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On Tuesday when my house shook, I thought I was going crazy.  It wasn’t the idea of a natural disaster that spun me into panic-attack mode, it was the thought that maybe I was loosing my mind.  The last thing my Pennsylvanian self would think is ‘earthquake’.  I shooed the dogs into the yard–in an insane attempt to ‘save’ them–and stood blinking in the sunlight, contemplating whether my house was haunted, about to explode, or if I had just somehow imagined it all.  For some reason that last thought was the strongest–and the worst.

It was then that I felt it–that swoopy, dropping feeling that means I’m really, really scared.

I get this same swoopy, dropping feeling when clicking towards the top of a roller coaster.  I get it every time I take a pregnancy test (nevermind the fact that I pretty much know what the results are going to be.)  I used to get it on the morning of the first day of school every September (and it was way worse as a teacher than as a student.)  And now I get it when I think about what I’m going to do for a living–aside from returning to years of first-days-of-school.

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