Hey, Junebug

I didn’t intend to write today—

But then it just happened, as it so often does.

The spark of a thought popped into the rusted open rattle trap of my mind,

and here we are.

Anxiety is like a Junebug.

Or rather, anxiety is like the kid holding the string that is tied to the Junebug’s leg.

I am the Junebug.

Have you heard of this?

Daddy used to do it as a kid, or so he told the girls and me.

Personally, I think it’s horribly cruel.

He would catch a Junebug, and tie a string to its poor little leg—

(Which how in the hell does one tie a string to a squirming Junebug?

Let alone catch one in the first place?

They are fast as fast in the air.

It must be a sneak attack.

Ambush predator style.

I imagine the poor thing just sitting on a daisy petal.

Sunning, maybe. Then—

CLAMP

Inside a glass jar beneath a hole poked metal lid.

The captive of some raggedy ass child.

Daddy in this case.

I digress…)

and let the poor thing fly around on the string.

For hours, until death or freedom, and I expect the latter was rare.

Save by some miracle it escaped—likely minus a popped-off leg—

“Great, now I’m maimed,” it rolls its eyes as it buzzes off.   

And that’s anxiety.

You know?

He never really did tell us what happened to them after he was finished—

Well, this Junebug lives to see another day of string tying—anyway.

That’s the piece of anxiety you can count on.

It’ll be back with that string.

She has a job, you know?

Anxiety—we’ll call her, “Pam.”

Pam’s not just here to jerk your string, though she excels at that.

She’s a physiological response.

She’s here to say, “we’re in danger.”

That’s what Bonnie (my therapist) would tell me.

I’m supposed to pause and ask, “Pam, what are you showing up for?

What are you trying to protect us from?”

It sounds a little like Stockholm syndrome to me.

I start thinkin’ ‘bout money worries, relationship trouble, being single, too much chips and salsa body dysmorphia (but also yum)—

Here she comes.

Danger, danger, danger.

But you know, a lot of that stuff is feelings—and in the future.

And I find sometimes if I can just breathe,

And sip a cup of mint tea,

And stand outside in the cool of early April,

And watch the trees blow and rustle in the wind,

And the clouds drift overhead like spilled cotton balls in Momma’s bathroom.

I find that, in this minute anyway—

there’s not really much danger at all.

There’s just me.

Livin’ a pretty good life.

(Even if I am missin' a few legs.)