Francis Schuckardt was introduced into her life - and, to her, the end of the world was imminent.  

 

And so, as her way of dealing with all this strife in the world and in her church, my mother would disappear for hours and hours of the day.  Dad was working, and she was just gone.   This caused me a lot of anxiety.  I had no idea what was going on when all of a sudden, she was gone.  From the way I remember it, it was usually on a Sunday that she'd would just leave.  I attribute that to the fact that we had completely stopped attending Mass at our local parish, and Mom was probably trying to process it all.  My sister wrote extremely strong-worded letters to Mom about attending that diabolical service, the new Mass.  In this new world of hers, the powers that be told her that it would be better for her to stay home and read the prayers herself instead of going to Mass.  And so, Sunday after Sunday, when she hadn't wandered off, Mom would sit my sister & me at the kitchen table and read the prayers out of her prayer book.  

When my Mom first started this behavior, I was scared.  I didn't know if anything had happened to her or what.  When she came home, she would say to me in a quiet, but threatening voice:  "Someday I just might not come home."   A.N.X.I.E.T.Y.  In spite of the difficult relationship that we already shared, she was my Mom and it scared me when she said that.  This happened several times.  Finally, something flipped the switch in my brain and in my heart.  The next time that she said those words to me, I distinctly remember thinking, "Good!  Then don't come home."  It seemed a game that she was playing with my head, because I never heard her saying that to my sister. At 10 years old, I had had enough.    Part of me felt guilty for feeling that way, but a larger part was proud of the fact that I wasn't going to let her mess with my head or feelings any more.

As the months passed, I got used to being left alone.  I would make my Dad french toast for breakfast.  If he got tired of it, he never said so.  He always made me feel like a million bucks for doing it.

I began this post by asking if you have experienced anxiety in your life, what caused it, how did you get over it.  I am sure that we all process it differently.  But, what are the lingering effects?  Anxiety continued to riddle my life for years.  First, it was the fear of being abandoned.  Then, so many other fears were pounded into my head, that every day was an anxious one.  Why wouldn't it be?  Every day could be the day that the communists showed up at the door and drug us off to a prison camp where they would yank our fingernails out with pliers?  WOULDN'T THAT MAKE EVEN THE CALMEST PERSON A LITTLE ANXIOUS?  Of course, rational people wouldn't fall for it.  But, unfairly, as a child, I didn't have the wisdom to understand that it was all a bunch of crap.

For a long time, I used medication to help with my anxiety.  But, as life moved on, I found that I could rid myself of that feeling by taking advantage of things that make me happy:  Nature's beauty, a cozy fire in the backyard, visiting with a friend, deep breaths, petting my kitty, but the most therapeutic of all:  my family.  Bernie and the boys, and in more recent years, Sully and Cassidy.

My life is good.  I cannot complain.  When anxiety raises its ugly head, I think of all the positive things that I have, and it dissipates those worrisome feelings.

"Peace of mind:  The contentment of the man who is too busy to worry by day, and too sleepy to worry at night."  Woodrow Wilson

 

 

MY MOTHER MADE ME A QUILT

When I was a little girl, my parents didn't have much money.  There were 7 of us kids.  Mom had a huge garden.  She baked her own bread - sometimes 20 loaves at a time.  From the garden, she either canned or froze fruits and vegies.

When Christmas came, Mom would make a dress for my sister and one for me.  She would blindfold us so we couldn't see what they looked like.  I don't remember any of those dresses.  I only remember standing, blindfolded, on a chair while she pinned and measured.  I wonder how she felt when she was doing that.  Was she excited to be making a surprise for me?  Did she have to sacrifice somewhere in her limited budget to be able to afford the patterns and material?  I don't remember it as being a fun or silly event - standing there blindfolded - she had a job to do and there was no messing around.  I remember trying to imagine the dress by running my hands over it, trying to figure out what the pattern was.  Then, when Christmas came, I don't even remember unwrapping the dress.

On the flip side, I remember my Dad either giving me mittens or slippers.  Once I got a set of Lincoln Logs.  I sit here and I picture my dear Dad going into Woolworth's or Penneys or Montgomery Ward to pick something out for me.  I can see him standing there, choosing something for me and my sister.  My eyes start to fill with tears.  Everything about my Dad was good.  He was so kind, so patient.  The love he made me feel with his "good night" whisker rub still moves me.  Dad wasn't outwardly expressive with his affection, but, boy, did I feel it.  I wish I could have known him as an adult.  He has been gone 41 1/2 years - and I still cry when I write about missing him.  I am so lucky and I am so grateful for him.  I just wish it didn't have to end when I was so young.

I married a man very much like my Dad.  Bernie is patient to a fault.  He is kind.  He doesn't express his love in big, demonstrative ways, but what he does leaves no doubt about it.

And so, when I got married, my  Mom gave me a quilt she had made.  She embroidered the date and "Mom" in the bottom corner. It was really a patchwork of many scraps of material she had saved over the years.  I suppose if I spent some time, I could go through each pattern and try to remember what she had made with that piece of material.  But, I haven't done that in 41 years, and so I don't see myself doing it now.

 Sometimes, when I want to grab a quick nap on my already made bed, I take that quilt out of the guest room closet and wrap myself in it.  For a long time now, I have noticed that I snuggle it up around my nose and inhale. After 41 years, I swear I can still smell the smell of the home farm house.  Being wrapped in that quilt and being drawn back home - could it be that the little girl in me imagines herself sitting on her Mommy's lap, wrapped in her love and that quilt?  Or, could it be that that is just what that little girl in me wishes when she breathes in "home"?  It is hard to imagine, because I can't recall once sitting on her lap with her arms snuggling me and smelling my hair and letting me know that she really, really loves me.  

I see little Francie, teeth brushed and pajamas on, standing next to Dad in his big, green chair, telling him good night, and feeling him draw me close and giving me his 5 o'clock shadow 'whisker rub'.  I giggle and run upstairs to bed.  It is my last memory of the day.  And, it is good.  And, it makes my heart happy.  "Good night, Daddy.  I love you."  "I love you, too, sis."

But, my Mom made me a quilt. It is very ragged and thin after all these years.  But, I just can't get rid of it.