The Washing Machine is Probably Fine

I told David yesterday that the spin cycle on the washing machine gives me anxiety.

He looked at me the way you'd look at someone who just said something that makes no logical sense, which is fair, because it doesn't. I explained that when the washer is full of wet clothes and hits the spin cycle, I think about how much all that water weighs and I'm certain the machine is going to break down under the strain. He nodded, slightly amused.

Twenty-three years after Robert died, I still live with the anxiety his death left behind.

It started immediately after the accident. Driving became an exercise in hypervigilance. I watched every car on the road like it might swerve into my lane at any second. I noticed every roadside cross marking where an accident had claimed a life, and each one hit me with intense sadness for the family who had put it there, who knew exactly what I knew about how fast everything can end. Phone calls at odd hours sent my heart racing. The world had proven itself capable of destroying everything in an instant, and my brain decided the only reasonable response was to expect disaster everywhere.

Most of that has faded with time. The hypervigilance while driving has shifted into something different. I don't panic behind the wheel, but I have an intense desire to get where I'm going as fast as possible without breaking the law. My goal is always to be home. Almost anywhere else feels like a place I should already be leaving. Phone calls during daylight hours don't automatically spike my adrenaline anymore, but if someone who usually texts is calling instead, I presume something's wrong before I even answer. David being late doesn't send me spiraling the way it might have years ago; I have my little ‘husband GPS’ on my phone so I can see where he is and whether he's in motion.

What hasn't faded is the hum of catastrophic thinking that shows up in the strangest places. I fill our upstairs bathtub and I'm certain it's going to fall through the ceiling to the floor below. I watch horses run and all I can think about is their legs snapping under the weight of the rider or stepping wrong into a gopher hole. The anxiety isn't constant, but it has a habit of turning ordinary moments into situations my brain feels compelled to evaluate for structural failure.

The strange part is how normal I look while it’s happening. I don't fall apart or have visible panic attacks; I spiral internally while looking completely fine on the outside. David doesn't know I'm struggling unless I tell him, like yesterday with the washing machine. Most of the time I just talk myself down and keep moving.

I've learned a few grounding techniques over the years. Ice in my hand, a mint to focus on the taste; anything that pulls me back to the present moment instead of the imagined catastrophe. I remind myself where it comes from: My brain learned a hard lesson when Robert died, and it still runs that program even when nothing is wrong. My nervous system is trying to keep me safe; it just doesn't always know the difference between a real threat and a washing machine full of wet towels.

Some things haven't shifted at all. A phone call that should have been a text makes me answer with "what's wrong" instead of "hello." My daughter Emmy is pregnant, and I carry a complicated mix of normal mom worry and trauma-amplified fear about everything that could go wrong. She's struggled since her father died, and watching her navigate this pregnancy brings up every protective instinct I have, sharpened by the knowledge that I couldn't protect her from losing him. This is what living with sudden loss can look like.

You can be happy and still anxious. You can build a good life and still have a nervous system that keeps scanning for danger. You can be decades past the loss and still feel the aftershocks in moments you don't expect. Grief leaves behind a brain that remembers what it learned about how quickly everything can fall apart.

The washing machine will probably be fine. The tub isn't going to fall through the floor. The horses will keep running without catastrophe. I know this logically... my body just needs a little more convincing sometimes. I’m not waiting to be fixed before I live.

With Grace for the Mess,

~Stef