FOOTSTEPS

 

Before I understood anxiety, I understood footsteps. 

FOOTSTEPS

Before I understood anxiety, I understood footsteps. 

At night, lying in bed, I would hear them. Or at least I thought I did. A floorboard creaking somewhere down the hall. A sound from another room. 

The house settling after everyone had gone to sleep. Except when you are a kid, the house settling can sound a lot like something coming toward you.

I was always afraid at night. Not terrified exactly. More like permanently suspicious. I would lie under the covers listening, trying to decide whether the sound I heard was real or something my imagination had promoted into an emergency.

There was also an old Chuck Wagon dog food commercial that did absolutely nothing to improve the situation. If you grew up around that time, you may remember it. 

This tiny stagecoach would come racing through the house, complete with galloping horses and the crack of a whip, while the dog chased it around like this was a reasonable way to advertise dinner for your dog.

During the day? Funny. At night? Different production entirely.

Somehow my childhood brain became convinced that little stagecoach might come charging out of the refrigerator, race down the hallway, and eventually arrive at the foot of my bed. 

I realize there are children who feared monsters. I feared miniature western transportation. Everyone has a cross to bear.

So I would lie there listening. A creak. A tap. Footsteps. Was someone coming? Was something coming? Should I look? Absolutely not. 

There are moments in childhood when pulling a blanket over your head feels like an advanced home-security system.

Eventually morning would come. Nothing had happened or ghost. No six-inch cowboy arriving from the kitchen. And I would get up and go about my day. But my body had spent the night preparing for something anyway.

I think about that now because years later, the stagecoach is gone. The imaginary footsteps are gone. But sometimes the feeling remains. That sense that something is coming.

A phone call or email. A conversation. A bill. 

A problem I have not discovered yet but am expected to begin worrying about immediately.

Adult anxiety is sophisticated like that. It no longer needs monsters under the bed. It has Outlook. Bank accounts. Medical portals. Text messages that begin with, “Can we talk?”

The props change. The feeling does not.

Brace yourself. Something is coming.

For most of my life, I did not think of myself as an anxious person. I was productive responsible. Which, looking back, may simply have been anxiety wearing a tie.

If I could anticipate every problem, maybe nothing could surprise me. If I worked harder, checked one more time or imagined every possible outcome, perhaps I could finally relax.

Except preparation has no finish line. There is always another thing that might happen.

I am learning now that sometimes the hardest thing is not solving whatever I fear. It is realizing there may be nothing to solve yet. 

Many times… a creak is just a creak. Sometimes the phone is simply sitting there. Or tomorrow has not arrived and does not require me to live it tonight.

My body is still learning this.

There are nights when I catch myself listening again. Not for a tiny Chuck Wagon anymore. Thankfully. 

But for trouble. For whatever my mind has decided might be coming next.

And when I notice it, I try to remind myself... you are here. Right now. Nothing is standing at the foot of the bed. You do not have to brace for a future that has not happened.

Then I think about my young kids. I wonder what sounds from childhood they will carry into adulthood. I cannot protect them from every fear. I cannot make their lives quiet.

But when they hear my footsteps, I hope something entirely different happens. I hope their shoulders loosen. I hope they hear me coming down the hallway and know exactly what the sound means.

Daddy’s home. You’re safe. Come closer.