Prozac, anyone?

When I was a child, I was a worrier. Freakishly worried. About everything.

One day, when I was four or five, a tornado watch ran across the bottom of our TV screen. (My mom was watching General Hospital, a habit she's long since given up). The shrill beeping noise and the words scared me, and when my mom explained what it all meant, I went into full freakout mode. Crying, worried, and unconsolable. It was dark, and thunder-y, and my mom took me into her bedroom and we laid down on the bed while she tried to talk and reason with me.

That didn't really work. For the next six years I worried about tornadoes. Thunderstorms scared me. I would watch the sky every day for dark clouds, I would refuse to ride the bus home on dark afternoons (Because the engine might flood in a rainstorm. It happened once, and I was seriously distraught.) My daily happiness was dictated by what was happening weather-wise (and Florida in the summer has thunderstorms almost every day, from May through September or October).

I thought about this just now, because I can hear thunder. I'm all alone in my house, and I'm hoping for a giant crashing storm. And my mom should probably be happy about that--I think she must've worried about how her anxiety-ridden child would turn out. And although I've still got my issues, I think I can handle some good old-fashioned violent weather.