I woke to crime in the form of fraudulent card charges and rolled out of bed with a long groan of frustration that did not seem to disturb the sleeping husband. I consider ignoring my findings. Maybe I am wrong and I do not remember those charges.

Or maybe that pill of avoidance you hold in your hands radiates delusions.

Last week, while I was too busy at work to talk, Dad messaged me, “He who hesitates loses.”

Get out of bed, Fool. Someone has robbed you.

I do not take the pill.

I relocated to the living room with my cellphone, bank cards, and a glass of water, only to be greeted by a large pile of cat vomit in the center carpet. I scrub dark brown from white and gray while on hold. I choose my words slowly and carefully because I sometimes struggle with… communicating professionally. I practice my patience. I get what I need from the phone call and move on to making coffee and traveling to the bank. 

I think about waiting for the coffee to brew. I do not hesitate, and I leave without it. I think about waiting for the bank to open. I get out of my car, and I wait behind another woman, older and wealthier than I, and we wait to be let in. It is 2 minutes before 9, and the woman complains. I practice my patience and try to smile pleasantly. We are both invited in and served promptly at 9. I do what I can, and I move on.

I think about sitting in the car for a few moments and taking it all in. Instead, I begin the trek home, and when I’m finally there, I crawl into bed for twenty minutes and try to think about other things. I bury my head in a fleece blanket and at this moment, it is still draped over my head like a winter cape, providing me with a childish comfort I have earned.

The issue is unresolved, yet my due process is done, and the anxiety remains. I face it down, unmask it for what it really is by my selected productivity, and wonder what to do about it. I did not hesitate, yet dealing with my anxiety, a rallying cry against the often foreboding acts of adulting, also calls for professional efforts. Suddenly I am unsure if the act of throwing a blanket on my head shows immaturity or real growth.

It is that Other Half, still feverish at the mere thought of confrontation, fearful of all potentialities, worried of embarrassment, and terrified of further abuse or neglect, who protests. She’s quite persuasive. She once convinced me to bury us under ten feet of rubble.

“She who deliberates is lost.”

Her expression, while still loud and agitated, is less tolerated, and less heard. Oh, I’ve heard it all before, and I have seen for myself that those excuses result in less of an escape and more of an exile. So much time spent listening to her fears.

We will not be subjected to further injustice. My family deserves, and was promised, a fighter. And so I will no longer go back to sleep in the morning when there is banking to do or other bullshit of the stuff and like.

She piped up at every turn, still weirdly desperate to lead me astray, when all else demands order. I stepped over her each time. There are no massive waves of disaster to endure, rather it was all just an obstacle course. It does not demand our life force—just a little resolve.

But she’s still bothered, because whatever it is, no matter how polite or expedited or simple, it’s never easy. I’m starting to realize that the worst case scenario in most situations is despite my persistent fears and concerns, they almost never see reality. The worst case scenario time and time again is that I let myself worry endlessly.

I’m also starting to realize that it doesn’t have to be that way.

_{March 7th, 2024}

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