My name is Laura and I’m wearing 47 layers of clothing. I’ve also had recent revelations that include hating the word “shag,” deleting people who fuck up my Facebook timeline (an entire post will be dedicated to this), and loving every Tyga song (so what).
I took several selfies for you today. Indulge.
Selfie #1: This is what things look like after maneuvering through soldiers of people who don’t know where the fuck they are, in 30 degree weather, on and off, for four hours.
Selfie #2: I don’t know what this is. I’m throwing up gang signs? It accidentally looks pretty baller, which is why I posted it (duh). Don’t I look mean? I think I look mean. I like it.
Selfie #3: I am so happy to shed a layer….I’m really happy to shed a layer…I am really fucking happy to shed a layer. So happy, it looks like I’m having an orgasm. Don’t be such a prude. You were thinking the same thing. Don’t lie. Liar.
Selfie #4: I’ve finally stripped down to normal human clothing proportions…
And now I’m talking to you. Life is great. You are great…Now let’s chat.
WORRY / wor·ry / ˈwərē
give way to anxiety or unease; allow one’s mind to dwell on difficulty or troubles.
I’m going to start with the end, because why not? The sooner I deliver my punchline, the better.
WE AREN’T HELPING ANYONE or ANYTHING WHEN WE WORRY.
So why the fuck do it?
Because it’s physiological to worry if it puts our life or someone we care about’s life/livelihood at risk in some way. On the surface, it makes sense — Sister got into a car accident, baby brother lost his job, friend is in abusive relationship. All terrible, terrible things. It would seem legit that one would worry. But au contraire, Homies…
First, you should know that I have a history of chronically worrying, to the point where it was sometimes physically debilitating. Not only would I be a head case, I had shitty, uncomfortable physical reactions – couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, was weak, tired, nauseous, etc. It sucked a fat dick. I would worry about the small shit — people liking me, making other people happy, doing well in school, whatever. You get it. I would worry about the big shit — When I or someone I love is sick, hurt, or struggling in any way. I would worry ALL. THE FUCKING. TIME.
Now that I’m old as fuck (32nd birthday is coming March 19th. I wouldn’t be mad if you wrote it down in your calendar and highlighted it, and sent me presents), I am getting wise as fuck.
The clouds have finally parted and I see how worry is a WASTE of time and energy, because at the end of the day, IT WON’T FIX JACK SHIT. All it does is make you feel awful inside, and you feeling awful won’t do an iota of anything to make your situation or anyone else’s any better.
FacT (emphasis on the T).
It’s an abomination of an emotion.
…Okay great. You get it, but now how can you actually implement change and STOP WORRYING?
There’s no prescription of steps. Duh. We’re dealing with emotions here. It’s not black and white. It’s 50 mother fucking shades of gray, bitches...
What I can tell you is that the mere act of recognizing this and being hyper-aware of myself and how I respond to things, has been a game changer. It’s a work in progress, and obviously you can’t just shut off worrying for the rest of your life, but you can (and should) put this nugget of truth on REPEAT!
WORRYING DOES NOT EQUAL CARING.
I think that’s where we go wrong. We think we HAVE to worry to show we care, or to feel like we’re good people. But, to care is literally the polar opposite of worry. Check it:
the provision of what is necessary for the health, welfare, maintenance, and protection of someone or something.
The big difference here is that worry is egocentric. Caring is altruistic.
Like every bloody shitty emotion, in order for you to stop feeling it (or feel less of it), YOU need to check YOURSELF, which is my gangster way of saying, you need to be vulnerable to yourself – you need to have the ability to reflect on your emotions and your actions honestly. You need to be AWARE.
SELF-AWARENESS IS EVERYTHING.
That’s a wrap. I love you. You’re cool.