Worrisome

I worry.

A lot.

Some people worry that their children will be struck by lightning on the way to school.  Some people worry that they will get fat and ugly.  Some people worry that they will be hit by a car if they don't walk on a certain side of the street.  Some people worry about other people because they impede upon their space.

Me?

I worry that all of my baggage and bullshit piled together is going to run my loved ones off.  Even though they have stood with me, tried and true, I worry.  I am needy.  I am high maintenance.  And I don't understand why people put up with me.   Truly, I do not.

So, my worry turns to frenzy.  My frenzy turns to internal ravaging and screaming "please don't leave me."  But I can't let it show.  I don't want you to know that I'm not ok - even though I'm sure it is fairly obvious.  I'm normal on the outside, you see, just like you.

But I worry that you can see me, too.  And I worry what it is that you really see.  And I worry if you think it is ugly.  And I worry if you're going to grow tired of trying to help fix me.  And I worry if you're going to go away.  And I worry because I just don't know how to do anything else but worry.