On Not Knowing What Will Happen

This is not a blog in the usual sense of being a sort of journal that simply unrolls across time. It is more by nature of an online handbook which has tips, hints, advice and how to’s about a very common problem, clinical anxiety. When I have said everything I feel that I can, it will stop. In the meantime, in the absence of specific questions long periods may occur between one post and the next. As has happened here. I don’t write it for the sake of writing it, but only post when something occurs to me which may be helpful. As is about to happen here. A very common source of anxiety is concern about what the future may hold. It’s an anxiety that may be vaguely concerning or it may be so severe that it overwhelms and paralyses the person. It is usually brought about by some major change in our lives which appropriately raises the question, “What happens now?”, and to which the answer is, “I don’t know.” But we want to know. Indeed we tell ourselves that we need to know, and the realisation that we don’t know fills us with fear and foreboding. Understandable but misguided. The truth is that there is nothing in the slightest way unusual about not knowing what the future holds. It’s just that normally we don’t notice. We have sufficient experience of past patterns to make predictions about future patterns, which generally speaking come to pass. I have a medical appointment tomorrow so I shall present myself at the health centre in good time and undergo the test that is scheduled. That’s my supposition. It’s well-founded because that’s what I do when I have medical appointments. But until it actually happens, it’s only a prediction; it’s not a reality until it happens. To give you an example. We are planning on moving back to England. Recently we were there for three weeks on holiday and decided that we would spend a few days on the Isle of Wight, the area we want to move to. I booked three nights in a B & B, we packed a case on the Sunday and had our rail tickets for Monday morning. But on Sunday night my wife was hit by severe stomach cramps which prevented her from sleeping much, and they were still with her on Monday morning. So we cancelled. We didn’t got to the Isle of Wight after all. It wasn’t a disaster, but it was a disappointment. The stomach cramps cleared up quickly and my wife returned to normal health. We ‘knew’ what we were going to do, but we didn’t do it; circumstances changed. So the first lesson to take hold of is that circumstances change all the time, but mainly we don’t react with fear or anxiety. Fear and anxiety are reserved for the big changes that come unforeseen - a spouse or partner dying or leaving us, a redundancy, an unwanted pregnancy, diagnosis with a serious illness. Things which basically we hadn’t planned upon happening. There is a second, equally important lesson to be learned; we will survive, Things will be fine. Different but fine; we will survive. It’s a strange characteristic of human beings that we always think that we are the finished product; that we are how we will always be and that life is settled and will stay like this. The only trouble is that we are wrong. Think back to the person you were at the age of twenty - what you were doing, your interests, job, where you were living, who your friends were. Now leap forward ten years to the age of thirty and look back from there. Can you believe that so many of those things could have changed so much in just ten years? Now come to the present day and see how much has changed since you were thirty. Most of the changes that occurred were things you would not, could not have predicted, and yet here you are today, different but still in one piece. Why then would you expect the future you to be the same as you today? It hasn’t happened in your past. Why should it happen in your future? Know this then; you don’t know what the future holds but it’s odds-on that it and you will be fine once you’ve made the transition from what is to what’s next. In the words of the cliché, life is a sentence; living is a process.