When a normal person is scared they have breast, skin or bone cancer,
They simply get examined by a doctor and have a quick answer.
But I worry the procedure will have serious complications,
Or their medical equipment will have poor calibrations,
Or the laboratory will make gross errors in their calculations,
Or the results will come back with (gasp!) positive confirmations!
So instead I go to a therapist and have lengthy conversations . . .
“How do I stop incessantly worrying about everything?” I ask.
They nod knowingly, sending me home with one simple task.
“Write down everything you fear happening, make one great big list.
Because once it’s down on paper, from your mind it’ll be dismissed.”
I take my pencil and put every single dread down in plain black and white
But maybe writing causes lead poisoning, how to avoid that disturbing plight?
And reading these awful lists are more frightening than thinking I have ovarian cysts.
To the depths of despair I sink, the only thing to do is find another Shrink.
The next one prescribes Xanax, Zoloft, Valium, and even a little Prozac.
Cuz drugs have your back & get you on track when life goes outa whack.
(Never mind the side effects, like filling your arteries up with plaque!)
Oh dear, this isn’t working; I think I need to just find a homeopathic Guru.
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” a sign over his desk sounds a little too woo-woo.
He warns, “Thinking about something you don’t want, will surely bring it about”
Oh great, now all my concerns will come true, of that there can be no doubt!
“Thank you!” I say as I pay the pretty receptionist his outrageous high bill.
I can’t think about going broke; I need to worry about writing my own will.
But first my caring boyfriend offers (for free!) his own professional tactics,
“You need an adjustment,” he says, “You should never underestimate chiropractics.”
I climb up on his special table, wondering if it’s been recently sterilized.
“Just don’t touch my neck, back, shoulders or body…I don’t wanna be paralyzed.”
He shakes his head in frustration and I fear his prognosis is gonna be bleak.
“I know you pick our dinners and movies — my diagnosis is you’re a Control Freak.”
As I drive home I realize I haven’t heard from my kids, not a peep all day long,
Now I’m sure they’ve been kidnapped or injured, or something else is wrong.
“Kids” I say, “Why don’t you phone to pester me or tell me your life is a mess?”
“We’ve been told to keep things secret, so we don’t cause you further stress.”
This sounds like bad advice from none other than my ridiculous Ex.
Now how will I know if my son is on drugs or my daughter’s having sex??!
As a last resort, I take all my troubles to an Author’s Workshop and ask for advice.
“Go home and Blog about it, I’m sure your followers will think that’s nice.”
But I worry an 800-word story about an MRI and a malignant brain tumor,
Will cause my readers to suspect, “She’s completely lost her (odd!) sense of humor!”
So maybe I’ll write a poem – but gosh, should it be a sonnet, a limerick or a haiku?
And will my depressing topic elicit comments like, “Sheesh, we really dislike you!”
Where will this ever end? There’s no remedy for being a compulsive worrier . . .
I’ll just go back to sleep, it’s clear my future’s dim and so much blurrier.
Desperate, I read the label sewn into my bed, “Under penalty of law, do not remove!”
And I smile and think, “Wow, I can do that! Now my life will start to improve!”
Yes, pillows and mattress tags are something I can completely control,
So I can cross off worrying about arrests, going to jail and never getting out on parole!