The Damages of Fear

May is national mental health month awareness month. Excellent, right? Always a good idea to shine a spotlight on a difficult subject, maybe perform a quick self-assessment as we head into summer. To see how we feel about how we feel, yes? 

Realistically speaking, I've got to devote a lot more than thirty days a year to my mental health. If not, the unchecked emotional toppings can pile themselves thicker than a Logger pizza at Northlake Tavern (Had to give one last prop to Seattle's best pizza. Rest in peace, my delicious friend.). 

It's a subject that makes the news on a daily basis, usually in a tragic light. Regardless of our opinions about gun laws, few are disputing that these horrific acts are being committed by mentally unwell people. Seems to me like a logical precondition. 

But where do we discern between a congenital mental disorder and a normal brain that's been so saturated with fear that it alters itself? According to Mary D. Moller, associate professor at Pacific Lutheran University School of Nursing, the potential effects of chronic fear on emotional health include dissociation from self, inability to have loving feelings, earned helplessness, phobic anxiety, mood swings, obsessive-compulsive thoughts.

Sounds exhausting. The thing is, based on the support we've seen for a tiny-pawed huckster who stokes their worst fears, 74 million people were that elevated in 2020. And even more if you count the millions of rigged votes. 

Can you imagine how you'd feel on the daily if you acknowledged the existence of a globalist cabal so powerful that it controls our government, our media and our healthcare system, meanwhile eating babies simply because they taste good with chocolate milk?

Not good, I'll tell you. One of my FB friends is a former co-worker who I'll call June. I never knew June super well, but she was nice, had a good sense of humor and was solid at her job. We'd become FB friends in the platform's early days. Eventually she moved on from the company, married and had a kid. I started noticing the anti-vax posts first, nestled between family photos and memes. Then came the videos—pseudo newscasts with dubious experts and unproven claims. Finally came exchanges like this, complete with coded messages:

June: Washington state is an udder nightmare at the moment. It's just getting worse and worse. I wish it were different.

June's Friend: I am mot s proponent of public schools period. If children feel need to wear their (furry) suit to school every day there is likely a dysfunctional issue within the home or school community that the child is trying to escape or the child does not feel safe at school.

June's Other Friend: So glad you got out of Washington. God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah for their wickedness, He can do it again in other evil places.

June: In my opinion, I don't think all this stuff belongs in school. Reading, writing, music, math, history, social studies, art and teaching kids to think for themselves. But we both know public schools are not teaching that. They have deviated far off path. They're more about social engineering the poor kiddos.

Also imho, I believe that all these changes to this demographic of children comes from the increased jab schedule. There are bits of ab0 rted feta1 d n A that has known (ancer,<irus +animal, reptile fragments etc. These jabs are basically eug€ eni( programs and our kids are the s(1ence projects. When these foreign fragments of d n A glom onto human receptor sights it alters the senses and existence of the affected person. Poor kids never even got a voice. Zero consent for them. It's a sad sick world and I've grown weary of the blinders a good part of the world has towards these products. People are literally brain wA shed by big ph ArmA. I had a friend poo poo home 0 pathics because they weren't safety tested but has a 0ncol0gist husband who left his job because the forced protocols don't work. Still the blinders?

I pray Jesus is coming!

Okay, a little to unpack there. First of all, is it a good idea to pray that JC is coming? Doesn't a bunch of terrible shit have to happen when he materializes over Mount Rainier? I can't remember how it's supposed to go, but I'm pretty sure it's not one hundred percent Mr. Pibb and Red Vines.

Secondly, I don't know what schools these people have visited, but I've spent the last six months volunteering at my wife's elementary school, and I have seen kids meow and say they're cats and bark and say they're dogs and not make any noises and say they're unicorns. That's a problem why? They're freaking kids! Did you have everything figured out when your were eight? 

Lastly, calling Washington an udder nightmare is cowist.

My intention here is not to "out" June. This could definitely lead to an un-friending, but I mean her no ill will. I understand feeling helpless in a fucked up world. Awful things happen and we're all doing our best to cope. I just wish that the fear openly expressed by her and so many others was grounded in reality.

Dealing with those emotional velociraptors.

How's your anxiety level these days? Off the chart? On the chart but off the grid? On the grid but off the chain? On the chain but off the hook?

Lord knows there's a smorgasbord of triggers out there right now. It's like the instant we wake up, we take our place in the buffet line of dreadful delights. We slide our tray down the rails, accepting warm plates heaped with gun violence, war, climate catastrophe, inflation and more varieties of COVID-19 than there were soft serve toppings at Roy's Chuckwagon. 

And for good measure, who's down at the end of the buffet line carving the roast beast under the heat lamp, but this dude:

The mysterious creature above was photographed just outside a zoo in Amarillo, Texas. I swear to God, these days if it's not hitchhiking clowns, it's a damn chupacabra in search of a hookup.

I've always been an anxious person. Like I've swallowed a stiff, unwashed hankie that never digests, my anxiety lives wadded up inside my chest and stomach. Its crusty, gym sock-sized wad seems to swell and shrink with unpredictable regularity both day and night. 

I've employed various strategies in an effort to tamp down my anxiety—things like self-medicating with a six-pack of Bodhizafa and box of Double Stuff Pop Tarts, Now With Real Pork! shortly before bedtime. Typically, this approach is effective until around three in the morning, when I wake up in a self-loathing hot flash with a throbbing headache and the aftertaste of Satan's dingleberries in my mouth. 

As it is with depression, mindfulness can be a very helpful tool in combating anxiety. By challenging our thoughts rather than swallowing them, it's possible to step over the rabbit hole instead of plummeting into it.

I mentioned that morning is my most anxious time. Here's an example of an average day's waking thoughts:

1) Shit, I need to address that work thing, that thing where that guy's asking for that thing that's not really a thing, but I have to convince him it's not a thing, and that's the thing. 

2) The world is burning up (except for Yellowstone, site of Noah's Ark II).

3) Democracy is doomed because Orange Ass Face is going to run again and win.

4) My kids are out there somewhere, completely defenseless and unprotected (by me). Because of this, something terrible could, and probably will, happen.

5) COVID is mutating again, and it's coming back with wings, hooves, teeth and a spinal column.

6) My arches are cramping and there's not quite enough milk left for the proper Grape Nuts to milk ratio. 

Therefore, I'm screwed and nothing's ever going to be okay—ever, ever again.

So yeah, that's my typical morning medley of horrors. But here's the good news: it doesn't have to take an answer ending in "_anax" to put out this fire. In fact, it can be as simple as devoting just an additional smidge of thought to each worry and formulating a reasonable, factual response.

1) Yes, I do have to figure out that thing, but I will, the same way I have been for the past 30 years. In fact, chances are that I won't even remember the thing a couple of days from now.

2) It's true, and it's frightening. But I can only do what's in my control, like recycling, composting and taking my styrofoam to the forest rather than burning it.

3) This is also a terrifying thought, and one that isn't going away. But worrying about it and/or demonizing the "other side" won't change a thing. As convoluted as their thinking may seem, it's based in fear the same way mine is.

4) Step off, old man. The kids are fine. 

5) Perhaps, but at least it'll be more challenging for it to enter my nasal lining. Plus, I'll be able to use a baseball bat against it instead of a mask.

6) I'll stretch out my arches and heat up last night's spaghetti. Mmm...last night's spaghetti.

See? Not hard at all, and it normally keeps those issues from lingering like a banana peel in a tube top. For most of us, anxiety isn't something we can eliminate from our lives, but like the dinosaurs of Jurassic World, maybe we can learn to co-exist with those emotional velociraptors.

Right now, we all deserve a little hope.

Hello again! How are you feeling these days? 

As you can see, I'm wound pretty tightly. I've been busy trying to prevent acid reflux from shrinking up my viscera and causing it to irreversibly coil itself around my rather rustic skeletal architecture. Think third-grade tetherball game where the pole is my spine and the rope my lower intestines. 

I been trying the conventional coping tools, with spotty success:

Take a walk. Take a ride. Take a break. 

Take a Headspace down there by the lake.

Take a breath. Take a cry. Take a beer. 

Take a pill so I'll sleep for a year.

Thanks for the tips there, Dr. Seuss. That last tactic is more of a Covid-themed sci-fi fantasy, but hey, imagine if tomorrow, some V.I.P. from Moderna said, "Hey, listen, we felt like, rather than just sitting on all that cash that's been flowing like fake movie butter, we're also going to deliver a little Scoobie Snack for the emotionally overwhelmed. We're calling it a 'durable therapeutic.' Just pop one of these into the old gob and you'll wake up around the time the Kraken take the ice next fall. Who's in, America?"

I say, diaper me up, Scottie. 

Actually, no, no way. We've all waited this long, so I'll be doggoned if I'm going to stop paying attention at the most pivotal social and political moment of our lifetimes.

Originally, I was going to wait to post something until after next Tuesday's election. That way, I could:

A) Gloat about Joe Biden's victory and the ensuing blue wave that knocked Lindsay "I-Sold-My-Soul-to-a-Hair-Brained-Hog-Goblin" Graham and Mitch "If-I-Lose-I'll-Have-to-Go-Back-to-the-Sea" McConnell.

B) Whine about Drumpf's, victory. I'm not sure how that would even look because my mind immediately thrusts up large concrete barriers to block the way down that route every time I try. I say to myself, "Dude, just imagine the worst-case scenario and plan on what it would be like to live under those conditions for at least another four years."

Two points here. Number one, no matter how bad we imagine things can get, this man has proven they can get even worse. The second point is that I never call myself Dude while engaging in internal dialogue, nor should I. And if you hear it happening out loud, definitely point it out.

We're three days out right now. What are you doing to keep yourself sane, or at least less insane? I've developed such a love/hate relationship with the news. My thirst for new information is insatiable, but it's become a slippery slope, and I'm wearing Crisco-slathered flip flops. Headlines must be vigilantly scoured for potentially triggering content. 

Do I really want to read about the latest polls in Pennsylvania? Probably not. Should I click on the link to an exposé that chronicles the Trump family's history with Russia? Not if I want that stubborn vein to recede back into my forehead. 

To illustrate, let's do a little exercise. I'll list a few headlines from the Associated Press (considered the most unbiased source of information in a Gallup/Knight Foundation survey) and we'll consider whether or not to click on in:

• Road to 270: Biden has options, Trump walks narrow path—Nope, not going to read this one. I'll get all excited and hopeful, plus this has been the case forever.

• After year of disruption, America set to choose a path ahead—This is no different than a headline that reads, After sleeping for 7.5 hours, man wakes up, checks Frosted Mini-Wheat supply. No shit, AP people. This is where you imagine Dana Carvey's George Bush I voice proclaiming, "Not gaaa read it."

• Sean Connery, the 'original' James Bond, dies at 90—Definitely reading this. I feel like he would've threatened to kick my ass if I didn't ("Read the fuckin' tribute or I'll knock ya shenshless, ya litt'l pishant.").

 • Who is voting? Who is winning? Early vote only offers clues—Such click bait, isn't it? I want answers to all these questions, plus I'd love to analyze the clues like a real detective! Wait, nope. After 2016, I think we've learned that political prognostication is about as dependable as an N95 mask with teriyaki stains.

Based on this small sample, I'd say a conclusion can be drawn. Now comes the hard part, the challenge of avoiding online political content for the next three days. 

I also just wanted to say, all the best to all of us, regardless of how we vote(d). And while my beliefs clash so starkly with those of the other side, I think we would all agree that this year hasn't been kind to any of us.

That's why it's time for Joe and Kamala to provide us the hope we deserve.

My Top Five Dream Destinations.

My most common dream subjects:

1) New York—Most weeks, it's once or twice, but sometimes I'll dream four nights a week about living in New York City. "What's the attraction?" I wake up wondering, "is it the allure of living the footloose American ideal in the Big Apple? Could it be the omnipresent magnetism of the city's creative energy?"

Swim to shallower waters, deep thinker. It's the pizza.

2) Airplane crashes (jets, to be more precise)—This one's creepy. I'm sure it contains gallons of twisted Freudian significance, especially since it occurs so frequently.

I'm standing outside in a large field ringed by forest. Someone stands beside me, but I never look at them and I couldn't tell you if they are male or female, they're simply a voice in my ear.

We watch as a large jetliner descends above us. Everything appears to be running smoothly, yet the plane seems louder than it should be.

"I think it's landing," the faceless, genderless voice says.

The thunder of the engines grows loud enough to shake the ground and pound in my ears. The aircraft begins swaying from side to side., its nose tilting further downward. "I'm not too sure about that!" I reply.

We yell something like "Oh, my God!" or "Holy shit!" and watch the monster plane disappear behind the tree line.

Silence. There's an explosion, but no noise, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

Thick black smoke billows upward, a few long flickers of flame stabbing above the forest. The sky darkens and that's where it always ends.

3) Whoa.

On a lighter note, it's the fall of nineteen-eighty-something, the weekend before classes begin. I'm returning to Theta Chi, my fraternity, after living at home for the summer, reuniting with guys I haven't seen for a few months and giddy with excitement about the year ahead.

My roommate Fritz and his brother Sam alternate between leading and supporting roles.

4) Playing in my final high school football game—I make sure to tell my wife immediately after I have one of these dreams. She seems annoyed when I wake her up to tell her, but I know deep down how much she loves to hear about how awesome I used to be.

5) I'm naked in public—The strange thing is, it never seems to bother me that much. For whatever reason, in that time and place, it makes sense for me to be freaking nude and everyone else fully clothed.

Just call me David.

The weight of the wait.

"The waiting is the hardest part."
-Tom Petty

How do you feel about the term, "You've got no choice?"

Is it accurate? You've always got a choice, right?

Except when you've got no choice.

Sunday night, my brood and I gathered around the cretin cube to watch the latest installment in ESPN's superb 30 for 30 series, entitled, "The Announcement."

The show chronicled the story behind Earvin "Magic" Johnson's 1991 revelation that he had been infected with the HIV virus. Through personal accounts both past and current, Johnson's tale of humiliation, ostrecization and ultimately courage, painted an image of a flawed man whose behavior led to his condition, yet who chose to regain his footing and represent the human face of HIV.

During commercials, I tried to explain to my kids what a huge event this was, how HIV/AIDS had predominately been considered a "gay" problem prior to Johnson and how many didn't understand how the disease is transmitted.

More personally, we discussed consequences.

Before the press conference and the lights and cameras and public displays of support, before the public fallout and ignorance of his fellow players, Magic Johnson had to do something else:

He had to tell his wife...who had just learned she was pregnant with their first child.

Johnson described the drive home after his doctor had informed him of the diagnosis. Time stood still as he traversed the streets of Los Angeles; disbelief, shock, overwhelming guilt.

How could he tell her? He sat in the driveway for seconds, for minutes, for hours. He really wasn't sure how long.

Most of us haven't born the responsibility of inflicting that magnitude of pain on a spouse or partner, yet we've all had moments where we've wallowed in the quicksand while waiting to break some news which we knew would rock someone's world.

Agony, unbridled agony.

Again, I don't wish to compare any obstacle I've ever faced with informing my wife that I'd been unfaithful, had contracted the virus which causes AIDS, and oh yeah, there's a chance that she and our percolating child may also be carrying it.

Nope, not even close.

Yet everyone can recall a few occasions where, after churning sleeplessly, they compelled themselves to initiate a conversation which would undoubtedly result in emotional trauma to the recipient.

I vividly recollect breaking up with my college girlfriend. It was one of those relationships which lasted about twice as long as it really should have, and finally I awoke one morning hell-bent on doing the deed.

Feeling buoyant and confident with my new found resolve, I bounded out of my apartment that morning. Yet, after playing out the scenario endlessly while riding the bus to her neighborhood, each step closer to her sorority eroded my spirits and compounded the dread. By the time I had stepped up to the oaken door of the female-filled mansion, my legs shook beneath me.

To exacerbate my anxiety, I was told that she was still in class and to "go ahead and have a seat in the living room. She'll be her in about twenty minutes."

By the time she walked through that front door, I was a quivering jar of testosterone preserves, so I just blurted it out in the foyer: "I want to break up."

Then it got ugly. She clung to me, weeping and sobbing and causing a huge scene in this very public area. She screamed, she pleaded.

Her sorority sisters looked on, their eyes burning homicidal blow darts into my forehead.

I pried her fingers off my neck and triceps and backed out the door. She stood there, wailing. I turned, walked, jogged and sprinted away.

Not a good scene. Usually, the anticipation of such a situation proves to be worse than the actual event...but not in this case.

Things did eventually work out. She tracked me down the following Monday outside one of my classes and we talked about it in an empty classroom before parting ways with considerably less fanfare.  I think she's married now, with a couple of kids and living in Texas or something.

As for Earvin Johnson, he's an HIV survivor and an ambassador who has continued to promote awareness and education about a disease which affects so many. The real hero, however, is his wife Cookie, who stood by him in the face of so much humiliation, judgment and uncertainty.

And her unborn child? His name is Earvin Johnson III, he's nineteen years old and both he and his mother tested negative for the HIV virus.

All of us, at some point in our existence, must step onto that emotional on-deck circle where we take a few practice swings before stepping up to the plate.

My advice is to swing at the first pitch.

I'm worried that I'm worrying about worrying

Worry, anguish, uneasiness, torment, fret, anxiety. Pick your poison, but no matter which term you choose, they all express feelings we share, some of us constantly.

I'm a worrier— always have been. My earliest distressing episode occurred at age four. Upon learning that I would be a ring bearer in my cousin's wedding, I grew quite concerned about wearing a bear costume. "What kind of ears am I going to have?" I wondered out loud. Everyone in the room laughed heartily, which layered an element of confusion on top of my apprehension. I was quickly told that no costume was necessary, but I still wasn't informed as to why I would be branded a bear at someone's wedding.

The list of worries accumulated as I grew into adolescence. What if I got drafted and sent to Vietnam? What if my mom and dad drop my sister and me off at my grandparents and leave us there forever and I'm doomed to a life of country music and Sears Toughskins? What if I forget how to swallow? What if my chubby, dimpled knuckles are forever inverted and never rise up to become regular knuckles?

Our worries evolve as we become adults and parents. That doesn't mean they're legitimate, just different. For example:

Oh, no. I wore brown shoes with a black watch. I'll be ostracized and exiled by my peers permanently.

I hope the Mercedes dealer remembered that I can't read Celsius, so my heated floor mats better have a Fahrenheit gauge.

My $350 authentic Roman Gabriel throwback football jersey was supposed to arrive yesterday. It's not here yet. This has to be the worst thing that's ever happened to me, so I'll stay home from work and call FedEx every 45 minutes.

I can now boast of some legitimate concerns, not those bred out of the irrational, obsessive compulsiveness of my childhood, but actual food for fret. For instance:

She said her friend's mom was bringing her home at 10:30. It's now 11:00, and she isn't answering her phone.

Her fever's been 102 degrees for three days now.

That cute mole on my neck that used to resemble a speck of milk chocolate now looks more like a double scoop of triple fudge chunk—with a beard.

The waitress says she recommends the pork chop—rare.

When I ask her new boyfriend where he got his "Proud to be Level Three" neck tattoo, he said his cellmate gave it to him in exchange for four-and-a-half packs of Camels and a thirty-second French kiss.

Those are just a few of them, because as a parent, you can really freak yourself out with "what ifs." I think that's why, while waiting up for my teenager to come home, I don't tune into the Teen Serial Killer Network. I think it's Channel 387.