I have always been afraid.

As a toddler, I was scared of the bathtub drain; the moment I

was clean, I would scream and beg in as many words as I knew for my parents to get me onto dry

land. Developmentally, this was normal; I had realized the world was bigger than myself. The

fear would pass, and with it, my parents could stop hating bath time.

Bathing stopped being so dreadful, but the world never stopped being so big. The fear

never went away. I will likely always be afraid; that is what my anxiety is. It is far too many

irrational, frankly absurd assumptions made to protect myself. I figure that if I can expect

something, it can’t hurt me—this thinking has yet to prove correct, but I’m a believer in second,

third, and trillionth chances in cases like this.

The term separation anxiety makes me think, personally, about a fidgeting dog waiting at

home while everyone is away at work and school and out in the real world. I’d hate to say that I

relate, but if the shoe fits; my whole life, I have assumed that being early is on-time and being

late means I will be attending a funeral in the near future. This fear is indiscriminate and has led

to more than a few drafted eulogies. None of them are very good, and I hope I’ll never have to

speak any of them out loud.

But unlike that fidgeting dog, I have broken into the real world. I do not sit at home and

whine at the door. I will not let myself be scared of swirling water or foolish thinking. That is not

who I am and not who I will ever let myself become. The world isn’t getting any smaller, but

neither am I.