Tag Archives: Anxiety

O The Places My Mind Goes – Part 2

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The first part of this blog entry sapped most of my energy, but it was worth it. I received a ton of encouragement from friends, family and fellow dad bloggers urging me to remember that I’m not alone in feeling depressed, anxious and overwhelmed, nor am I the only one whose brain can go from stressing over writing a blog to suicidal thoughts in a matter of seconds. I greatly appreciate all the kind words written about my last post. It reminded me that I started this blog about raising my daughter while battling depression/anxiety for the reasons many of you proclaimed – to comfort those with similar issues, to show they’re not solitary entities. I’ll do my best with this second part. I hope it’s up to par.

Sometime after 5 am I fell into a restless sleep, the type of fitful doze where you hover between wakefulness and dreaming. My alarm went off at 8 (I’m lucky in that Sienna is so quiet in the morning that I honestly have no idea when she wakes up). I hit the snooze button a few times because I wasn’t ready to deal with the day – having to put on a brave face while playing with and teaching a rambunctious toddler; fighting over meals; trying to write a blog about what I’d gone through the previous night. One thing I did know – there was no way I was stepping outside my apartment door. When I did finally get out of bed around 8:30, I struggled down the hall to the kitchen, lower body leaden, head filled with helium, stomach churning, an invisible anvil squashing my chest. Shell-shocked, I moved like something out of The Walking Dead. Suicide? Do I still hate myself that much?

I gave Sienna breakfast, but had nothing myself. The meal was nearly silent on my part unlike most days when I sing her favorites whether it be “C is for Cookie” or the theme from “The Golden Girls” (no idea why, but she loves it). After breakfast I set Sienna down in her playpen so I could shower and do the dishes just as I do every morning. I got the shakes in the shower but recovered. We spent the morning playing with cars and stuffed animals, me watching the clock, begging for the seconds, minutes, hours to pass so I could put her down for a nap and perhaps conk out myself.

I peeked at FB a bit, but couldn’t deal with the pressure. At one point I wrote this: “Very depressed. Doing my best trying to hold it together for Sienna. My brain went to horrible, self-loathing places last night. Some things I haven’t thought about in a long time. Scary. Have purposely stayed off FB but feel guilty for not checking and ‘liking’ things people post or reading other dad bloggers’ words (which is really what set this off to begin with because I couldn’t write myself and became anxious). UGH!” I then shut the computer.

I was supposed to have a phone session with my therapist, but I couldn’t talk. I knew that between Sienna’s running around and my inability to form complete sentences, it would be a waste of time. I texted my therapist and asked if we could postpone saying I’d gone to terrible places the night before and had had an anxiety attack. She urged me to talk, but I apologized relentlessly and claimed i just wanted to sleep. Here are the texts that followed:

Therapist: No need to apologize – breathe and remember you feel like this right now – it won’t last. Just a feeling, it doesn’t define you. Reread some of your blogs (I didn’t follow her advice – the “feeling” was too powerful)

Me: Having trouble writing again. Last night thought of suicide and it scared me. Realized I can’t ever do that now because of Sienna. I have no idea why I thought of that. Looking at people’s houses and knowing I’ll never be able to give that to Sienna. Brain went all over the place. I’m so tired

Therapist: Never say never. You never know what you can accomplish when u get out of your way – and if you ask Sienna which she would prefer – a father who showers her with love and affirmation though he’s not a millionaire or an emotionally abusive millionaire father who would she choose

Me: I know, but still not good enough (my warped view of success impeded rationality as it so often does).

Therapist: That’s your self-hatred and mental issues. It’s not and never will be Sienna’s truth. Would you rather have had a loving father and less material stuff. Stop listening to your illness. It lies and is a huge waste of time and life

Me: I just need to sleep (my illness continued to rule me)

My mom texted me to say she’d read my FB post and asked if I needed help. I mentioned I’d appreciate it if she’d give Sienna dinner – just the thought of putting together a meal and getting her to eat was too much for me to bear. My mom agreed to come over even though she had a cold leaving me to imagine Sienna getting sick as my punishment for being so pathetic.

I don’t remember much of the afternoon. I’m sure I followed Sienna around whenever she grabbed my hand and commanded me to sit so she could show me something or we could play. I struggled to smile. I kissed and hugged her when I could gather the strength to do so. I couldn’t wait to put her to bed.

Was I asleep when my mom rang the bell at 5:30? Was Sienna still in her crib talking to herself in the dark? I can’t recollect. I sat on the couch staring into space while my mom fed my daughter eggplant rollatini. She brought me a salad which I eventually ate, the first food I’d had all day. My mom tried to get me to talk, but I couldn’t. I mumbled. I spoke in short sentences. I didn’t mention suicide despite the flashing neon sign in my mind.

After dinner my mom stayed with us. I went to change the cat litter and it was like a perfect storm. We have one of those cat litter boxes that you roll over to get the clumps out, but it picked this time, THIS TIME, to fall apart leading to urine-infused litter spilling all over the kitchen floor. IMMEDIATE hyperventilating. Facial tic going like crazy. Sienna kept coming into the kitchen and I stuttered, “Sie-Sie-Sienna ou-ou-out!” I cleaned up the mess on the verge of both tears and my second panic attack in less than 15 hours. My mom hugged me when I finished cleaning. Did I hug her back? I don’t think so. I think I was like a rag doll.

Back to the couch. Sienna picked up ribbons and Mardi Gras-type beads and wanted me to spin and shake them. She climbed on my lap. Minky, the intuitive black, long-haired puffball, curled up next to me and purred. I kissed Sienna’s head while petting Minky, his purr rumbling against my thigh. I still had that 100-yard stare, but my mom observed something else and later wrote in an email:

“After you threw away the cat litter and barely made it back to the couch, your beautiful, wonderful daughter took one look at you and with all the love in her heart climbed in to your lap and cuddled with you. And while fighting through your embarrassment of having her see you this way (yes, I saw that too) she held firm and would not let her daddy go. Tell the world how you both looked at each other and ever so slowly she was able to calm you down (with a little help from a purring Minky) until the softness showed in your face and you were able to begin to play with her. She only had her daddy in her eyes and I watched as the two of you played with the ribbons over and over again and pure glee showed in Sienna’s face and smiles came in to your face. It was a beautiful moment between father and daughter. She was there for you all the way and while you were not free of all the anxiety and panic she helped you hold it together. And because of her you fight on. You were given the powerful gift of pure, unadulterated love yesterday while you were most vulnerable. That is what it is all about. How amazing that a 21 month old has such a gift. That is the perk of being able to share these moments with her. That is something the world and all the stay at home dads need to know.”

I wish I remember things in this manner. I remember Sienna in my lap. I remember Minky. I remember playing with ribbons. I don’t remember my face softening or my brain unlocking or an ease coming over me. All I have are my mom’s words and that is why I included them here as a reminder. She’s right. The unequivocal father-daughter bond must have been there allowing me to keep fighting despite my extreme fears and vulnerability. And though the events my mom witnessed are foggy in my mind as is my collapsing into Elaine’s arms when she got home and my nightmarish confession about my suicidal thoughts, I CLEARLY remember the following morning when I had my phone therapy session and Sienna, a toddler bursting with energy, sat on my lap for 20+ minutes as my tears dripped in her hair and Minky, intuitive Minky, curled up next to me and purred.

Days have passed and I feel much better. I don’t know when exactly I crossed the line into feeling better, but I do know the words of encouragement from fellow dad bloggers after I posted part 1, the emails and phone calls from friends and family, and the unburdening in therapy (I think I spent most of the time crying and repeating my usual “I don’t understand” and “I’m trying so hard” and “When will it stop?” refrains as my therapist pointed out how much I’d accomplished over the past few years – I have difficulty remembering), did help.

I don’t know when I’m going to suffer another panic attack. With depression you’re never out of the woods. There are so many triggers and dangerous thoughts that zip through my brain each and every second that anything can set me off at any time. Some suggested this most recent attack could be seasonal, and I think that played a role. I do tend to get depressed the closer it gets to New Year’s and my birthday in February; it doesn’t help that my next birthday will be my 40th making the insane, absurd expectations and definitions I’ve created for myself regarding “success” (job, money) glare even more – pessimism abounds as another year comes and goes without me gaining that house, elite job status, book deal, million dollar retirement fund. But I do know that I have people that care about me (I still struggle to understand why – I wish I could just accept it) and I have blogs, my own words, to read and reread as proof that I’m gradually moving down the right path. I know I’m going to face blog anxiety again. I can’t avoid it. But I also know there are fellow dad bloggers out there who support me even though we’ve never met. David Stanley, a member of the group, told me Dad Bloggers was a safe place. I hope he’s right.

Most of all I have my little family – an incredible wife, a brilliant, funny, beautiful little girl who gives me “the powerful gift of pure, unadulterated love” and our two cats, one of which always knows when I’m hurting. And as my mom so aptly wrote: that’s what it’s all about.

Sienna in bin

My Sienna

 

O The Places My Mind Goes – Part 1

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I need to write this in two parts. The night before and the following day. I can’t do both at once. Too difficult.

Two nights ago I awake from a nightmare sometime after 3 am. No idea what it was about, but it doesn’t matter. I’d been anxious all day about my blog. I hadn’t blogged in more than a week. Slew of ideas, but couldn’t write anything. At the top of my list was writing about how I conquered anxiety for a day by taking Sienna out to the Long Island Children’s Museum, but I too anxious to write it. Ironic.

Anyway, it’s 3-something am. First thought is about the blog. Check FB just because I was awake. Scroll through my feed and find links posted in Dad Bloggers. Chest begins hurting. I’m not good enough. These guys are so much better than me. They keep pumping out words, heartfelt, poetic words. I’ll never be a real writer.

I see pics of decorated houses. I’ll never own a home. Sienna will never have a backyard in which to play, to build snowmen like in the pics I’m looking at. I’ll never own a barbecue. I’m a failure. I was supposed to be something! I was supposed to have a prestigious job and money! I was supposed to be a success! Friends from grade school have houses! Friends from grade school are rich! You’re going to be 40 in a couple of months and you’ve done NOTHING job-wise!

Note: I’m yelling at myself to SHUT UP! THIS IS WHERE YOU GO! YOU HAVE AN AMAZING WIFE AND DAUGHTER! YOU’RE BETTER OFF THAN SO MANY OTHERS!

Note: Rationality is out the window because my chest feels like cement.

Sudden thought shoots out of the darkness and scares the hell out of me: I can’t kill myself because of Elaine and Sienna. I can’t do that to them.

Note: It’s literally been seconds since I went from blog anxiety to suicide.

I’m shaking. Wake Elaine up. Wake her up and tell her what’s going on. Ask her to hold you, calm you. I can’t. She needs to sleep so she can work tomorrow.

Note: She’s gonna smack me when she reads this

Instead I post this on FB: “Fighting to prevent a full-blown panic attack. Feeling severely depressed. Chest feels like it’s being crushed. Don’t understand it…fell asleep feeling a little better and then woke up at 3-something only to fall apart.”

Note: Facebook has a give and take relationship with me. I’ve found a lot of support on Facebook, especially during my first months with Sienna, many times from people I hadn’t seen in decades. At the same time the pictures and posts can make me feel weak, depressed, envious and stupid. Sometimes I consider quitting FB, but I keep trying to be rational about it. It doesn’t always work.

Why hasn’t anyone responded to my post? It’s been seconds and no one’s written! Where the hell did the suicide thought come from?

Note: I’ve been suicidal a number of times throughout my life, but I’ve never had a plan (outside of downing a bottle of sleeping pills) or written a note. I never had the courage to go through with it (and yes, though it’s a selfish act, it does take bravery to actually do it, imo). At best I’d imagine I was like Huck Finn, watching his own funeral. At worst I imagined holding the bottle of pills. I hadn’t thought about offing myself since long before Elaine got pregnant. Probably three years. The shocking thought of suicide terrified me and plunged me deep into the darkness.

I drop my phone. I’m shaking, I cling to Elaine hoping she’ll wake up, but I still can’t allow myself to actually awaken her. She needs her sleep. I’m hyperventilating. Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!

I get out of bed and dizzily walk down the hall. Go into Sienna’s room and watch her. No. I’ll wake her up. Can’t do that. Find Minky. I need Minky.

“Minky,” I whisper, voice hitching. “Minky.”

I find the puffball in the closet. I grab and hold him so tightly he squeaks. Take him back to the bedroom. Concentrate on his purring. I take Minky to the bedroom. I carefully place him on the bed and get under the covers. He climbs onto my aching chest. His purr is like a chainsaw. He noses my face. Licks my hand. I gently stroke him, feeling the softness of his fur. I scratch him behind his ears. Over and over I pet him.

FAILURE! How can you think of suicide?? How could you do that to your family? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!

I’m depressed. I’m shivering. I pet Minky for more than an hour and use all my power to concentrate on what’s right in front of me. It’s past 5 am. I want to see if anyone’s responded to my status update. I don’t check. Just pet Minky. Elaine’s still asleep. Finally I join her.

Santa Delivered My Daughter!

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Yes, Santa Claus delivered Sienna in March of 2012. It seems that during his off-time, Santa doesn’t hang out at the North Pole, but instead works as on OB off Lexington Ave under the alias of “Dr. Frederick Gonzalez” and delivers babies at NYU Hospital. He goes fairly incognito, choosing to employ an unassuming grey mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. It makes sense Santa would forgo the bushy snow-white beard, hair and poofy eyebrows when away from the Pole, not to mention the iconic red suit. The beard and suit are probably really annoying during New York City summers, itchy and sweaty. Plus think about all the people who’d ask him for autographs and want special appearances if he actually looked and dressed like Santa. I’m sure he’s thrilled that so many lookalikes are out there. Takes the pressure off. However, that eye twinkle and bellowing laugh gave him away. Don’t believe me? I have the picture to prove it:

Sienna and Gonzalez copy

Newborn Sienna and Santa Clau…er, “Dr. Frederick Gonzalez”

I know you think I’m being ridiculous, but it makes sense that Santa would spend his off-season delivering high-risk babies (Elaine has a heart condition) to parents of all races and religions. Really, can you think of anything more rewarding?

I can tell you from experience that Santa has a very calming demeanor. Whenever my anxiety disorder would pop up (facial twitch, slight stutter, etc.), he’d soothe me by saying I was exhibiting the same reactions that any soon-to-be dad does. He’s also quite a straight-shooter, that Santa Claus. When one of Sienna’s sonograms showed that she’d developed a cystic hygroma (a nodule on the back of the neck), he told us that there was a 50-50 possibility she might have chromosomal abnormalities and serious medical problems, but he also said to be strong, and though it was one of the worst weeks of our lives, we did indeed cling to each other and thankfully the nodule disappeared. When we next saw Santa, the twinkle was back. Miracle off Lexington Avenue? And when it was time for Elaine’s scheduled c-section, Santa did an amazing job – joking, but professional, always making us feel as comfortable as possible.

So what of Mrs. Claus and the elves and the reindeer? Well, its already been established that Rudolph now plays in Reindeer Games so I have no doubt he and his brethren spend their off-time doing just that. I think the elves make pilgrimages to the Island of Misfit Toys as a means of contrition in between their bi-annual visits to Hermey’s dentist office. The rest of the time they’re playing with all sorts of new technological marvels that they’ll unleash on the world each holiday season. And Mrs. Claus? I can attest that Santa wears a thick gold wedding ring so I assume Mrs. Claus is also in New York, probably doing positive work like volunteering at soup kitchens.

It all makes sense. Why stay at the frozen North Pole when you can bring so much joy to people all year round? So if you’re looking for a wonderful OB, be sure to look up Santa Claus…I mean Dr. Frederick Gonzalez.

Just don’t expect him to be available Christmas Eve.

 

Blog Anxiety 2 – “Dad Bloggers”

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Today is the first birthday of Dad Bloggers, a terrific Facebook group currently 523 strong that I joined right before writing my blog “Tumbling From the Moon and Getting Back Up” about my sadness in feeling so puny in the blog world and my need for “Raising Sienna” to TAKE OFF NOW!! And while my blog hasn’t shot into outer space, I have gained some new readership (I think, I don’t know my numbers) and some new friends. Dad Bloggers is a terrific community and I congratulate Oren Miller, founder of the page and author of “A Blogger and a Father,” but it’s also overwhelming for someone like myself. I’ve posted three more blogs since joining the group (my mind’s screaming, “NOT ENOUGH!”). At times I feel like I can’t keep up with the site, that I’m drowning, that I’m in competition with 523 (and growing bloggers), some of whom have been doing this for years, many of whom I feel are so much talented than me. In addition, dads post links to current dad-related media like advertising or articles which tend to make feel like I’m late to the party (especially having a masters in media studies), that I should have blogged about these things before anyone even noticed them. That’s irrational, of course, but it’s another example of living inside this head of mine. So rather than continue to lament these feelings I wanted to talk about what I’ve done to work through my blog anxiety:

  • Joining the group was a huge step in itself. It’s something that I’d never have done in the past. I would have stared at the page for awhile, clicked on some other site and chastised myself for being a coward. So I have to acknowledge that I grew just by joining
  • Seeing all of these dads and their respective blogs made me realize I’m not ready to go to the Dads 2.0 Summit at the end of January. If I’m overwhelmed by this page, there’s no way I’ll be able to handle a conference dedicated to dad bloggers, media and sponsorship. And you know what? That’s not such a bad thing. It doesn’t mean I won’t be ready in 2014. It just means I’m not ready now.
  • While really stressing about how often many of the group members post, I wrote to an author friend of mine, Caren Lissner, whose excellent first novel, Carrie Pilby, is soon to be a movie. Caren’s been a big supporter of my mine and she told me exactly what I needed to hear: “I think a lot of bloggers have that problem – once they start, they feel bad if they don’t post regularly. A week is not very long to wait. I think a week is good! You can even do a post saying that there may be a week or two between posts at times. A blog shouldn’t be a nightmare; it’s YOUR blog, not a job.” This current blog would not have been written without Caren’s advice about blogging about how I get freaked out because I feel I’m not blogging enough. Thank you, Caren!
  • I had the guts to write, via FB, to a couple of Dad Bloggers’ major contributors to ask for advice. This is something I never would have done before. I asked John Kinnear, author of “Ask Your Dad,” if he was intimidated when he first joined and he responded thusly (sorry, I’m still not great working with WordPress so not sure how to indent): “Nope, but mainly because I didn’t know how many heavy hitters there are in this group. Once I found out who the big guns were, I was already friends with them and didn’t really feel the need to impress. Neither should you man. We all have blogs of various sizes and honestly, traffic shouldn’t be your first goal. Write what you love, what makes your feel, what makes you laugh, and what makes you a better dad. Make sure you share it so people can find you. Respond to comments. Comment on other blogs. Make friends. Your audience will find you over time.” Those words made feel much better because I was obsessing over traffic. I further asked him how often he posts and he said he tries to post once a week. That gels completely with what Caren had told me and made me feel a lot better. Thanks again, John!
  • I even had the courage to write to Oren Miller himself, founder of the Dad Bloggers group, and he told me: “There are a lot of people there, but I think most of them, including the more successful ones, know that there’s a lot of great writing from smaller blogs, and it’s often the smaller blogs that really speak the truth (it’s easy to lose your way once you start dealing with promotions and reviews).” Again, that helped settle me down. Thanks again, Oren!
  • Taking all of this advice into consideration, I’ve been “liking” and commenting on as many blogs that touch me as I can, and have been making some friends. Whenever I feel overwhelmed by the amount of content pouring in, I click away and count to ten. It doesn’t always work, but I do it as much as possible.
  • Caren, John and Oren also reiterated something my therapist has been trying to drill into my head for years: not everything I write has to be timely. If I still want to write about “Breaking Bad,” for instance, I can. So I thank all three and my therapist for that advice.

I still obsess over about what to blog; I have an idea for one, for instance, with which I’ve been really struggling. It’s kept me up late the last few evenings. Tonight I’ll take a melatonin in hopes it’ll quiet my brain. And I’ll say this now, something else I probably never would have said before: I’ll get to it eventually.

Joining Dad Bloggers has been tough, but rewarding, and I wish Oren and his group a very happy birthday, continued success and many, many new members. It’s definitely made a difference in my life just by the fact that I’ve been able to write this here blog. I like knowing that there are people I can turn to should my brain start getting the best of me, maybe even some who suffer anxiety and depression like myself. As I said about the characters in Silver Linings Playbook, sometimes the best help you can get comes from people who truly understand you. It’s clear I’ve found a few.

Any Given Sunday Guilt Can Be Your Enemy

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First I want to thank everyone for all of the comments from my last blog. I’ve been completely overwhelmed by your kindness, so much so that I’ve been unable to fully address your support. I’ve also been paralyzed, my brain taunting: “How am I gonna top what I last wrote??” I’ve been battling that and simultaneously trying to absorb all the wonderful advice and encouragement. I promise to get back to each of you. For now, I have to write about yesterday even though it doesn’t involve Sienna.

For a few years now, my two oldest, closest friends (one friend, whom I met in 2nd grade, lives in Maryland, the other, whom I met in 6th grade, lives in Florida) and I have annually reunited to go to a Giants game; for perspective purposes, we’re all turning 40 next year. The fourth spot in our reunion quartet has changed over the years for one reason or another. This year I decided to invite another old friend who coincidentally also lives in Maryland. We met in 3rd grade, I think, but we fell out of touch for some years post-college. Thanks in part to Facebook it’s like those lost years never happened.

To give you a little background, this friend of mine had an extremely rough childhood. I witnessed harsh verbal and emotional abuse from his parents that eventually led to psychological damage manifesting itself physically as stress-related seizures in JHS and the sudden development of an allergy array that boggled the mind. His allergies have since abated, but the seizures have followed him into adulthood, through two bad marriages, high pressure jobs, etc. Thankfully he’s happier now than he’s ever been. I was very protective of my friend when we were kids (I still am), always telling my parents about what he went through, but they felt I  exaggerated because knowing his parents, they couldn’t believe some of the things I described most of which they couldn’t have done anything about, but a couple of which directly involved me. I held this grudge against my parents until it was finally resolved in family therapy a few years ago, but it helped establish in me a deep-rooted need to be understood and believed that remains to this day. It’s partly the reason why I write this blog – to be understood.

Anyway, we chose the game in July, but as the day neared, my friend discovered he couldn’t get away Saturday and needed to be at work early Monday morning so he decided to drive up Sunday morning and then drive back right after the game (I thought this was audacious, even nuts, but I deferred because he so wanted to go).

When my friend from Florida arrived on Friday, we happened to meet up with another one of our good friends from elementary school. I mentioned our annual tradition and how our fourth for this year was facing a crazy schedule. I asked if should my friend have to cancel, would he be interested in going to which I got a hearty yes. I thought it was logical to secure a backup just in case, but I never imagined what would unfurl.

Four and a half hours before the game I got a text from my friend saying that he’d had a seizure while driving and totaled his car. He was unhurt, somewhere in New Jersey, and still wanted to go to the game. His closest friends, (two very sweet women whom I’ve met on several occasions) were driving from Maryland and he wanted them to take him to the stadium. Shaken and stunned, I called him and said he was acting crazy, that his health was a hell of a lot more important than a football game, and that he needed to go to a hospital and head home. He was adamant about it, though. He wanted to see us. He’d make the game. He hung up because he needed to talk with an officer.

The women were already on their way. I spoke to one of them and begged her to talk my friend into going home. She said he’d had a rough work week but had been looking forward to the game for a long time, building it up. Because she loves him, as do I, she was naturally scared about his health. We were both on the verge of tears. I had a feeling guilt was involved. He didn’t want to let us down. He didn’t want to see the ticket go to waste. I told her I could get a replacement, that he shouldn’t worry about the ticket. She agreed guilt could very well be raising its insidious head. She’d call him.

As I waited, my facial tic started going (it only appears now when I’m severely anxious). I’d been hit by my own guilt wave: I somehow caused this by enlisting a potential replacement. My friend would hate me if I refused his going to the game. Do I tell my other friend and have him come to the stadium with us just in case? If so, would HE hate me if he wound up stuck in a bar instead of at the game?

Guilt and clinical depression go hand-in-hand. Over the last few years I’ve allowed absurd guilt to slash my rational mind to ribbons. My therapist always tells me guilt is a dangerous emotion when it comes to living with depression. It prevents recovery. It prevents living.

Elaine and my other friends were trying to calm me down, telling me I was being irrational. I tried to listen, but my brain wouldn’t compute. This was somehow my fault via some ridiculous cosmic event.

My friend called back. He’d decided he was too shaken to go and was just going to go home. The truth was he did feel guilty about the ticket and about not seeing us. Through tears I told him I loved him. I said we’d make a plan to visit him, maybe even watch an old Giants game. His health superseded everything. My other friends agreed. We all took turns talking to him, making sure he was ok, telling him not going to the game was the smart move. When he hung up, my emotions collapsed and I started crying in front of Elaine, my friends, and worst of all, Sienna. Elaine took me into another room to hug and soothe me, constantly telling me it wasn’t my fault.

Eventually I settled down and the four of us headed out. We had a good time, but I couldn’t shake the guilt. Several times my friends had to tell me I was being ludicrous. I kept pictured my friend in Maryland curled up, beating himself up because he’d disappointed us and himself. At one point I had to take a walk. It took until the second half to untether myself, to mostly (still not completely) stop the guilt from eating away at this reunion of my closest friends. Although I couldn’t really get into the game, I did manage to joke around and talk and remember how lucky I was to have these people in my life. I also got a text that my friend had made it home safe and sound.

Guilt almost made my friend make a terrible decision that put his health in jeopardy. Meanwhile, my own crazy guilt nearly sucked any enjoyment from seeing my closest friends. Thankfully we both were able to eventually overpower our own irrationality. I fully plan to teach Sienna about the dangers of guilt when she’s older. Further, I will do my best to never use guilt as a weapon (even in a joking manner). I’ve seen more than enough of it in my lifetime. I’ll also make sure she knows I trust and believe her lest she somehow (and I’m sure she will at some point) blow it, but of course, she’ll be able to earn it back. If she tells me about something going on with one of her friends, I’ll believe her and explain whatever options might be available, that I personally don’t have the right to take charge, but she should be there for her friend and encourage her/him to reach out to the proper authority figures be it guidance counselors, social workers, teachers, even police; only if there’s legitimate proof can I act myself.

Now I have two things to look forward to: a soon-to-planned reunion in Maryland and next year’s annual Giants game.

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At the Giants/Packers game on 11/17/13 posing with former Giant great, Stephen Baker “The Touchdown Maker”