How Come You Never Freak the F*ck Out?

I had a meltdown. One of those heaving, sobbing, gasping for air freak-outs that comes along once (haha, I wish) or twice a year when things seem impossible. A popular theme for my bi-annual trip to Losing My Shitsville is my ever present fear of needing permanent wheels (or worse, but that’s a good start). It’s an anxiety taking up a lot of real estate in my imagination lately as I struggle to walk a straight line and remain upright for longer than a few minutes.  

On this particular day I was ruminating over the fact that I want better for The Banker. I really mean it. He’s an awesome guy. Tall, dark and handsome, he has a good job. He’s funny and kind and oh my god, why am I trying to sell him to you? He has a superfluous nipple, okay?

this guy is zen af

So how did The Banker get such a raw deal? 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a god-damned prize. But as time goes on, I fear The Banker’s love for me might turn him into my nurse and I don’t want that more than I don’t want to be alone. 

Through tears, I tried to tell him this, but he is unflappable. First, he laughed at me and my silly concerns. This was annoying because, I wasn’t kidding. I’m serious. But this guy, he is so steady, so even. He never seems to get upset. It was only when I said through gross, snotty tears,

“What would it take for you to just freak the fuck out???”

and he held my face and made me look at him

“Losing you would make me freak the fuck out.” 

I took a deep breath. I wiped my nose on his shirt. I calmed down. I believed him and at least for a moment, I felt better.

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