In which I worry unendingly about nothing.

It's been a summer of parades and parties and learning to ride a bicycle.  Oh, and packing of course.  Always the packing.  The packing and sorting has overwhelmed me.  It's made me an anxious wreck - I worry constantly.  I'm torn between the desire to rid myself and my family of the unwanted dross that collects on multiple moves as seaweed collects on a boat, and a strange nostalgic yearning to Keep Everything Always.

It's the worry I blame for the lack of sleep, and the daily migraines, and the general hopelessness I feel as I look around the house and think "Now what?  What do I pack next?  Do we take this thing, this thing that I like a lot?  What about THIS thing that I like a lot?  Do I take the nice shoes that don't fit the children but might fit a future child?  Does the fact that they are too expensive to replace influence my decision?"

I hate having to quantify my love; rate it on a scale of 1-10 and decide if I love something enough to bring it.  I'm frustrated by the lack of people coming to help me.  I told a friend last night that I wanted people to care about us enough to be okay with being inconvenienced a bit.  Yes, of course it's hard to find time to help a friend move, of course it is, but if it's your friend who's moving then, well, you do it anyway.  Even if it means dinner is pushed back an hour or you miss out on the Saturday sleep in or what have you.  I want this to be someone's priority.  "Sorry, I can't go to the park with you today, I'm helping my friend pack."

It's probably directly caused by my worry - but I am Blowing Things Out Of Proportion around here left right and centre, as my mother would say.  Are the dishes not done?  The Entire Kitchen Is Disgusting.  Is the computer being slow?  We Must Have A Virus.  Did David say he had trouble practicing parallel parking today?  He's Going To Fail His Driver's Test.  At times like these I find a few things invaluable, and if you have a personality that swings across the pendulum whilst under stress, then you might want to write them all over your body in permanent marker, as I intend to do later.

When handling worry, it helps to have a project, but it helps more to help another person.  Yes, scrubbing my bathroom with bleach and a toothbrush is going to give me something to focus on, but at the end of the scrubbing, all I can hope for is to have calmed down enough to 're-boot' my brain and go to sleep, excusing myself from the endless cycle of worry.  On the other hand, if in the midst of my anxiety I focus on someone else, God seems to grant me a special grace.  And so I've seen myself taking on, or offering to take on, projects that most people would think were crazy to do at this point.  And they're helping, they're helping a lot.

A theologian will need to tell me why this is, all I know is that it's true, and it works, and I'm doing it.  And I'm diligently trying not to call my husband at work in a panic.  Trying.