I think I might be among the poster children for this phenomenon:
Some of us are becoming hyper-aware of every moment of fear or disappointment or grief or sadness to a debilitating degree.
Years ago I went on a road trip with some friends travelling from concert to concert around Ontario. Just before leaving, the driver of the wreck we were travelling in was cautioned to make sure it didn’t overheat. Just that one word of warning from a random bystander sent us to the side of the road every couple of hours to open the hood and stare inside. The temperature gage never got anywhere close to the danger zone, but every time it moved, we had to pull over. Sometimes too much attention can be as bad as not enough.
This sounds like me. I am aware of where the temperature gauge is supposed to sit, and when it doesn’t sit there, I immediately start budgeting for a cooling-system repair.
After thousands of years of stoically forging ahead despite flashes of anxiety, in just 70 years we’ve shifted to a point in which every fluctuation in mood might be fodder for medical help. Instead of ignoring nervousness or sadness, we fixate on them, allowing them room to blossom, like a scab that won’t heal because we can’t leave it alone. Sometimes hyperawareness of anxiety can make it much worse until it becomes paralyzing and pleasurable events become mired in painful feelings of stress. Can something actually be enjoyable if we’re barrelling through a sea of tumults, trembling with a heartbeat that is curiously inaudible to others in order to just get through it all? Does it really make sense to feel the fear and do it anyway when the dread of doing it might override the pleasure of having it done?
I am definitely being hindered in the so-called “healing process” by this: even trivial stuff scares me.