I thought of another fear of mine: bullies and public embarrassment.

When my father was 14 or 15, he was hanging out with a group of his friends at one of those classic doo-wop diners where kids in the 50s in Northeast Philadelphia used to congregate before they were able to drive. I’ve seen pictures of him at that age and he was a little long and bony, with some trophy-head ears, made even more pronounced thanks to some hapless eyewear. He was at ease around people he did know, but less so around those he did not. He was a mediocre athlete, had several good friends, and one truly best friend, named Larry, the same one he had up until his death in 2023. (Larry died about a month later. It was that kind of friendship.)

 One Friday night at that diner, an older kid, loud and mean-looking, someone he never saw before, walked up to him while he was eating a hamburger and smacked him right across the face. My father’s glasses went sideways, his hamburger dropped onto his lap, and he looked up at the kid in terror, waiting to see what would happen next. “I don’t like you,” was all the kid said. No other explanation was given. He walked out of the diner, into the night, and no one tried to stop him. 

After that, my father said all he could remember was the look that his friends gave him, the redness on his face both from embarrassment and the force of the slap, and he began to breathe heavily as the tears jittered out of his eyes, the burger parts on his lap, all his other senses frozen because everyone in the place stared at him in silence. He told me he could just feel their eyes and, if anyone has ever been bullied in that way, you know exactly what he meant.

I forget whether he told me this before or after something similar happened to me when I was 14, though the circumstances were slightly different. There was a kid who terrorized me in junior high; I made the fatal mistake of mouthing off about his girlfriend to the wrong person, who immediately brought it back to him. He and his other, equally terrifying friend—real River’s Edge types—staked out my morning health education class. He climbed over seats to come in and smack me in the face while the other one held the door open for a quick exit. They were in and out before the bell rang, before the teacher could do anything, total mob-hit-level precision. And I can still hear that silence after, feel the classroom squirming in embarrassment on my behalf. 

Actually I don’t believe I ever told my father about that one. 

No, maybe he told me about the kid who smacked him in the face after he saw me get bullied right in front of him. I was about 10, and some smartass kid outside of intramural basketball tryouts made fun of my own trophy-headed ears and proceeded to push me. A crowd of kids gathered, waited for me to do—something. Stick up for myself, bloody his nose with my head, kick him in the balls. SOMETHING. 

And my father was right behind the crowd, there earlier than usual to pick me up from practice. We hustled out to the car, my face still red with cold sweat, my nylon sweatsuit loudly scratching through the parking lot because we were walking so fast. On the ride home he said nothing. So I said nothing. He even turned off the radio. When he was mad he’d turn off the radio; even when he wasn’t yelling, he’d still keep it off. The radio was for happy times. So no, he probably didn’t tell me about it then either. We stayed quiet.

I could tell how awful he felt about himself for having witnessed it. I could tell he’d lost some respect for me that day, for himself maybe, for not raising a kid who’s able to stick up for himself. He lost respect for me when I was 10, maybe 8 even, when I blew a play in Little League and cried on the field. He would probably disagree but when you’re a kid you can pick up on those sort of things. You can tell when someone likes you or doesn’t, someone who can overpower you, smash your spirit into crumbs, riddle your bones forever, no matter how impressive your grownup life becomes. I still feel it. And I know who the people are who can sense the fear in me. When you’re an adult you can pick up on those sort of things.

Remember, your turn now: What are you afraid of?

300-350 words.

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Subject: FEAR LIST

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Here’s the original prompt if you want to read through that.

Also, we’ve got some straggler check-ins that weren’t published but should be. Below, two late entries from our Adderall prompt and one late entry in our Food Addiction compilation. —AJD

ADDERALL AND OTHER STIMULANTS

I was diagnosed with clinical depression and ADHD the first month of college and got prescribed Adderall. I got referred to a psychiatrist in his seventies whose office was in a gorgeous brownstone on Beacon Hill, and whose mahogany waiting room was always full of jittery people who looked like they were going through it. Appointments were about 5 minutes long. One time he excitedly prescribed me Vyvanse, saying it was “way better and lasted way longer”. (This was 2009, I guess pharmaceutical kickbacks were still happening?)

These drugs “helped” me drink, in that they enabled me to continue drinking well past the point of blackout and then walk around like an undead person instead of passing out, mind erased but body upright. Whenever I did cocaine, I thought, “this is like Adderall except extremely fucking expensive and it only lasts for ten minutes.” (The only exception to that was getting reeeeeally good coke, which only happened to me twice in my life.) I also loved regularly trading 6 or 7 of my 20mg instant-release Adderall for a gram of weed (I kind of wonder what the exchange rate is like now that weed is legal and cheap.) 

When I got sober for real over eleven years ago, I flushed the little sugary blues down the toilet, intrinsically knowing it was what had to be done. I use stimulants only in the form of coffee and Celsius, and I am at peace with that, even if those energy drinks end up giving me stomach cancer. I dunno if I have ADHD, and I don’t really care, because I’ve organized my life in such a way that I am functional without drugs and alcohol. And I always keep my keys in the same place so I don’t lose them. Can some people use Adderall and be sober? Probably. All that matters is that I have always known deep down that I cannot, and I pray I never forget it. 

I got a Concerta prescription from my family doctor after a very convincing story about having ADHD which was probably true but not why I wanted the prescription—I wanted to stop eating lunch and I wanted to feel a little speedy without having to do real drugs again. I initially took it every few days and used it up within a month. Then I’d stop for a while and keep collecting the prescription just so I’d have some in case.

I haven’t taken it in a bit, but it’s still sitting there waiting for the next time I feel like I need it. I haven’t decided if this means I’m not sober but I think at the very least it’s not emotionally sober or emotionally honest and it’s a very addict brain way of thinking about medication. Some things never change!

MORE STIMULANTS:

FOOD

Went from being a (minor) beauty queen to at my worst, 216 pounds. Food became my solace during depressions/constant low self-esteem periods.After decades of ups and downs, pleading for love and acceptance, I finally committed to getting down to +/-140 almost 2 years ago. I’m obsessed with measuring, charting, meal prep, and checking my food journal several times a day, weighing myself at least 3 times a day. I know this still isn’t healthy behavior, but I’m terrified of gaining any pounds. But I no longer seek validation/love/self esteem. Frankly, I’ve given up those goals (I think).”

MORE FOOD:

NEW PODCAST EPISODE: NYT’S DAVID MARCHESE ON DEATH, GRIEF, AND LOU REED’S PARMESAN PROBLEM

ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN