Worrying

I am a chronic worrier, neurotic even. I worry about everything. My therapist let it slip during one of our sessions that my mother is, too, that it confounds him that we can worry about such extraordinary things.

On my way from Ithaca to Aurora, New York, it occurred to me that I was only a foot away from the road. I drive a Ford Mustang, a very good car for a person like me what with five-star crashing ratings and a unique floorboard that will not bend up and take your legs off should you hit something in the front (unlike most cars). It handles extremely well; I love the steering and handling. I know I've noticed this closeness to the ground before, but fatigue makes my worrying much worse, and I couldn't help but imagine the unique floorboard buckling. Why, I'd hit the asphalt before I knew I was falling. What would hit me first, the gas storage or the rear axle? I hoped it would be the gas line because the rear axle wouldn't kill me, and I'd be marred and maimed on the road, still conscious. The gas would concuss me and leave me unable to hurt.

I worry about my friends a lot, too. I shouldn't have such clumsy friends. It makes me sick thinking of the trouble they can get in. Jackie is from Miami and is not used to ice. I see ice all over Ithaca and am constantly grabbing her arm to keep her from falling -- but if I hold her too tight, she won't be able to keep balance and will slip, and my holding her arm will dislocate the joint.

Oh, and I am a biologist, so I know all the different ways the body can hurt. I think of the torque on my boyfriend's shoulders when he carries his brother around or tries to prove his manliness. I think of all the ways a bone can break. I hate knowing.

I sometimes sit up in my dorm room and worry about all the things I could be doing. A spree of rapes hit Cornell at the beginning of the semester, and now there are kidnappings all around the region. I wonder if I could be saving someone if I went outside, why I'm just sitting in bed thinking if I can be outside and saving, if one of my friends is in one of those mysterious vans. I pick up the phone, highlight the first name - usually Jackie - and am almost about to press it. 'No, I'm being crazy again,' I think, see the green 3:04 digits on the clock, and put down the phone. It's difficult to sleep, but I do.

My little brother is a bit reckless like his father before him. He goes to school on the Cayuga Lake. Let me repeat: I am a neurotic worrier and my reckless baby brother living on the Cayuga Lake with stupid friends. They dive into icy water at night or party in Ithaca with the Cornellians. Cornellians don't "party" - they drink until they black out or die. He also lost his cell phone months ago. To say that I stalk his Facebook would be putting it lightly.

I worry about my love life, but not jealously. I worry about Alex. I worry that he is sad. I worry that he sees a friend on campus and the friend forgets or ignores him despite all the nice things Alex always does for these people and that it makes Alex sad. I worry because he drives half an hour each way to class and that he might run out of gas or have a blowout and crash into a semi truck. I worry that he's driving through the wrong side of town again and that he forgot to lock his door. I worry that he is getting picked on and I can't punch the lights out of whoever is upsetting him. I can't help it.

I worry about my mom because she's not happy and she always drives through the wrong side of town. I worry that she's going to give herself another heart attack.

I worry about the cat all the time. I check the washer and dryer at least five times before I turn it on, and even then, I'm known to rip the door open and spill soap suds across the floor because I can't find the cat and there was one cat my stepfather's friend's brother's friend had that loved sitting in the warm dryer and he killed the cat. I worry that someone dropped an earring or something in her food and she's going to choke on it or get lead poisoning and have a seizure. I worry that someone is going to mix up the FrontLine I paid for at the vet with the Sergeant's from Wallmart that gave Midnight a seizure (they need to make that poison illegal). I worry that I'm stepping on her tail and that I can't feel it, and when I move furniture, I check every point of contact with the floor at least a dozen times for animal limbs and claws and ears and the sort. I worry about the cat food - contaminants?

The cure is complex and simple at the same time. Mostly I listen to music. Sometimes I remember Alex's voice, and that's enough to coax me. Most of the time I just worry myself to weariness and sleep it off.