Worst Case Scenario

My dark side emerges any time a potentially tragic or dangerous situation confronts me. Just yesterday, I was at least 50% sure that my husband had been killed in a freak accident. Why? Because it was 6:30 and he was not home, and he wasn't answering his cell phone. I was actually thinking through having to sell the new house, get an apartment in Waco, deal with sympathetic friends and family, etc. when Stephen came through the door. He was surprised to be greeted not with a smile and a hot meal, but by me, hands on hips, with the classic country-music wifely greeting of "Where in the world have you been?"

As I was reflecting on the evening's "close call," I realized that this is not really an isolated incident in my surprisingly morbid brain.

-A few weeks ago I tried to call my family on a Saturday morning, to find that no one answered the house phone or any of the cell phones. This led me to the conclusion that my family members must all be victims of carbon monoxide poisoning or some sick sociopathic murderer. (Of course, Mom and Dad were at a meeting at church, and Leslie was sleeping in and not answering the phone)

-I have a problem with driving behind trucks carrying loads of tree trunks or lumber. I refuse to follow this kind of cargo because of the risk that one of the items might come loose from the truck, go through my windshield and decapitate me.

-I also hate driving back to my country house at night because of the deer. I heard a story not long ago about a family who had a collision with a deer. Thinking that the deer was dead, they were not rushing to get out of the vehicle. Then, the deer came out of shock and began thrashing his legs around inside the car, causing much more damage to the passengers than the accident itself.

-I compulsively clean soap off of my dishes as I wash them in order to stave off gastrointestinal attacks. For this same reason, I will not eat leftovers after about one day.

I would go on, but I'm feeling as if I have shared enough. What if I revealed even more of my dark fears, and people read them and thought I was a freak and no one would ever read my blog or be my friend again? I'd have to live the rest of my life as an outcast and then "I would die alone, to be found three days later half-eaten by wild dogs" (thanks, Bridget Jones).

Before you write me off completely, you have to consider: freak accidents and brutal crimes do happen daily. When they do, it is always someone's family or loved one who are the victims. So how much of my fretting is legitimate worry, and how much is the result of reading too many tragic novels? What is the line between caution and paranoia?