Charlie:Oh my sweet summer child. Anxiety over something distinct and realistic is so much easier to deal with than anxiety for anxiety’s sake. Try being anxious because it’s Tuesday and Tuesday “is just bad, for reasons,” and then we’ll talk about dealing with anxiety as a Thing.
Charlie:But more seriously, and here I give you the advice I truly and vividly hate to receive because fuck that, but try not to worry too much. There’s nothing you can do at this point to affect those test results, no matter how much you worry about them. So there’s no point doing the worrying.
Me:Thanks, I hate it too. That doesn’t help at all.
Charlie:Yeah, it never does. It’s true though. Can you vent to Hen, blow off some steam?
I winced and glanced over my shoulder at the bedroom door, through which I could still hear Hen’s snores.
Me:No, it would just make things worse for him. He’s…already anxious.
Charlie didn’t know that Hen shared her anxiety diagnosis, and now I couldn't tell her that he had tested positive for HIV, either. Sometimes being respectful of others sucked balls.
My sister wasn’t dumb, however, and she showed it.
Charlie:Anxious, or ANXIOUS?
Me:Sigh. Charlie.
Charlie:I’m not asking you to tell me his medical diagnosis, bro. But this isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned him being ‘anxious’ or ‘nervous’ or other such words. You know I, of all people, will get it if he has anxiety. And maybe I can give you - or him - some advice for living with it.
I sighed out loud this time.
Me:It’s a thing for him, ok? I’m not saying any more than that because it’s not my place to talk about what he experiences. But it’s been hard for him, these past couple months.
Charlie:I.e. the period in which he’s had you? Are you making things hard for the poor guy?
Charlie:And I swear to god if you make a dick joke right now I will reach through the phone and strangle you.
I backspaced the joke I’d already been typing, wincing.
Me:I mean yes, the same time period, but that kind of goes along with how we met more than it has anything to do with me causing stress. I think. I hope. I mean, he seems happy to be with me.
Charlie:Joking aside, I’m glad of that. You seem happier now that you’re with him, too. But he’s still, you know, anxious?
Me:You know even “the love of a good man” can’t cure that.
Charlie:Ah, so itisa thing.
Charlie:No, no, I know, you’re not going to say. But I’m just gonna proceed as if it’s a thing at this point. You don’t have to confirm or deny or tell me anything you think he wouldn’t want me to know.
Charlie:Of course, if you’d let memeethim, he and I could bond and probably talk this over live, but nooo, for some reason you don’t want your sister to meet your boyfriend because blah blah my forceful personality yadda yadda I’d embarrass you.
I paused, waiting for yet another message to flood in from her, but nothing came, so after a minute I started typing.
Me:Now is not the time, Charlie. Give me the damn advice. I know you have it.
Charlie:Ok, my two-part advice. Part 1, for neurotypicals: Distract yourself. Keep in mind that there’s nothing you can do to change things at this point and worrying will only hurt you and not accomplish anything. Vent to friends if and when you can; a problem shared is a problem halved.
I considered her advice. It was all good points, and I supposed I could try to make use of it, but it all felt a little…beside the pointwhen there was actually a real, existential threat to my health and safety looming over my head.
Charlie:Part 2, for the neurodiverse: Take your meds. Be in therapy and use the fuck out of your therapist. Then, distractions, whether that’s copious amounts of sex, taking up knitting, or obsessing about brushing your cats. Let your friends be your supports and lean on them even when it feels like you’re wronging them by doing that. Don’t drink too much, as tempting as it is.
Charlie:Honestly, Jamie, I know you don’t want to tell me private things about him, and I know you’re afraid of what I’d say if I met him, but like…if he really has anxiety? He may not have any friends he feels like he can truly vent to that would understand. Give him my number and tell him I’m happy to talk and I promise that I won’t be weird. Well, I mean, weirder than I already am. The baseline weirdness is inescapable.
I smiled at that. I loved my sister. She was, yes, weird, and pushy, and overprotective of me at times, but she was a genuinely good person who wanted to help. I was still wary of her overwhelming my Hen, both with her personality and with embarrassing stories about me, but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to put them in touch.
Me:I’ll think about it. I really only know of one close friend he has, and I’m not sure where they are on the polite-friendship to balls-to-the-wall-friendship scale. But you have to promise not to, like, threaten him or anything.
