Tag Archives: anxiety

The Terror of Fatherly Frailty

Joey Hat Green onesie

Many people are terrified of becoming a parent; sometimes fears overlap with those of others, but often, they feel singular and impossible to cope with. I wrote a piece for Thought Catalog talking about exactly this, opening deeply personal veins and bleeding them onto the page. Here’s an excerpt:

On December 21, 2013, I became a father for the first time. However, I feel like I should qualify what I’m going to say before I even say it, lest I alienate ~90 percent of my audience before this essay hits sixty words. In any case, here goes: I actually never really wanted to be a father. I’ve known many men who’ve shared this sentiment, but few, if any, who meant it the same way I did. I say this now in retrospect, which is an important distinction, I think. I say this because, while most people are universally worried about sleepless nights, changing diapers, a formerly vibrant social life atrophied and on life support, being responsible for another (tiny) human life, or any/all of the above. Admittedly, I’ve always had my own reservations about those things, but they’d barely pinged my anxiety meter (which, n.b. is incredibly sensitive). . . .

My reservations about becoming a father stem from my set of seemingly shattered genetics, the sum total of which often makes it a Herculean feat to simply get through any given day. I’ve become accustomed to reaching the point of each day where exhaustion sets in — deep into the marrow of my bones, my being — turning menial daily tasks into Gordian Knot-like productions. Changing diapers is not scary; trying to raise a child who might have to help take care of you sooner than he should ever have to is scary. It’s the stuff of nightmares. I’ve had them already. . . .

. . . [But even] while there are definitely things I can’t do with my son—and won’t be able to do unless modern science comes up with a full-body transplant for my somewhat functional brain—there’s still so much I can  do, so much I can teach him that isn’t predicated on my health that it makes me feel almost silly for fretting the way I did before he was born. . . .

Read the rest over at Thought Catalog if you’re interested!

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Stan Manley is not a good driver | 12.23.11

I was having a bit of trouble getting productive earlier today. It’s been one of those days; what can I say? But @alananoel and @mensahdemary challenged me, over Twitter, to just write 750 words in about an hour. I thought it’d be tough given the amount of trouble I’d been having sticking with anything resembling work today, but I’m happy to report that I finished with 796 words and potentially another (start of a) chapter of my novel. All’s well that ends well!

Stan Manley is not a good driver. No one who knows Stan well would contradict this statement. Even Stan’s mother—a woman who believes Stan can basically do no wrong, ever—refuses to ride with Stan unless all other transportation options have been exhausted. Stan’s chief problem, at least where the operation of motor vehicles is concerned, is that he unfailingly tries to do what he thinks his passengers want him to do, which he does in the interest of pursuing the path of least resistance and maximum driving harmony for all passengers. However, someone as highly anxious as Stan tries to be, for lack of a better term, vehicularly utilitarian, he panics, and the situation quickly deteriorates into utter chaos.

Passengers experience abrupt, somewhat violent lane changes precipitated merely by a passenger’s wayward glance, i.e. if he or she turns his/her head too quickly—a sure sign, Stan thinks, that he’s managed to miss his exit. Jerky stop-and-go acceleration and braking ensues signaling Stan’s attempt to gauge his passenger’s desired speed—a circumstance greatly worsened when Stan finds himself operating a car with a manual transmission, whereby a clutch pedal is added to the whole driving dynamic. Friends also joke that traces of Stan’s childhood dyslexia rear its head when he puts on his left blinker for a right-hand turn.

As a consequence, most times when Stan is with a group of friends or coworkers who need transportation, he simply opts for riding along, as a passenger. Stan, however, is, himself, a model passenger, never uttering a word of criticism despite the inordinate amount of shit he personally gets for his own driving abilities (or lack thereof). However, in a city with a public transportation system that leaves as much to be desired as Omaha’s, it’s nearly impossible to get around efficiently without driving “there” yourself, or catching a ride with a friend. Unfortunately, even when Stan is navigating the grid-patterned streets solo, it’s a no less harrowing experience.

Arguably, Stan’s biggest problem with respect to driving is overthinking. Many people are horrible drivers because of overestimating their abilities where multitasking is concerned. This is not applicable to Stan. Stan does not text while driving, nor does he talk on his smartphone. The mere thought of rear-ending another vehicle at forty-some-miles-per-hour because he was looking down to correct the autocorrected version of whatever he might have been trying to type causes Stan symptoms that suggest imminent hyperventilation.

Stan does not have to worry about being distracted by manipulating the dials on his stereo either. He drives in complete silence. There’s always a chance someone will call him while he’s driving and a too-loud stereo would prevent him from hearing his smartphone’s ringer. In the event he does receive a call, Stan immediately pulls over to the side of the road to answer it. Stan is also worried that he’ll be unable to hear the approach of an emergency vehicle over his music and thus, be unable to react in an appropriate and defensive-type way he was taught in high school driver’s ed. classes—classes Stan personally found tremendously helpful and of which he could never understand the nearly universal scorn of his fellow classmates.

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