Operation: Hurry Up and Worry

An update.

Most crises in my life are always an internal "ordeal." By ordeal, I mean that there is some kind of repeatable narrative that involves a few periods, with a similarly-themed outcome each time. The first period: the Underestimation, the next: the Realization (aka Bitching), the third: the Revelation, and fourth: the Rescue. By the end of the cycle, I feel older (not in a good way), a little bit wiser, and a lot of bit of exhaustion. The current ordeal has to do with the past three weeks of my life involved as Juror #9 for a felony robbery case in Brooklyn Supreme Court.

So, let's call this ordeal Operation: Hurry Up and Worry.

The Underestimation

I set out to Jury Duty fully anticipating that I would be going there for the day, and return to work the following day. The break would be tremendous from work, and I could just take a load off, learn a bit about the court system, and come home to a good night's sleep.

Well, I was chosen, first time around, first moment ever inside a courtroom, to be a Juror. For a trial. That hopefully concludes this coming Monday. That was over 3 weeks ago. I again thought I would not be there for very long - they do settle all the time outside of court - and that it would be a relaxing break from work. The hours were later in the morning, so that meant more sleep, and it was in Brooklyn, so that meant shorter commute.

The Realization (aka The Bitching)

The first day I am there for trial proceedings, my work Inbox is flooded with messages from my boss indicating that my area of work at the hospital was in serious need of attention. Due to the trial schedule, I would be able to work 2 days a week, as court was not in session then. This is where the realization set in. This whole Jury Duty thing is the worst. I can't stand the other people on the jury, I don't have internet access up in the Jury Room, and the case is so boring and tedious and drawn out that I could scream. My job, it now appeared, was taking a major, major hit by my not being there, and I know I would catch hell for the duration of the Jury Duty.

Two things: first, I was not reprimanded because I was on Jury Duty, but rather, because my system in the office, when I'm not there, is simply not possible. I had never been away for this long before, and it caused incredible angst. Angst over whether I might actually be fired for not having a better system in place.

One day, in the office, fighting back a nauseating panic attack over my fate at work, I approached my boss, with tears in my eyes, and asked if something was going to happen to me. I explained my issues with anxiety, and that I would not be able to eat or sleep if I was not sure of my fate. I was, as you could imagine, exceedingly over-reacting. I was told I could work overtime and weekends to make progress in my area, which I did, and spent the next weekend in the office.

I then began to reach out to those around me to complain about how badly I had it, and how I wished it would be over. My friends are always supportive and loving, and they also know I do not complain unless I'm truly in a tough spot.

So this circle of negativity and anxiety would swirl and swirl, and the next thing I do is to add my work email to my blackberry phone. So now my anxiety-inducing stimulus is so readily accessible that it resides in my hand. This seemed to be the best thing to do, taking all the nerves into account. Knowing and churning about something was better than not knowing and churning about not knowing, I thought. Right?

the Revelation

Last week I was writing my dear friend Ann just a quiet update about my life, laden with complaints and laments and uncertainty. And then, Paul Simon's song "Still Crazy After All These Years" came on my headphones. And suddenly, I began to think about my family, my Mother and Father, my Grandpa; all the history and countless hours spent on this Earth before me. And the countless ones to follow. How ungrateful I am, and how quick I am to choose negativity in my life. A job is not something to abscond, surely, and when one feels like your livelihood is being taken away, it is natural to feel anxious, but this was extreme. It was irrational and unfounded. It was silly.

The music made me do a self-status check. Family? Check. My parents and sisters are wonderful people, inside and out. They speak honestly, and they laugh even more honestly. Friends? Check. They listen, they comment, they try to help, and sometimes they even take a lump or two on the chin at their own expense so I might feel better. Priorities? Hmm, this is where the focus needs to shift. What's important, really? And what's worth getting nervous about to the point that you hungrily stare at lunch and not dare eat a thing?

So, I start writing to Ann about my Grandpa, a man that forever holds a very serious and important space in my life. I tell her a story about a life lesson I learned from him, and how I've constantly went against it despite having learned it so young. And then I pledge to be better, I see how much I have, and I feel the pit in my stomach go away. Consequently, things at my job start to go light years better, and I feel missed instead of looked down upon. Almost out of it.

the Relief

I debated about meeting up with Maggie, who was in town for her birthday, because I had something else I said I would attend around the same time. Maggie politely insisted we meet for drinks, and I got into a cab so that I would get there sooner from Brooklyn. The weather was horrible, I've been having such a horrible time of it lately, and traffic was absurd. Would have gotten there faster if I took the train.

I arrive, and see her to my left with a glass of red wine. She jumps out of her seat, and her hair bobs up and down like only Maggie's curls can. She pulls me in for a hug and a kiss, and its one of the tightest hugs I've received in probably a year. I take a big, long, deep breath, and go order a drink.

Turns out, she's going through similar trying times from her job. She almost didn't make the trip, but is glad she did. I feel like we speak on another plane, two people that know something everyone else does not. That we'd never tell what it was, either, not for anything. I buy her a shot of whiskey for her birthday, not knowing it was her Father's drink of choice (a man I look up to, respect, and am fully intimidated by, in the nicest way imaginable).

"Happy Birthday, Miss Maggie."

She asks me to visit Buffalo again, to take time and just exist. To do ordinary things with her, to not chase some idea or dream for once. It sounds perfect. She asks me if I finished her song, and I told her it would need time; "do you want it good, or do you want it done? I want both."

And there is my relief. A woman I just adore for who she is, the choices she makes, the way she lives, and the company she keeps. God swooped in, and removed the cast iron weights off my shoulders. I texted her later that she was supposed to come to New York, "to make everyone else happy."