I am getting closer and closer to publishing my memoir. (Insert happy dance right here.) In the meantime, I am sharing scenes that did not quite make the final cut right here on the blog.
One weekday morning, I left the house to take Pippa on a walk about twenty minutes after Nathan embarked on his morning constitutional. Our paths crossed, and I stopped him to say, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I’m anxious.”
Nathan hugged me. “Babe, don’t worry about it. You have nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.”
“I know,” I said. (But I didn’t. Nothing felt fine, and nothing was going to ever be fine again.)
I tried to explain how I felt. “It’s like I’m carrying around a backpack and it’s filled with anxiety. And I want to put the backpack down but I don’t know how. It’s welded to my back and I don’t know how to get rid of it.”
I paused. “But I’ll figure it out. I promise. I will find a way to put the backpack down.”
Nathan hugged me again and said some more reassuring things before walking home to shower and go to work. I watched him walk down the block and felt a fresh surge of anxiety and guilt.
I had just promised my husband that I would stop feeling so anxious, but I had no idea how I was going to manage that.
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