Worriers in Pink

Anxiety and depression seem to go hand in hand these days.  They're like two hyper active little girls holding hands running through a field of weeds.  Taking turns pulling the other down.

I had been doing pretty well lately.  At least with the anxiety.  That all fell apart yesterday afternoon after scrolling through my Facebook news feed.  Curiosity got me.  A high school friend posted well wishes on one of her friends photo.  I recognized the brace she had on and knew it had to be cancer related.  And, as usual, one click led to another and I learned that this lady had been previously diagnosed with breast cancer and that it had metastasized into her spine.

But it didn't all fall apart until a few hours later as I sat in church with my family.  All the burdens of life just rushed at me.  Sunday afternoon.  Father's Day.

I haven't seen my dad in maybe almost 20 years.  "No, not now. Not in church.  Don't start crying now after 20 years of not seeing him.  Just think, pizza.  Yeah, that's it.  Pizza, with extra cheese and lots of green olives."

And then, of course, I couldn't think of my dad without thinking of my mother who disowned me more than 2 years ago and told me that my cancer was God's punishment.  No, not anger.  Guilt, sadness, anxiety, "Thou shalt honor thy mother and thy father".  Crap.

And then the anxiety and the worry lead me to even more anxiety and worry.  Will all of this greif cause me another cancer?  Will the worry of another cancer drive me right into another?

I think of Ford's Warriors in Pink, a local foundation called Warriors 4 Warriors, and all kinds of other things about being a warrior because I've "survived" breast cancer.  I'm not a warrior.

I am a worrier.

A worrier in pink hell.