The land of "what if"

Staying out of the quicksand

Today’s accompanying tune: “Step Out” by José González

Each of us creates our own path through the quicksand.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the land of “what if.” The land of endless possibilities — what if I won the lottery, what if I landed that dream job, what if conditions are beyond perfect. The land of everything, everywhere, all at once, different lives I could’ve, would’ve, should’ve lived playing out universes apart, side by side. What if I moved to the desert? What if I quit my corporate job? What if I took a leap of faith? What if none of that works out?

The other side of the land of what if — the land of possibility — is its penchant for worry. For anxiety. What if everything goes sideways? What if I get fired? What if I lose everything? The spiral of anxiety feeds on what if, the untold possibilities more worrisome, more catastrophic than the last. It starts subtly — what if that cloud near the ridge turns into a thunderstorm — but quickly accelerates — what if I have to spend the night out here, what if I get struck by lightning? If one scenario is possible, then why not the next? And the next? What’s to stop me from what if-ing myself into oblivion?

As I’ve gotten a hold on my anxiety, I’ve taken fewer trips to the land of what if. I see the exits as I drive by, acknowledging their presence without careening off them, eyes ahead on the road. If the exits appear seemingly out of nowhere but directly in front of me, I swerve. Talk myself down. Rationalize. Stop asking myself, what if.

The land of what if is filled with quicksand, so stable at first glance but easily able to swallow you whole with nothing left to show for it. Though the internet has lately liked to joke about the absence of quicksand — a childhood horror that never materialized in adulthood — its presence is confirmed after days of rain in the desert or near the bottom of a slot canyon where water collects. There is a corner of my yard that turns to quicksand whenever we get large storms that linger for days — the water is absorbed deeper and deeper into the layers of sand, creating the illusion of stability while, in reality, each sand particle floats in its own pond, stability far out of sight.

To know anxiety is to know how to walk in quicksand, allowing myself to sink every so slightly as I attempt to propel myself forward, lest I drown entirely. I used to think managing anxiety meant moving faster, gliding along the top of the quicksand so smoothly as to barely leave a mark. To refuse to sink, whether out of skill or simple determination. I upped my exposure, spent more time in the land of what if. I sank into the sand again and again, never moving fast enough to stay at its surface. Eventually, I sank farther than ever, the force of my quickened pace only driving me in further. Anxiety was winning, and the land of what if morphed from the land of opportunity into something dangerous, full of anticipation and fear.

I know my common exit ramps into the land of what if well. Ironically enough, one of them is driving. Whether as a passenger or a driver, I cannot stop sinking into the quicksand every time I am on the road — what if the driver in front of me is on their phone, what if they veer into my lane, what if I brake too quickly and someone behind me hits me? What if the semi-truck switches lanes without looking? What if the pick-up truck can’t see me under its tank-sized front bumper? What if my tire blows on the CA-62 exit ramp from the eastbound side of I-10 and I’m stuck there on the side of the road, without my AAA card, and a dog in the back seat?

If the specificity didn’t give it away, that last ‘what if’ actually happened about a year ago. While I was repeatedly calling my husband for the AAA number to no answer, a good samaritan pulled over and helped me get the donut tire on so I could at least make it back up the hill. The thing about the quicksand is, if you get through it once, you can get through it again.

Living out the negative what if scenarios has given me a bit of a guide, if you will, to walking through the quicksand without sinking. It doesn’t make the quicksand disappear, and there are always going to be times when my foot sinks in a few inches, especially while driving on the highway, especially when others’ actions set off the ‘what if’ journey to begin with. Another thing about quicksand is I’m the only one that can get myself out of it, save myself from sinking further. The more I can focus on my own action, my reactions, my affects, the lighter I feel when crossing it.

Letting go of what I cannot control is a cliché doled out by well-meaning therapists, friends, internet strangers, you name it, especially when the topic of anxiety arises. For me, though, the anxiety isn’t about control of others, or control of the uncontrollable. It’s about sinking into a place where I can no longer control myself, my brain, my thoughts. Where the energy spins of its own accord, taking me down with it. Anxiety is a me problem, and I’m the only one I trust to fix it. My path through the quicksand is mine, and probably mine alone. What works for me probably doesn’t work for you.

I can avoid the off-ramp to the land of what if. I can silently curse at the truck driver in the far left lane as they pass three other trucks in the three other lanes, but I don’t have to visualize my car pressed against the semi and the median as they made their move. I can keep my eyes on the road, my hands on the wheel, and my foot on the pedal. I can glide over the quicksand, knowing I have made it out the other side before and therefore can do it again.

The circumstances beyond my control will always be there, but I can adjust myself to meet them with enough grace that I am stronger on the other side, more prepared to face the quicksand again, and again, and again. There is no gliding without grace, just one foot sinking further and further down as I try to move faster than last time. The nature of ‘what if’ changes — what if I can handle this? What if it all works out? What if I’ll be okay?

And that, there, is where opportunity lives.

Here’s to finding our own way out.

- Megan