worry

Worry is a weird thing.

You hold on to it, like it is a raft you are floating on.

Like it is actually doing something for you.

But it isn’t.

I remember when our roof needed to be replaced. It was leaking at the very peak. Small brown dots were appearing on it, and I would spend a lot of my time staring at the brown dots on the peak of the ceiling.

And worry.

I worried that it would rain. When it would rain, I worried it would leak again. I put towels down and buckets, just in case. I woke up in the middle of the night to look at the dots. I would pace and wonder if new dots would appear. I worried if it would get worse.

“Has that second dot from the left gotten bigger?” “Are there more dots today?” “Maybe I should draw the dots so that I remember how many there are.”

Hours of my life was spent worrying about those stupid dots.

And why?

What good did the worrying do?

What good did the pacing and waking up in the middle of the night do?

When you worry, it fees like you are doing something useful.

But, let’s be real.

Worrying only makes you the crazy girl pacing and paranoid about brown dots.