Uncategorised Angst

Head's in a tizzy again.

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Quick unsolicited linguistic note: Angst is German for fear. I think when I use it in English it point more towards anxiety. The ceaseless rambling and tinkering of an uneasy mind. I do, however, think of angst and anxiety light. Brooding and legitimately concerned, though perhaps overly hesitant. Confusion seems to play a bigger role in my understanding of angst than it does in my perception of anxiety. Apt, since I am confused whether I am anxious, afraid or something in between.

You’d think that after rustling up a little job security and a roof over my head (not that I had much to do with the rustling up of said privileges, I’m still convinced both were spontaneous and miraculous) that I’d be less anxious. What is there to worry about? You ask in a well-meaning and unserious tone of voice, shrugging. Well … nothing? For clarity, there’s not actually much that’s bothering me about work and home. No big unforeseen rental fees to pay or flat-mate squabbles to crush. My bosses, co-workers and I all get along. I’m actually quite chuffed with the quality of work I’m delivering at the current pace. Bosses are, too. What’s the problem then?

I don’t know. I can’t tell if I’ve got an overactive mind that I need to discipline, or if I’ve got an overstressed mind that I should afford some rest. I’ll give you an example. On Friday, I was behaving like I had a million things to do and not enough time to do anything. A friend had invited me to her birthday, and I needed to invest a little time into her gift. I also had about fifteen minutes of work to do and I had to go shopping. Another friend was going to drop in for tea in the afternoon. Sounds like a quiet day to me.

But I found myself looking at the rusty water-stain splotch the size of a doberman on the vinyl flooring in my kitchen that predates my moving in. All of a sudden it disgusted me. Two glasses on the kitchen counter had visible water droplet marks on the inside. My stomach twisted. I glanced over at the cabinet on which I had placed my various boxes of tea, some coffee paraphernalia and a handful of mugs. At once, I was overcome with panic. Panic that told me I should have known to scrub the floor on my hands and knees. I should have organised my coffee and tea and cups more pleasingly, or at all. I needed to wash all the glassware before they arrive. I needed to drop everything and do all this before they got here. But I can’t drop everything, I thought to myself. I’m busy writing Jeremy’s Journal, I need to have that finished today, too.

This happens all the time. I’ll walk into my room and see a letter and remember that I need to provide my health insurance some personal details. I’ll look at my windowsill and see the books sitting there and remember that I want to build myself a bookshelf. I’ll get on the train and remember that I meant to bring the recycling with me.

I feel like my mind is a sieve trying to hold onto sand. I feel like I’m being really hard on myself. I feel like I wish I had made my home more comfortable last week, so that I didn’t have to think about it now. None of this angst presents itself at work. When I’m caught up in the routine I’ve established for myself, I’m actually quite content. I even had a lovely week. My girlfriend and I went to a café that hosts the occasional jazz night on Wednesday evening. Work felt interesting and easy. Why am I so tightly strung, then? My off-time is filled with me feeling like I should have made a realisation, done a chore or remembered a goal yesterday. I feel like I am always playing catch up. The rest of my time is spent analysing that feeling. Is it right? Is it too harsh? Do I relieve the tension by executing the activities and having nothing on my to-do list? Or should I realise that I only have so many hours in the day and allot a set amount of time each day to tackle my tower of tasks? Or better yet, do I write it off as putting myself under far too much pressure and agree that a little imperfection is better than driving myself crazy? Or, is that secretly the easy way out? Hell if I know. Time for a cup of tea, I think.

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