When I got home from the hairdresser the electric was out. It was unexpected and uncontrollable, so Max was in a tizzy, but being without electric is normally not nerve-wracking for me. My prepper husband was listening to the hand-crank radio. “I’m trying to see what’s going on. It might be the internet. Cyber terrorists,” he said, snapping the radio off. “But then, they probably wouldn’t tell us about it.” My husband is the level of paranoid befitting the son of a correction officer. But we attacked Iran the night before, so there was just enough truth to send me into an anxiety spiral. I teleported straight to the tippy top of the rollercoaster and plunged straight into post-apocalyptic disaster.
“What will we do? How will I work? We can’t cook our food! My phone battery will die and Max will go ballistic without the internet. I’ll have to wash my clothes in the river! But what river? I’m not strong enough to carry water! Where will I poop?”
Eventually I stopped making contingency plans and started re-framing: “Maybe it won’t be so bad. We’ll go back to a simpler time. I can cook without the microwave. It might be a relief not to have the internet. My father-in-law can finally barter away the bourbon stockpile in the basement.”
This is not the first time my brain hijacked me into disaster-ville. I walked in the house to find Max watching YouTube, like usual, but with winter gloves on, which was not. “Hey buddy, wanna take your gloves off?”
“No. Stop talking to me.”
I stopped talking to him, but I did not stop having visions of food encrusted gloves, minimal handwashing and gloves in the bath. And then Max would grow older, still wearing gloves, which are now too small, cutting off his circulation. And then in high school he would be “that glove kid,” or, “Michael Jackson.” Eventually gangrene would set in and his hands would fall off.
I’ve been in the mental health world for almost 20 years, and I’ve learned that my doomsday scenarios are cognitive distortions, which are better known as “your brain fucking with you.” This particular distortion is called catastrophizing, or making a mountain out of a mole hill.
If you’re of the ilk who thinks that preparing for the worst-case scenario is helpful, well, you might not be totally wrong. In fact, I spent the first few weeks of the pandemic feeling smug because my anxiety told me the shoe was going to drop eventually and lo, it did.
But mostly what catastrophizing does is steal joy and replace it with anxiety. It’s important to recognize what’s happening and make an attempt to stop it. And, even with all my years of experience, I can confirm for you, it’s easier said than done.
I had a leadership coach who asked me, “what’s the best that could happen?” This at least plucked me from my personal disaster and turned my thoughts blank. Is anyone conditioned to think of the best-case scenario? Or is this what comes of marrying a pessimist? I eventually dug around my brain and came up with a positive scenario, even though I didn’t really believe it.
My long-suffering therapist would ask what evidence there is for the worst outcome. Besides blockbuster disaster movies, and that one time Facebook randomly went down for the day, there were many more times that the electric came back on after being out.
I have lots more examples of things turning out ok. Every argument that does not end in divorce. Every time Max gets in trouble at school and isn’t kicked out. The lump I thought was cancer that turned out to be a pimple. It’s hard to jump off the anxiety coaster once it starts rolling downhill.
I know the ride will eventually come to the end and as I return to the station, my heart will slow down, and I’ll wonder why I was so worried. Only to get jerked back to the top of the hill again.
I owe it to myself to recognize that I’m on an anxiety coaster when I start going up the hill, and there’s still time to get off. The more I pay attention to my thoughts instead of letting them run rampant the easier it’ll be.
Until the electric goes out again.
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