As you might imagine, I have been swimming in sea of anxiety for the last several months.  I don’t do particularly well with unfinished business, much less circumstances in which I have no control.  And since the beginning of the year, several rather large, uncertain situations have moved in on my life, like unwanted house guests who refuse to leave despite my obvious displeasure with them.  Between my surgery, a whirlwind of significant work challenges, and the usual run-of-the-mill parental hand wringing, I have been wound tighter than usual. (Dave can tell you how tight that actually is.)  Yet, I’m also guessing that most people don’t realize the state I’m in.  To them, I have handled all of this so well – with grace, even.

On the outside, this may be true.  But I can tell you that — on the inside — there is nothing graceful about it.  I have been engaging in constant screaming matches with myself inside my head for weeks — about how everything might turn out, how I might prevail or fail, and what it means long term.  It’s worse than a sports talk radio show in there.

In the last few days I have been reflecting on how I typically react to unknown and potentially unpleasant outcomes, because I am very interested in doing better on the inside, not just for these larger life moments, but for the daily uncertainties that pick away at my inner peace.  And I think I have found an unlikely culprit in my suffering:

Hope.

A seemingly benign state of being, Hope is often invoked as a means to pull you through something difficult or lift you up to higher ground. We are encouraged to “choose hope”, “be hopeful” and “hope for the best.”  And I have always embraced Hope with an open heart, especially in the last few months.  It seems to be the right thing to do.

But, frankly Hope hasn’t been getting the job done for me for the simple reason that it is inextricably linked to Fear.  At best, Hope is weighed down by Fear and unable to pull me up to the places I want to go.  At worst, Hope is really Fear in disguise, just prettied up to resemble optimism.

Yeesh.  It takes as much energy to Hope than it does to Fear – maybe even more because I can’t just hope without fear weighing in.  It’s hard core emotional resistance training – and it’s exhausting.

So I’m giving up on Hope for a while.  I want to see how that goes.

For those of you who just made a mental note to stay away from me until I emerge from this phase, fret not.  I’m not replacing hope with fear.  I’m replacing both with something else, something better:

Faith.

Faith is certainty.  Faith is peace. Faith is timeless and transcends the day to day worries that bounce around my brain.

I have been making a conscious effort to move from hope to faith in the last week.  And you know what? It isn’t that difficult.  When Hope and Fear start their Anxiety Show in my little brain, I turn it off.  And I turn on all that I am sure of – favorable conditions I know to be true; friends, family and colleagues upon whom I can unconditionally count; and outcomes I can control.  I reject standing on that fragile and unsteady floor of Hope – and ground myself on the terra firma of Faith.  It feels good and takes far less energy to maintain.

And from there, I plow forward into the uncertainty of the next minute knowing that, there is nowhere to go but up.

This morning I re-read my post from last week with a mixture of compassion and bemused awkwardness, rolling my eyes to mask the subtle squeezing of my heart.  I feel equal parts critical and protective of this girl woman girl who declared this challenge with such pomp and circumstance, filled with confidence and “I’ve got this!” optimism.

I find my earnestness both endearing and slightly embarrassing. The vision of myself as a laid back beer and pizza chick struck me as so naïve, so simple and sweet…like a little boy, proclaiming, “When I grow up, I am going to be an astronaut!”  And you pat his head, and say, “Of course you are!” But just one week ago, I felt caffeinated confident.  Breezy, even. 

Then the days began to creep by.

 Uptight, anxious, bitchy? Yes.  Breezy?  Uhh, not so much.

The adrenaline rush that comes with “Signing Up” was wearing thin as the Buyer’s Remorse settled in.  Hey, that rhymes!

This past week felt similar to the one leading up to the triathlon I did in Florida a few years ago.  It was all sunshine and lollipops when I was swimming laps in the safe little pool at the gym…but as the date of the race approached I started thinking about the Tampa Bay, and how it had things like waves, and no black line on the bottom to keep you in your lane. I started Googling “Shark Attacks in Tampa Bay.”  My vision of slicing effortlessly through the water began to melt under the hot interrogation lights of fear.  

 The point is, it wasn’t all “I Am Woman, Watch Me Pound Pizza”.  There were some angsty moments.

But then I started to do what I am beginning to learn is what real grown-ups do when they are scared, in lieu of sobbing uncontrollably or hiding under the bed. I talked myself off the ledge by reminding myself that I always have a choice to throw fish at the crazy Muppet-guys-in-the-balcony (aka. the voices in my head),

or I can run off the stage crying. 

I remembered something my favorite writer, Anne Lamott said: “My mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to go into alone.”

So, I called in some troops in the form of our good friends, Todd the Bod, (named for his bulging biceps) and his lovely photographer wife, Mrs. Todd the Bod, aka. Danette.  They busted in like the Party Patrol, armed with champagne and Danette’s intense looking camera to document the event.  I think God sends me these ridiculously fun people quite intentionally…crackpot crusaders on a mission to remind me that life is short and that IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE SO HARD. 

Special Agents of Joy, armed with fart jokes and a case of Coors Light. 

While the Muppets in my head may think that I suck, my friends must think otherwise…because they keep on showing up. 

And by hanging around people who think you are awesome for reasons that have nothing to do with the size of your jeans…and they tell you those reasons….and you actuallly let yourself see what they see…well, I think that’s where the change happens.  That’s where the pizza cutter starts rolling some new grooves in your cranium. 

Speaking of the pizza…it was yummy.   Just as I remembered it.

 But I can honestly say, that amidst the laughing and storytelling, the pizza itself became quite secondary…which was exactly the point.

Oh, and incidentally….as a kid, my sister had a friend named Paul who would say, “When I grow up, I am going to be an astronaut!”  And you know what? 

He is.

And while it’s always entertaining to watch Emma in action with other kids, (“Hello, I am Emma from Pennsylvania!” I’m not sure if she is destined for politics or beauty pageants) it was Phoebe, a barely 2 year-old beach newbie, who blew me away with her total fearlessness.  The moment her feet touched the sand she was off to the water, waded into the bay up to her chin, turned around and announced, “Mommy!  Look at me! I swimmin’!  I SWIMMIN’ IN DA WAWA!” 

Watching both my girls dive into new situations without fear of looking stupid or, umm, drowning, made me ask myself: When was the last time I did something that scared me, just for the sake of experiencing something new, for busting out of my comfort zone…for the sake of feeling more alive?

(Getting my colon out doesn’t count). 

Serendipitously, my beach-read this year was a book called Joy For Beginners.  The novel involves six women, one recovering from breast cancer.  As a celebration of life, the women make a pact to complete one new task – to take on one fear- in the spirit of grabbing life by the balls personal growth.

When I think about the event/moments in my life when I felt truly alive, a few things come to mind:  Getting married.  Having babies.  Completing a triathlon.  Running a marathon.  A week-long yoga teacher training in the Catskills. Skinny dipping.  Dancing.  Writing.  And while these examples may seem random, they are linked by one shared trait: Vulnerability.  Each example involves relinquishing a certain amount of control in order to take a risk, whether that be physical pain, looking like an idiot, or a (naked) ride in the back of a police car.  But the act of taking the plunge and living to tell about it…well -that’s the juicy part.  That’s the center of the Tootsie Pop.

Is there something that scares you shitless, but the act of doing it will in some way set you free?

Ok, I’ll go first.

Bungee jumping, you ask? 

(Nope).

Getting a tattoo? 

(Already have one).

I, Jessica Leigh Power Braun, hereby commit before all (ten) of you loyal blog readers, that I will undergo the challenge of taking on one thing that scares me shitless, and report back in one week’s time.  And this daring feat is….drumroll please….

Eating Pizza. 

What?

Yup.

I have not in eaten pizza (REAL pizza-not counting a low-fat Boboli) in 13 years.  Which would make the year 1998…which means I was a senior in college…which means my swan song to pizza was most likely Dominoes.  Which is kind of sad.

Why, you ask?  I am not really sure.  About six years ago, I spent some time in the looney bin an inpatient facility for eating disorders.  While that seems like a lifetime ago, and I definitely consider myself -for lack of a better term- “recovered,” pizza has remained what is referred to as a Fear Food. 

Scared of pizza?  That is ridiculous, of course.  But taking the risk of appearing ridiculous is all part of this exercise, now isn’t it?   So if you don’t have anything nice to say….

Why would I choose this as my fear to overcome?  It’s not as if I need pizza for survival.  My avoidance of this one food doesn’t keep me locked in my room or make me a candidate for any show on the Oprah Winfrey Network intervention. 

But what it does is rob me of an EXPERIENCE.  Pizza is more than a food-  it is an event, a community builder, a breaking of bread.  You SHARE a pizza.  Ordering a pizza is a way of saying, “I would rather relax and spend time with you than cook.”  It is easy: delivered magically to your door with no utensils required. Vegetarians can partake in its gooey goodness.  It’s the perfect solution to Friday night dinner during Lent.  I have even seen dairy free/gluten free options popping up at local pizza places.  Pizza, in many ways, is universal.   So what do I do when pizza is on the menu?

I order a salad.  Which requires a fork.  And is never included in the coupon. Can you say party foul?

Now I am not saying Salad Is Bad.  If you truly want a salad, order a salad.  It’s not the love of the salad but the fear of the pizza I am addressing here.  I want to overcome the feeling of anxiety – that little flip-flop of the stomach – that occurs when someone says, “Hey, you wanna just order a pizza?” 

For once, I am saying “Hell, Yes.”

How about you?

Where in your life can you say yes? (and Hell Yes, that is a direct challenge).

The general consensus seems to be that seven years into a marriage, the “honeymoon period” of love notes and spontaneous sex romantic evenings is officially over, and is replaced with the less flashy, daily duties that come with the territory of parenthood and/or homeownership.  Somewhere between preparing meals, yard work, grocery shopping and the endless cycle of laundry…staring lovingly into my husband’s eyes falls right below “Buy an iron” on my to-do list.

Am I bored? Hell yeah. However cheating on Phil is thankfully NOT the itch I need scratched (besides, who has the energy for THAT?). The thing is… I am not bored with Phil.  I am bored with myself.

I think it might actually be impossible to be bored with Phil. He’s magnetic.  His zest for life is undeniable, his enthusiasm for partying making merry is unparalleled.  He brings out the best in people because he believes the best in people, whether they believe it about themselves or not.

He jokingly loves to hear me tell people about the night we met at a bar in Stone Harbor….how I was drawn to him immediately but settled for talking with his friend (we will call him Bob) instead, assuming that Phil “was way out of my league.”  It’s true.  He was so confident and charming, so at home in his skin.  His eyes were boyish and sparkly, but the laugh lines that framed them made him seem wise and seasoned, like he could teach me a thing or two.  With the help of a few cocktails I mustered up the balls to talk to him…and the rest is history.  He was 30, I was barely 24.

That was almost exactly a decade ago; just yesterday I turned 34.  We have covered a lot of territory in our seven years of marriage: two houses, one dog, two children, a bladder sling surgery and the removal of one large intestine-just to name a few.  Through it all Phil has been unwavering in his love and loyalty.  I can say with certainty that he would do anything for me.  ANYTHING.  And – herein lies the problem – I usually let him.  Not because I am lazy (Ok, maybe a little bit lazy) but mostly because I assume that whatever it is, he will do it better. I deem myself out-ranked in capability because he is older, smarter, and savvier…because he is Phil.  However, by taking on the role as the helpless ingénue, I inadvertantly cast him in the part of Savior instead of Spouse.  In other words, I unconsciously found a loop hole in the whole “becoming a grown-up” thing.

Maybe I am “itchy” because I have outgrown the skin I am in.

In a conversation earlier this week, my kindred spirit Emily mentioned she was reading  Anne Morrow Lindberg’s “Gift From The Sea”. Thankful for the reminder of this literary gem, I dug out my copy from my cardboard box  bookshelf.  Written on Captiva Island, AML shares her insights on marriage, womanhood, and the process of finding one’s self through writing and solitude.   I have read it several times, and each time it takes on new meaning and texture, her insights growing with me as I age and (hopefully) evolve.  In my current stage of restlessness I was struck by her following proclamation: “A woman must come of age by herself – this is the essence of coming of age – to learn how to stand alone.”

ALONE?  I don’t want to be alone. That’s why I got married…right?

With that question, I understand why I played it small for so many years. (And I do mean “small” in the literal sense; I spent a month of our first year of marriage  hospitalized for anorexia).  With that question, I understand why on some unconscious level I have resisted the movement to wholeness I claim to want so desperately: FEAR.  Fear of growing into someone my husband no longer recognizes…someone he no longer loves.  It almost feels like a betrayal on my part: “Hey honey, now I know I SAID I was this submissive, slightly unhinged little waif, but now I have decided that I would ACTUALLY much rather be someone with balance and boobs and actual opinions…sorry!  My bad!  Are you ok with that?”

And you know what?  He is more than ok with it…because as it turns out, that helpless little girl was not the person he fell in love with at all.  I know this because I asked him.  He said: “When I met you I saw a person with a lot of fire and fearlessness – I didn’t see smallness, I saw someone who emitted light and truth. I was fascinated by what outrageous statement might come out of your mouth next- you censored NOTHING.  Even your hair – all crazy and curly – refused to be contained.”

Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote that “the man I was to marry believed in me and what I could do, and consequently I found I could do more than I realized.”

Turns out, the seven year itch isn’t so bad if you have someone to help you scratch it.

Likewise, many don’t refer to their children by their real names.  They use cute aliases or children’s book names, like Puppy and Kitten or Hansel and Gretel or Snip, Snap, and Snurr.

As you may have noticed, Emily and I don’t bother with this layer of security.  First of all, we don’t think anyone would want to kidnap our children.  And secondly, it’s too much trouble to have to remember what fake name we’re supposed to be calling our boys.  Hard enough to come up with their real names.

I am reminded of one of my father’s early childhood memories.  When the entire nation was abuzz over the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, my father, just a little squirt at the time, began to worry that he would be next.   When his older siblings learned about this fear, they responded with love and compassion, manifested by derisive snorting and scoffs of “Who would want to kidnap YOU?”  He went from fearing that he would be snatched to feeling rejected by would-be kidnappers.

Malcolm made a similar point recently, when we were telling him about all the security in the obstetric wards of hospitals these days.  He asked skeptically, “Who would want to steal a baby?  They’re such a burden!” 

But back to the odd business of pseudonyms.  This came up again in the book I just finished reading, Imperfect Endings.  It’s by someone whose name is truly Zoe Fitzgerald Carter, and it’s about how her terminally ill mother decided to end her life, and how Zoe and her sisters were caught up in the ensuing drama and anguish.  In the book, Zoe’s sisters are Hannah and Katherine….but wait, a note to the reader says “Everyone in this book has been given a pseudonym, with the exception of a few public figures and myself.”  So her husband isn’t Jack, and her kids aren’t Clara and Lane, and her mother wasn’t Margaret?  Who are they?  And did any of this really happen?  If you’re going to spill your guts about a real event, why sprinkle in fakery?  There’s something terribly inconsistent, even cheapening, about the whole device.

On the one hand, yes, Zoe Fitzgerald Carter is writing about a private emotional ordeal.  On the other hand, she’s publishing a book about it, so how private could it be?  On one hand, she’s trying to shield her sisters.  On the other hand, since Zoe Fitzgerald Carter is the author’s real name, everyone who ever met her will know who her sisters really are.   Even if you’ve never met her, in this Google age, detective work is a matter of a few mouse clicks.   I would guess that it takes about, oh, three seconds to track down the actual names of the sisters and husband. 

The business of the fake names seems coy at best – and a totally lame half-measure at worst.  I was disappointed by this revelation.  What was in many ways a beautiful, shiningly honest book began to take on the tarnish of untruth.