A few weekends ago, a friend and I were driving back to Maryland from a weekend in our hometown in Pennsylvania. At this point, my parent was still in inpatient treatment for alcohol recovery, and I dialed into the virtual FEP (family education program) that’s always offered for families of patients in treatment.

I’ve done a few of these sessions before, but this one was particularly insightful. One insight I gained was the concept of “future tripping.” It’s also known as anticipatory anxiety and can be defined as peering into the imagined future and anticipating the outcome.

As the counselor elaborated on the concept, I looked at my friend and said “oh my gosh, this is me.”

I’ve spent the last few years of my life future tripping, living for what’s to come. For better or for worse, I trip out on the positive events coming up. Most of what I’ve found about future tripping talks about worry and anticipating what can potentially go wrong. As a natural optimist who is now appropriately medicated for anxiety and depression, I don’t future trip through a negative lens. I am always looking forward to positive events and changes in the future, that will make life better than it is right now. However, I now realize I avoid pain and discomfort in the current moment by looking forward to what’s to come.

Today, there’s a lot of stress I’m trying to avoid. I feel like I can’t even be grateful for what I have in the present moment because I’m terrified of losing it. So here are the things I’m future tripping over and what I’m avoiding:

Next week, my best friends and I are heading to Deep Creek, MD, for a weekend at the lake with our dogs. We’ll swim and hike and play outside. I’m so looking forward to this upcoming trip. I keep texting my friends, trying to plan meals and travel days. My friends, who don’t get caught up in this anxious cycle, are patient with me but can’t answer my questions yet.

This present moment? I’m avoiding the gut-wrenching idea of losing my dog to my ex. We still split custody of B, and I have no idea how we’ll eventually part for good. I’m so consumed with love for this dog that I can barely look at him. I can’t be present in my love for him because it brings me back to the thought that I may not have him forever. I’m sobbing as I write this, and feeling this pain is exactly what I try to avoid. No one deserves the pain of giving him up, but one of us will have to experience it.

Another part of me is so grateful to be working remotely from my beautiful, comfortable home. It’s my safe and happy place. I’ve decorated and maintained every aspect of it. Blood, sweat, and tears have gone into this house. I adore it as if it’s a person (it is, to me). The problem with this love and gratitude? I’m losing this place too. Now that it’s just me, it doesn’t make sense to stay in this three story, two bed, two and a half bath house. This house holds so many happy memories. I was living my dream in this house: my best friend as my roommate, our beloved pup, hosting friends and family in between quiet moments as a family. It was everything I’ve ever wanted, and I didn’t take it for granted. But now it’s gone – will something better take its place? Likely, but not guaranteed. It’s hard to be grateful for it in this moment, when I know more loss is on the way.

I have imagined every which way things can get better from here. I’m holding out for a new place to decorate and love on, that’s closer to nature and in a quieter place than the city. I imagine hosting my friends and family again. I hope for a community as great as the one I’ve built here. I can picture spending more time on hobbies like spending time outdoors and exploring new restaurants and shops.

My optimism and hope helps me avoid mourning what I’m inevitably going to lose. I guess that the harder and more deeply you love, the harder and more painful it is to let these things go. What I’ve learned over the past few years is that the ugly needs to be felt. Avoiding does nothing but delay these emotions.

In another conversation with the same friend, I was lamenting that, despite evidence to the contrary, I felt like no one has ever been as heartbroken as I am. Her response was everything; she said “It feels like no one else has ever been through this, because it feels like you won’t survive it. No one could have felt this way and survived. But they have, and you will too.”

So for now, B and I are taking walks, getting fresh air and sunshine, laughing and playing, breathing deeply, and praying that things will work out for the best, that this crushing defeat will pass and someday we’ll feel more joy than ache.

I’ll leave you with one last thing – if you’re the praying kind, please send prayers or vibes that everything with Bisc will be resolved peacefully.