Overswinging. Overspinning. Overthinking.

I don’t know how I ended up here. 

But here I am on a Friday evening, sitting on a swing.

I guess I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere to be alone. Or maybe it was just for the nostalgia of a place and time when things were simpler.

The summer sky is finally starting to darken, blues fading into orange and pink. There’s still enough light that the playground’s jungle gym casts shadows onto the springy floors, but it’s fading fast enough that parents are calling for their children to take their last trip down the slide, the last minute on the monkey bars, the last jump off the swings. 

“Ten more swings,” one parent negotiates with his daughter. They’re on the other end of swing set.

With a smile she surely rehearsed, she countered, “Fifteen and then I’ll jump and we can go.”

I count with them, rocking myself in time as she swings back and forth, higher and higher as she rocks her legs. On the fifteenth swing, she launches herself off, landing neatly on the springy blue flooring. 

“Did you see how high I went, Daddy?” There’s a brightness to her.

“I did! You did so good!” He takes her hand and the two make their way to the parking lot.

The last of the families leave with them.

I look back to the girl’s swing. When the girl leapt from the seat, it jostled, rather violently and ungracefully, before settling back to stillness. It was flying high until she left and now it’s barely moving. I wonder if it misses her. If it wishes for more moments like those. Or if it’s tired and drained.

Like me. All the energy fled from my body the moment I sat down here. The hard plastic of the seat digs into my hips just as it did when I was younger. I’ll be a little sore when I get up.

If I get up. 

My brain suggests it impulsively before exploring. It would be so much easier to just sit here. To not move. Maybe if I’m still enough I’ll melt into the swings. Maybe I’ll morph into a merry-go-round and become a part of the playground.

It would be easier that way. If I were a swing or a merry-go-round then I wouldn’t be feeling like this. 

Or maybe I would. If I were a swing, maybe it would be like swinging smoothly and high, but creaking the entire way. If I were a merry-go-round, maybe it would be shuddering and thumping on each spin.

The thought makes me shiver.

Nothing is wrong per-say. I’m functioning exactly as I should. Life is good. In fact, it’s probably better than it’s ever been.

I’ve got a job. It’s nothing exciting, but it pays pretty well. It’s most likely worth the stress.

My stomach problems have vanished. I stopped eating gluten because it turns out I’m allergic. I feel physically better, but nothing will satisfy the ache for good bread.

I’ve got a wonderful, loving boyfriend who graduated from college and has a job lined up already. Unfortunately the job is in his hometown so he moved back and we’re long distance for the time being.

On paper everything is perfect. All the basic necessities and a good job, a good relationship, and a good diet. Everything that constitutes a typical good life is there--a home, TV, books, regular exercise, 8 hours of sleep each night, and a skincare routine. The list on that paper would have all the boxes checked off.

Yet here I am, thoughts creaking as they saw back and forth through logic, my heart thumping with every cycle through these thoughts.

 I would make a terrible swing, a terrible merry-go-round too.

I wonder if the swings or the merry-go-round ever wish they could play on the other parts of the playground. They’re all there, bringing joy to children on a regular basis. Would the merry-go-round enjoy a giant slide? Would the swing use its chains to cross the monkey bars? Would they have parents to take them?

My dad took me to the playground once in a while. He also told me that there is a good and a bad to everything. Sometimes you just have to look for it. He said it was a natural balance that meant everything had trade-offs.

“There is no perfect good or bad. You just pick the goods and bads to suit your needs and compromise on the rest. There’s always a trade off.”

Except the swings and the merry-go-round don’t get to pick. They just are.

I can’t tell if that’s better or worse.

At least it means they’ll never question their life choices. 

They won’t pour their everything into work and productivity in hopes that it will all pay off. They won’t miss parties and chances to nurture friendships. They won’t face the balance of fun and responsibility or the trade-offs of short-term for long-term.

Missing delicious foods to save my health. Missing my boyfriend from miles away to save from the pain of a breakup, to save for the future of our dreams. Missing things and working hard now so that one day I won’t have to miss anything anymore and this creaking, shuddering feeling will go away.

I made my choices. Is my life better off for it? I swing back and forth between the answers to that on a daily basis.

Success came from sacrifice and it feels like I’m doomed to keep repeating the same choice.

Sacrifice. For safety. For security. For stability.

A willing choice. I knew what I was doing. I knew the possible consequences. I just didn’t know it could hurt like this. I didn’t know that you could do everything right and still feel like swings shuddering once the kid leaps off, like a merry-go-round thump-thumping off kilter even as it spins. I didn’t know that anxiety can fuel productivity and lead to burnout.

But I’m healthier than ever. Video-calling my boyfriend every night brings unaccountable joy to my life. My hard work enables me to enjoy little comforts and helps me grow. It’s just a matter of feeling that on some days.

The overthinking got me to where I am--successful and a mess.

But then what’s the point if you give up happiness now for the hope of happiness in the future? At what point does it stop? Where does the transition start?

There I go again. Around and around like the merry-go-round. My head may as well be one. 

Would I change things? No. Do I feel a little nauseous? Yes. 

I’m so sick of myself. 

Looking for the good. Searching for a high like launching myself off the swing set, only to come crashing down. Only to find myself back here, right where I started.

Back to my creaking thoughts. Back and forth. Creaking. Creaking.

Back to my spinning mind going around and around and my thumping heart bumping with each turn. Faster and faster. Around and around.

Dizzying. Centering on how sick I am of myself and the way my brain just--

I am overthinking, but I am okay. 

The reminder brings a sigh from me. A sigh and not a creak. 

I am not a swing. I am not a merry-go-round. 

I had to face choices and that’s okay. I am okay.

I think a lot, maybe even overthink. Just a touch. Like how the swings and the merry-go-round don’t choose and just are, I just am. 

I think a lot and it hurts sometimes, but without it I would not catalog the good and the bad. At least I can find the bright side.

It might be cold out, but at least I’m seeing the stars come out.

I stop rocking and start swinging as if I could launch myself at the stars. Maybe if I go high enough one of them will whisk me away. Stars don’t overthink, right?

They sparkle and wink at me as if asking what I wish for.

I take a second to think about it. 

I wish for a moment where the thoughts would fade away from highs and lows, from goods and bads and just be still. A moment of being grounded, where I’m not the swings or the merry-go-round. A moment of rest.

The stars flicker as the light of an airplane flies by.

No reply.

I’ve swung up as high as I can go. I promise myself fifteen more swings and then I will get up off the swings. 

I count fifteen more swings and launch myself. 

I fly, almost close enough to touch the stars. 

I land on the springy ground, feet planted and solid. 

Finally back up on my own two feet, my hips are indeed a little sore from the plastic seat.

Maybe my brain didn’t quite go quiet. Maybe the problems and the trade-offs still exist. But it means there’s still some good along with the bad. For now that can be enough.