On Over-Thinking. (Prosery.) NaPoWriMo 2017.

If overthinking is a combination of being intelligent but not having a hobby, or being over-caffeinated and not getting enough sleep, or being a little bit stressed and wearing your coping mechanisms so thin you can see through them like a bad alibi, or not socializing with your friends who distract and lift you positively, or not seeing your beloved enough, or whatever the trigger is that makes you think about everything way too much, then I know exactly what that is. But knowing what it is doesn’t help me solve it. And knowing that I overthink almost everything to the point of badgering it into little tiny pieces doesn’t make it any easier for me to stop. There are many people, mostly women my age, who have this inability to just relax and be, and enjoy the very moment we are in. And that is really all we have it any given time:  this very moment. Why ruin it with a bunch of overthinking and needless worrying? I don’t have the answer to that question…but if you give me 10 minutes I can think it through about twenty-dozen times in three different languages (and still have no answer). On the upside, no one can ever accuse gals like us of making an impulsive decision since we’ve thought about everything for the last four thousand years.  I did not choose to marry the brain that cannot be stilled; it is almost forced upon me. A bizarre arranged relationship between my intellect and my fears (many of which are self-inflicted or wounds from ghosts past).
It’s a thief of joy, at its unmastered worst. A creative hybrid rocket fuel at its best. I’d rather be in a constant state of excitement – even about the mundane then to twease apart the banality of things that don’t really matter anywhere but my too-busy brain.  Meditation, I’m back.

Journal entry, 17 April, 2014.


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