9.21.17 Worries 

I joke all the time that I won’t have to ever worry about anything again in my life because everyone else has me covered. I’ve never been prone to worrying, usually able to shake off any scenarios that don’t end happily – or avoid those situations all together.

My personal destructive tendency is procrastination. Now we’re not talking about last minute homework or prioritizing tasks by preference and saving the worst for last – we’re talking full on not doing laundry until there’s 20 loads, snoozing 5 minutes past the latest time possible to get up and be somewhere only 5 minutes late (rather than my normal 20ish), or putting off errands until there’s more than I can accomplish in a day and wearing myself out pretending I can get it all done. I’ve always preformed well under a certain level of stress, it helps me to focus and prioritize, and it motivates me through completion.

The problem is ALS sucks – it literally sucks the life and energy out of every cell in my body. I am tired and weak before I even get started, so that added stress makes even the accomplishable (that’s my word) tasks are now just that much harder. And you know who is to blame? Me, Myself, and I. Do you know how much easier it is to be mad or blame someone, anyone, other than yourself? Ugh.

Back to worrying, it has never been something I understood. You can’t change a past situation that is causing worry, and you can’t speed up time to get past the future situation that is causing worry so why even worry? As a right on the nose, textbook definition of “Type A”, this investment of energy doesn’t make sense to me because “if I can’t control it, I ignore it” – it’s our group motto. And to further make my point, as a person with diminishing energy and increasing control tendencies, I can’t imagine starting the worrying game now.  c’est la vie


It’s all fun and games, black and white, until you’re married to a worrier. So here I am, rockin’ and rollin’ scooters, carefree, 10 feet tall and bulletproof but when I see the look of horror on my husbands face when he sees my bruises from flipping my scooter, or the pain in his voice when I casually call and tell him all of downtown FW knows what color my underwear are because I tripped, in a crowd, wearing a dress – that’s puts the worrying into a different perspective. It’s not that he’s worried I might hurt myself, it’s that he knows it’s going to happen.

Beyond my sweet husband, the majority of my support system is classified as chronic worriers. I am literal kryptonite to the majority of people in my life. Mostly it’s fun, I keep everyone on their toes and going but if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times: Sunny, I just worry about you.

I wish there was a way to let them know, to let you know, every minute that I’m ok, or that I’m not ok and to hurry and pick me up. Luckily for you, there’s not. Can you even imagine? It would be like The Truman Show with drooling and four letter accent words – I’m a lot to handle, you know it and I know it.

The Truman Show (1998) Blu-ray Screenshot

Thankfully, worrying is easily translated as love. You love me and you know it and that’s the way you show it, hey! Please don’t use too much energy worrying about me – I mean some is fine because I’ll have withdraws if you all leave me at the same time – but not too much energy, ok? Know that I love you, too. Without your support – worrying or otherwise – ALS would suck a whole lot more and life would be a lot less fun.

Probably safer to invest your worries in my husband, he is the first line of defense when I get myself into a pickle. Bless his sweet, sweet heart.


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