Anybody else shitting themselves?

We went to Disney on Ice, which is objectively terrible for anyone over nine. That wasn’t the point. I was there to be with my family, who are 50% under nine. The other 50 percent are there to enjoy the enjoyment of the other 50 percent. Parents are joy remora fish.

 I derive a lot of my joy from my children, despite how much they take from me, they keep me guessing like a high school crush. Build me up just to break me down.

Despite the disabling distraction provided by the two Brazilian ladies who had obviously only bought tickets to catch up with each other and the bubbles from the portable bubble machines that cost the same as a Lexus, I was trying to stay in the moment. But I was struggling.  

Disney on Ice is a crack den Cirque du Soleil.

That’s the thing with anxiety – you don’t choose its timing. It just felt like something was going to bounce off. It comes at me like a bus. I feel like the world is going to fall apart around me with no explanation – because of me. Things just get dark. I spiral into a sea of “what-ifs!”

Like a seesaw on skid row, what-ifs are a scary place to play. I hold my 4-year-old a little tighter; he’s now chosen to sit on my lap. I think it’s his intuition –he’s just terrified of Scar. Fighting what-ifs can be mental health’s final boss.

I took the battle on alone once and nearly lost.

I fail to understand how we play team sports our whole lives, yet choose to take on our most important fights alone. I remember telling my best mates over the phone what had happened, I could barely get the sentences out. It must have been a punch in the gut for them, one thousand miles away.

I speak to them every day, and they had no idea I was in quicksand.

I had chosen to run with the ball with a three-man overlap and paid the price of running it straight.

I now let my wife know the moment it starts, long before it creeps, even if it’s a little bit. She knows exactly how to handle it, as do I - now. Professional help and coping techniques are incredibly powerful.

My heart rate races to a Whole New World. I breathe slowly – knowing that my kids are too distracted to know that I’m wrestling demons. This helps.  I like Aladdin – I was asked to sing that song in a duet in my Primary School talent show, but I declined.

WE DON’T TALK ABOUT BRUNO.

I knew the cause. I’d had a John Candy week. I was eating my feelings, and exercise was an attendance exercise rather than a place of intentional betterment. But I am scared. And instead of doing the right thing, by eating and moving well, I chose the path of Pacman.

Distraction is far easier but dangerous.

I didn’t want to feel like this. I wanted to be present. I wanted to sing and dance and clap and complain about the behaviour of other children. I just couldn’t, not that day. Even Lionel Messi (the single greatest footballer to walk this planet, and if you think that's incorrect, you are an asshole) has an off day.

I had the people around me who knew it, knew about it and knew how to handle it.

I am shitting myself about the future. Sometimes more than I should.

People can only help if they’re in the know. Make them aware.

Don’t be a Mickey Mouse. Pass the ball. Be a team player.

I get a little weepy realizing how lucky I am to have my team– happy weepy.

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