Last month, A.J. asked our beloved TSB community to tell us what they were afraid of. “Terrorists? Financial ruin? Public embarrassment? Being trapped in a loveless marriage? Sharks in flooded roadways?” Our readers answered and, not unsurprisingly, the truth is: all of the above and oh, so much more. Part One of your responses are compiled below.

We ran Part One a couple weeks ago. This is Part Two. —TSB Editor

by The Small Bow Family Orchestra

My beautiful cat boy is dying, and I am terrified. Technically, he was supposed to die two weeks ago, then a week ago, and as I write this, he is in front of me, glittering fur and handsome ruff and magnificent deep eyes staring me down and I am eager, buoyant to put this down soon so that I can experience the fullness of his existence in this very moment and after whatever is to come. 

He is my steadfast companion. I transcend into a strange liminality when he slow blinks and I blink back, a sort of meditation. We just celebrated a decade together—too short, so long. His climb and normalcy makes the descent even more drastic, when it comes, and I am so afraid for the After of what his little life will portend for me, the after when we have our baby, the after of what happens with his body, the after of where his little soul will go. He is not afraid, and I am awash in terror for us both. My love for him is vaster than almost anything I have ever felt. I am most afraid that I will never experience that love again, towards or from anything.

Fear of Financial Insecurity has not totally left me . . . I am single, no kids, turning 60 this year. I have saved my whole working life for retirement and I am still afraid I will not have enough. Or I will have one illness that wipes me out.  

I am afraid I will die and who will take care of my dog? That is a biggie. Though not really rational. I have several people that would step up.  

I am afraid I will die and my will is not up to date. Why is it soooo hard to sit down and get it done?

I guess that means I don’t want to think about dying. 

When I was drinking I feared I would never be able to stop. I am 9 years stopped and am grateful everyday.  

Now I am just afraid that our world will implode. Well, it is . . .

I probably cry at least once a week thinking about the inevitability of my kids being bullied at some point. Of someone coming along and telling my son, the happiest and most gentle little boy I’ve ever come across, that his clothes are stupid or pushing him down on a playground for no reason. I got through my adolescence relatively easy because I was a class clown-type for most of those years, but there was that one time I was choked in front of a handful of classmates in sixth grade by another kid I thought was my only friend. It was a month or two after I had started at a new school after my family and I had moved over the summer and I struggled deeply to make any friends. I can still vividly recall the delight and amusement each of the onlookers took in the spectacle. I began to cry but insisted it was because I had a sore throat which was made worse by the choking. That was a lie, of course. I was so thoroughly embarrassed and ashamed. “Is this what life is really like?”

I keenly remember how it all felt and the idea of my kids ever being made to feel that way ruins me. I want them to be able to help them through those moments and give them all the love and empathy I can possibly give. But, importantly, I never told my parents about the choking incident. I never told anyone about it, and that’s where the real/deeper fear comes into play. I’m scared of them being bullied, of course, but I’m fucking horrified of them being too ashamed to ever tell me about it. It’s like if they were drowning but didn’t cry to anyone out for help. I have to do everything I possibly can to let them know they’re safe to share their vulnerabilities with me and that they’ll be met with love and support, unconditionally. We all know what unresolved trauma looks like, and I can’t live with myself if I don’t protect them from all the ways that kind of embarrassment or shame can manifest itself later in life. I hope I’m up to the task, but hope isn’t enough sometimes.

Whatever is waiting for my household in the incoming mail (in particular, correspondence from the IRS, debt collectors, and the “neighborhood management association” (HOA/POA type of folks). *Sidenote: I “deal” with this by obsessively checking the postal system’s informed delivery app in anticipation of whatever is on the way. Most days it’s nothing of consequence. Sometimes it is.

Filing my taxes. Paying my taxes.

The total amount of debt I owe (credit cards and student loans).

My bosses at work finding out that I have not done all of my things correctly for some time because my ADD brain won’t seem to me.

The seemingly unpredictable moodiness I get from my ADD meds. Not all the time. Just sometimes.

My partner’s ongoing mental/emotional/physical struggles potentially never getting better, including their current struggle with letting go of the past and learning to grieve the things that did happen and the dreams that did not happen. I remain committed to them and always will be. But for their sake I just want them to feel a lot better. 

The multiple areas of the house where so many half finished projects and other things have become clutter mountains.

Certain aspects of the future, in particular this fall.

fin

NEW PODCAST EPISODE: KARINA RYKMAN ON HEALTHY EGO AND MAKING ART FROM A JOYFUL PLACE

ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN