Paranoia

(written after the latest mass shooting)

I think twice about attending a community event with a large crowd and take deep breaths to enter Target or Wal-Mart.  I distrust notions of “it could never happen here…or here…or here”.  I cringe at “thoughts and prayers.”

The world I grew up in was overflowing with trust and beliefs in unending possibilities.  Teachers were looked up to and not to be doubted.  Clergy, scout leaders, doctors existed to support us and our parents and to enrich our lives. The experts were expert and we trusted their knowledge.  Our parents knew that when we weren’t in their sight, we were in someone else’s.  They had complete confidence that if we went off on our bikes or walked to the nearby store we would return, unharmed.

 “The good old days” were not good for everyone, and those experts were not always so expert. I realize that now.  Nevertheless I ache for my children and grandchildren, growing up in the world we have given them.  

The always gnawing paranoia sits in my stomach like a cancerous tumor.  

Paranoia:  A pervasive, persistent, and enduring mistrust of others, and a profoundly cynical view of others and the world.  Definition from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5)(5th Edition). Washington, DC.

As life goes on there is a hazy awareness of the energy used to squelch that gnawing, to suck up rage at the stupidity or corruptness or power-neediness of the decision makers.   There is a toll my fear of danger is taking on my body and psyche.   

I am always tired.  

Stifling that paranoia takes as much energy as running a mile or lifting weights. Suppressing anger doesn’t do anything to dissipate it.  

I yearn for the impossible.  

I long to be innocent.  To trust.  To throw off my cynicism.  

I feel ugly with my pervasive suspicions and disbeliefs.  

I feel frustrated with a world where paranoia is merited, sensible, and necessary.  

The only way out is to keep my focus on the good:  the beautiful blue eyes of my grandchildren and the unbridled enthusiasm they have for their lives; the beauty of the natural world that surrounds me and engages all my senses; the loving touch from my husband or hugs from my daughters and my friends.

 I laugh.  Write.  Join protests.  Send money.  Do good works. 

I don’t give up or give in. I enter Target, Wal-Mart, taking deep breaths, my ears alert for sounds I hope I’ll never hear, my eyes scanning the aisles for menace.

I keep the spotlight on the tiny space I inhabit. The one space I can control. A space devoid of evil.  A space where I hang onto hope and attempt to not dwell on the hopeless. 

But it’s always there, that paranoia that refuses to depart.