At the first NYLI session I attended a few years ago, we discussed personality types as we tried to create programming that appeals to everyone. Some people are creators, while others are doers or dreamers. But me? I am a thinker. Someone pointed this out during that session, probably because my brow was in a tight furrow. I was really mulling the topic over.
This "mark of the thinker" began its appearance on my forehead at about age 14. I was too young for it to be considered a sign of aging. It's an outward sign of my mind always processing and taking in new information around me. When I was younger, I’d try to rub the line out of my forehead—to somehow relax those thinker muscles. It didn't work. I was able to get Botox for my persistent migraines. But because the purpose was not to get rid of my forehead wrinkles, I still have them. I can't raise my forehead to look surprised, but I can furrow my brow into a look of deep confusion. It's obviously a cosmic joke. A friend mentioned to me that he felt I think too much. My only response to him was, “I’m a writer.”
The time leading up to NHF’s Annual Meeting in Orlando in November 2012 was intense for me because it was my first as co-chair of NYLI. As part of my new role, I attended multiple committee meetings, and I was a co-presenter, as well as co-lead at a wrap session. This was my first time serving as NYLI’s representative on NHF’s board of directors. I do not take these duties lightly. I feel fortunate that Alex is my co-partner-in-crime in all of this: the hemo “yin” to my clotter “yang.” We balance each other out rather well. I’m also a perfectionist. I spent nearly 7 hours working on my PowerPoint presentation, which I’d edited over and over again by adding more facts or funny memes to lighten the mood.
I also knew that I’d be interacting with people who’d read this HemAware blog. A writer named John Scalzi spoke recently in a YouTube video, saying: "As writers, we're fictional characters in other people's lives." I understood this notion completely. I didn’t want my own “fictional character” to be a disappointment in comparison to real-life Sami. It made me worry.
Not surprising, in everyday life I worry as well. I recently presented one of my worries on how I’m perceived by others to someone I’ve been dating (number 13) while I was making our dinner. I’ve always felt that I am a bit mysterious. I keep to myself, and while I am a writer, I consider myself a very private person. What I share are things I’ve already worked through. I’m also somewhat guarded as to who I let into my life, and I like to observe people first. It gets me thinking that maybe others can understand us better than we can ever understand ourselves. 13 reassured me by saying that he feels many people feel mysterious, or not as well understood. Maybe we are all feeling the same way.
I realize now that even my worry about Annual Meeting connects to my tendency to overthink things. Thinking shapes how you view the world around you, and overthinking can make the world seem like an unnecessarily scary place. A great way to get a reality check is to use friends as places to bounce ideas off—and to get clarity. Friends don’t always have the answers, but they can provide a much-needed feeling that you’re understood. When my friends ask me for advice, sometimes I offer useful thoughts. But sometimes, I suggest a 90s pop song, just because it was a fantastic decade for pop music, and the lyrics to “MMMbop” or anything by the Spice Girls were clearly set up to solve problems.
When I was younger, I had a hard time sleeping at night because I was always overthinking—mentally repeating information for upcoming tests, writing essays in my head, and thinking about health issues, song lyrics, or whatever else entered my head. I’m certain this process came about because when I performed in musicals as a child and in pageants, I was trained to rehearse my songs or lines mentally for the next day before I went to sleep, so I would feel prepared. I always felt prepared—it really did work—but it left me as a young adult with no sleep and a lot of spinning thoughts. I had to figure out a way to interrupt this process.
My solution? Reading before bedtime for about two hours, leaving me tired enough to fall asleep. I really liked books that had plotlines that were not plausible in the real world, like the Twilight series, because it gave me a temporary escape.
These days, I read a lot of memoirs, especially by other people who have chronic health conditions. Instead of an escape, I now look to these memoirs as a way to reflect on the lives of others. I then try to figure out how to get inspiration from them, and how to apply their lessons to my own life—whether it is the optimism of Michael J. Fox, the humor of Jenny Lawson (who happens to have the same clotting disorder I have), or the balanced thought of Toni Bernhard. I’ve learned that there is a time and a place for all of that thinking, but sometimes you just need to let things be and exist—and just hope for the best in whatever comes next.