3) A 4x6 Battle Proven Anxiety Destroyer Wrapped in Cellophane

Just like that.

Imagine that shit.

A simple fucking list. HA!

The nights you spent in a cold sweat.

All those times you were rattled out of a dead sleep.

The tossing. The turning. The nausea that churned your guts.

And the a solution: a single ruled end to the madness, wrapped neatly in cellophane.

Order out of the chaos. Stacked neatly, organized, a list of worst cases; but also plausible, reasonable, earth steadying solutions.

Ha!

You had scanned articles feverishly… “Is it normal to freak out about moving…”

Yes. Was the long and the short of it.

But for good measure, “Is it normal to feel like your chest is going to explode from anxiety after selling your home of 14 years to move out of state to a place you’ve never seen in person…”

Yes, and also something about possibly seeking medical attention… the heart thing.

You decided to wait that part out.

You looked up a lot of shit. Anything to rationalize the tightness in your chest, the utter sadness, the grief, the overwhelming feeling that you had just fucked up big time…

Totally normal… What you had been feeling though, did not feel like ‘your’ normal.

“Sit in discomfort. How does it make you feel?”

Like shit.

You had read an article about how to cope with moving / relocating anxiety.

“Where do you physically feel that feeling?”

My chest. My heart literally hurts…

You feel like you fucked up. You’re safe. You’re not a risk taker.

What in the absolute fuck of fucks did you just fucking do?

Then ‘the after’ came, the switch…

The index cards were a saving grace. Tight little piles. Attack plans. A solution for every problem and oh how your brain had already, at length, usually during the wee hours of the morning, thought about all of them… Roof caving in. Lightning strikes. Biblical floods. Fuel shortages. A fire…. Marauding villagers… Anything and everything… your brain was ON top of that worst case scenario shit.

Fire… absolute…

…fucking fire: your brain’s ability to go there… and also the church (also in your brain on fire).

The funniest part of all of it though,

Because after ‘the switch’ David had casually asked… “Did you ever write up all those index cards so we could go over them?”

“Nope.” You had laughed, you didn’t…

Because you hadn’t. You didn’t need to. Imagine that?

Just the knowledge of knowing you had the tools to get the job done, had calmed you down considerably. And by tools to get the job done, you meant a strategy to keep your brain from going all over the fucking place and overloading on panic.

Fucking index cards. Fucking index cards you have yet to fill out. You don’t need them. They’re just a life raft and there’s no reason for those when you haven’t even stepped foot on the fucking ship.

Your feelings were valid and reasonable and very common (thank you Google), and on top of that you came out with a realization that you’re actually a pretty good fucking problem solver. And what was it that the previous owner had told you when you talked to him?

“I did not know a single thing when I bought that place and we moved in. Nothing. I taught myself everything, we learned as we went, we made mistakes, but now? I don’t ever call someone when something breaks… I fix it myself.”

That had you thinking… you and David were already ahead of the curve, he’s an electrical contractor with a boatload of experience trenching, working in crawlspaces, setting up and using scaffolding, securely and safely anchoring to buildings, safe lift work, and zero fear of heights. And you… are an awesome painter, great at cleaning and organizing with a love for manual labor, you’ve got some experience working with concrete… and holy shit can you make an awesome yard with a little bit of elbow grease and some plant clippings… and everything else minus the plumbing… you’re both more than willing to figure out and learn along the way.

“I have to trust in myself.”

That’s what you said to your therapist when you told her about the crippling anxiety. You had made the appointment with her before the switch but met with her after. You were reflecting on all that had happened since you had last spoken… the house, the church, the anxiety… you processed, you talked it out, you were good… And this was an adventure right? That’s what you were making this.

“So,” she asks you smiling, your session wrapping up, “What is the theme of this adventure?”

You think about the question for a few moments…

“You know… I would have to say that this move is going to be a lot of things… I think it’s going to be healing for me, for my entire family… I think it’s going to give us a lot more time to slow down and work together, enjoy what we have left with the kids’ swiftly fleeting childhoods… There’s a lot that this is going to be… but I keep coming back to healing, and that I have to trust in myself. That in and of itself… is where a lot of the work needs to happen for me personally.”

She smiles and nods in agreement.

You sign off.

You bought a church. You bought a fucking church! Ha! You can’t wait to get started. The trenching… you’ll start there… David already claimed the roof and as far as you’re concerned… that’s all his…

You’ve got a solid plan, a dream, the fortitude and burning desire to leave this historical building even better than you found it.

And for the first time in a long time… you’re feeling a lot more confident about the whole thing.

Everything.

You’ve fucking got this.

And when you don’t?

…You’ve now got a 4x6, single ruled, one sided battle proven anxiety destroyer wrapped tightly in cellophane. You pack them up in a well packed box, gently tossing them in before taping the whole thing closed.

Now’s your time to fucking shine, Vanessa.

Now’s your time…

Packing and boxing… packing and boxing… boxes… so many boxes to pack…