Hey anxiety! Go f*ck yourself.

I’ve been pretty open about Number 3’s issues with anxiety.

I share them because I think sometimes we don’t realize how badly our kids are struggling.

Because they don’t want to share what is going on because they are embarrassed.

And I think there are parents who are also embarrassed. Or who feel guilty. Who think they are the only ones who have a child with these issues.

Or who think their kid will never, ever find a way to deal with them.

I also share them because it can also just be really, really frustrating.

If you weren’t a kid who struggled with anxiety, it can be difficult to understand or relate to.

Number 3’s anxiety issues made themselves known when he was about 3 and accidentally got locked in his room.

After that, he developed a pretty severe case of claustrophobia.

Doors could never be completely closed.

Even in the doctor’s office, if he had to use the bathroom, the door had to be kept slightly ajar.

He had to have a car door open unless I was in the car with him.

Then when he was six, he got stuck in an elevator for about 15 seconds at a beach house we rented.

It wasn’t long, but it was long enough.

And that made things worse.

Then other issues made themselves known.

He became fairly obsessed with the fear that his bus would break down on the way home from school.

I have no idea where that one came from.

But at one point he confided in me that he had to perform certain rituals on the bus in order to ensure that he would make it home without it breaking down.

And then the bus actually did break down.

He survived. He realized once he made it home that everything was going to be okay. I think he may have stopped with the rituals on the bus after that.

And I kind of assumed that he was “cured.”

Then we went to Boston for the marathon.

The finish line of the marathon is crazy. And so in order to find family members who have come to watch you, there is a family meeting area a couple blocks from the finish.

The day of the marathon it was cold and rainy and windy.

There were record numbers of runners who needed medical attention.

I had made arrangements to meet my parents and Number 3, 4, and 5 at the family meeting area.

I got there and no one from my family was anywhere to be seen.

I waited for 15 minutes, getting increasingly colder and wetter and colder and wetter.

I kept trying to call my parents and was having trouble because I couldn’t feel my fingers.

I was also having trouble because my parents got a smartphone about a month ago, and they can’t figure out how to answer the fucking thing.

I finally got a hold of them about 20 minutes after I had crossed the finish line.

I could hear Number 3 crying in the background.

We had had a little communication mix up, and my parents and the kids were almost a half mile from the family meeting area.

So I told them not to move and that I would meet them there.

I was wet and numb and freezing.

My face was turning blue, and a man I passed along the way told me I should go into a nearby building and warm up before I walked any further.

But I just wanted to get to my parents who had dry clothes for me.

When I finally found them, Number 3 was hysterical.

He had convinced himself that I was lost and they would never find me.

So once we were reunited, I got my dry clothes on, and then we had to take the T back to the hotel to get our car.

We walked down into the subway station, and Number 3 fucking lost it.

He was completely terrified and was having a full blown panic attack.

Full. Blown.

He was crying and shaking and his eyes could not have been any bigger.

He was literally terror stricken.

Number 3 has some behaviors that drive me crazy.

Some of them are annoying. Some are weird. Some are bordering on infuriating.

And it’s easy for me to lose my patience with him.

Sometimes he’s just being douchey.

But it became very clear to me in the subway in Boston that some of his behaviors are definitely related to his anxiety.

Which is still very much present. And definitely very much real.

I was once told that the symptoms of your child’s anxiety that you see or that he or she tells you about are just the tip of the iceberg.

That there is a whole bunch of shit going on beneath the surface that you have no clue about.

I think that’s true.

And I don’t think your brain ever really stops creating those anxious thoughts.

I think that you just learn how to effectively tell them to go fuck themselves.

I think those thoughts can do a number on your self esteem though.

And learning how to tell those mothereffers to hit the road is really, really hard.

So after we survived the trip on the T, we talked about it a little bit.

We talked about how Number 3 made it through the subway ride just fine.

And then he told me when he goes to college, he’s going somewhere where there are no subways.

I guess we still have some work to do there.

Anyway, this is why I feel so strongly about sports.

Sports have been the place where Number 3 has really been able to feel good about himself.

But he’s still not always confident.

He still has those thoughts that creep into his head.

Last night, Number 3 had a baseball game.

He’s a pretty good baseball player. He has the potential to be incredible.

But his head often gets in his way. That fucking anxiety can do a number on him.

Last night he was the starting pitcher and the lead off batter.

He pitched a good first inning, struck three kids out, and didn’t allow any runs.

His first time at bat, he struck out.

Put him in a batting cage and he can smack the shit out of pitch after pitch.

But put him up at the plate, and he often loses confidence pretty quickly.

The second time he was up, he smacked the crap out of the ball and hit it into right field.

It was a legit triple, but there was an overthrow and the coaches sent him home.

I would have made the same call.

All Number 3 has ever wanted to do is hit a home run.

This wouldn’t technically be a home run, but in his book it would.

He sprinted home.

And he got tagged out.

The inning was over.

And Number 3 was a mess. Crying. Badly.

He headed back out to the field, very upset.

One of the coaches pulled him aside and talked to him. He helped to calm Number 3 down until he was okay enough to get back on the mound.

I wasn’t sure how he would do. I was fairly sure his head would be producing some fucked up thoughts.

I was wrong.

He pitched a great inning, struck two more guys out, and didn’t allow any runs.

He was awesome.

And shortly after that, he was up to bat again.

I had no idea how he would do.

I watched him at the plate through squinted eyes, afraid to really watch.

And he hit a fucking home run.

A legit home run.

I wish I could effectively describe the look on his face.

I can’t. But it is stored in my brain forever.

And I hope the feeling is stored in his head forever too.

I felt so bad for Number 3 that day in Boston.

But I’m glad it happened.

Because it made him stronger.

It gave him a memory to draw from.

I can do this.

If you wonder why I feel so strongly about pushing people to move out of their comfort zones, that is why.

Because that is where you learn how great you really can be.

That is where the home runs, both literal and figurative, are made.

And that is where I am going to help my son to truly realize how strong and capable and talented and amazing he really is.

Thank you for making me Number 1!

Please keep voting!

Click on the banner below and you have registered your vote for me!