I spent two decades without air conditioning; twenty summers sleeping under wet towels instead of blankets. Now my home is cold enough to make guests reach for sweaters. But it’s not about compensating for all those dehydrated dreams. It’s about the layers.
I love layers. Hoodies. So many hoodies. There are days when I’m more hoodie than man.
In the dead of winter, I’ll be in my office with the window wide open and the fan on while three hoodies and two beanies try their best to keep up. My wife Angela came in once, saw snow on my office floor, and, half kidding, half deadly serious, said, “Keep your door shut.”
The temperature isn’t the point. What I’m after is the feeling of being held, even if it’s by one to three cotton-poly blends, depending on the level of dread. It’s like an all-day hug. When anxiety makes me feel like I might crumble, each layer helped hold me together.
It’s helpful to think of myself as a scared animal. They don’t relax because of an airtight logical argument. They don’t relax because of apps or hacks. They relax when they feel safe.
And it’s obvious when I take the time to notice it. A loved one walks into the room and I feel safer. A full exhale after hitting send and I realize the world didn’t end. Safer. I do something kind for someone else… locking it in.
Yes, my body remembers the pain; it also remembers what helped if I let it. Red lights are no more frequent than green, but I only notice the greens if I try to. So I’m trying to notice the way my breathing slows when Angela touches the back of my neck or when our youngest hands me her ragged purple elephant Grapes. How the clenching, the exhaustion, and everything that helps are information, not weaknesses.