The Delirious Anxiety of Emails
Can you believe we write things and just send them into the ether?!
Like you, I write lots of emails. They are necessary to my full-time job, my freelance gigs, my social life, my medical care and my need to politely let my apartment manager know when something that is not sentient has jumped off the ceiling (the smoke detector did this recently, clearly seeking adventure).
But on days when I’m especially anxious, the marvelous correspondence tool that is email becomes weirdly, irrationally terrifying. It isn’t that I imagine I’ll fire off a horrible multi-page poem whilst in the throes of hallucinations, or send adorable photographs of my perfect cat to someone who does not deserve them. It’s more that I fear I’ve misspelled something in a way that will make me look stupid to the recipient, even though I know that misspellings do not make us look stupid and that in fact when somebody sends me an email with typos, I barely notice them unless I am being paid to copyedit said email.
I also worry that I’ve phrased something incorrectly; come off as overbearing; given an impression of rudeness; led the reader to think I’m entitled; accidentally typed a random FUCK or CUNT; and, overall, alienated the person on the receiving end of the email. This extends not just to friends and work colleagues but to customer care representatives, family members, and somebody who clearly emailed the wrong Sara Benincasa (hello to the ones in Brazil, South Africa, and Canada.)
I can chalk up part of my anxiety to the fact that I am sometimes employed as an editor, copyeditor, freelance writer, staff writer, or author, and that words are how I make my living. Maybe there is residual fear from when I was a very nice pushover type of English teacher, imagining that any mistake on my part would lead my students to think I was not fit to teach them (I wasn’t, because I was too young and didn’t have a hard enough outer shell yet, but I had a decent handle on the subject matter.)
A lot of it must be about people-pleasing. Some of it must be about being so accustomed to living in anxiety that when I’m having an otherwise decent day, I summon the familiar, thorny dread-blanket in order to feel like myself again.
Does any of this sound like you? Is it related to the thing some of us have about hating to actually make a phone call? Feel free to discuss in the comments.
Anyway, today I’m working through that anxiety by writing this little letter to you, doing my job, even engaging in another anxiety-producing exercise called TEXTING, can you believe? I meditated once, and some days that’s enough, but other days I need to take breaks multiple times to breathe and remember where my body is.
I hope you are well. Bit of a crowded week for those of us in the States who headed back to work after having Monday off (and if you’re here and didn’t have Labor Day off, I’m sorry about that - you deserve a rest!)
I’ve got a poll coming your way soon, as I’ve got some ideas for recurring features. Now let’s take a deep breath together, if that’s available to us in the moment - ahhhhhhhhhh - and resolve to be as decent to ourselves and others as we can.
Also, let’s remember that even on the busiest and most anxious day, punching a pillow is always a glorious option. I welcome your other quick anxiety relief techniques in the comments!
Love,
Sara
I remember when social media FIRST became a thing. My dad (a wise dude) told me that "this constant communication is not something we are wired for -- ants in a colony need this, we don't!"
And honestly I try to recall his words when I'm dealing with all my communication media. I have eight messaging apps. EIGHTTTTTTT (this does not include email). I have to treat myself well to carry on in a healthy way, so I ignore what messages I can most of the time. Does this work well? No. Am I doing the best I can with what I have? Yes. And that's all I can give the world.