Debatable Evidence of Anxiety
- Ronald Everett Maynard
- Sep 8
- 2 min read
There I sat, waiting to offer an excuse to leave the dining room table, watching my family cut each other’s throats over simple opinions. Some family members threw others under their metaphorical buses, crushing beliefs under tires made for destroying hopes and dreams. We had become divided on our ideological differences, and some of us were new to such vindictive behaviors. I turned eighteen today, and not a single person wished me a happy birthday. Usually, I sat quietly while everyone argued. Mother had demanded that everyone shut up and eat their breakfast.
I knew the school bus would arrive soon. I needed the escape, but I worried about the debate. My brother Gerald challenged our right-wing Father on free healthcare for all Americans. Veins bulging, I thought Father was about to have an aneurysm. Even my sister, who supported Father’s politics, waited anxiously to see the clash. When Gerald mentioned our Republican State representative’s arrest for criminal activity, Father claimed Democrats had staged a sting to set up his party's official. I was never entirely sure if Father believed his own rhetoric, but he had no qualms about sharing it.
Gerald had graduated from high school two years earlier and was still living in the basement. As a dedicated gamer, working at a store that specialized in video games gave him a sense of purpose, but it didn't bring in a substantial income. My sister finished her schooling last year and started college after a summer break. Meanwhile, I was still stuck as a senior in summer school. I wanted my diploma badly, but all the extra assignments made the math credits seem impossible. I needed to graduate, but it was too hard to focus.
I realized that no one truly wins their arguments. My family members often held stubborn views and sometimes even seemed ignorant, intentionally provoking each other into disagreements. Father insisted that it was his house and that his rules applied to everyone living there. Mother called him a foolish man. She tolerated Father’s attitude willingly, but he adored our mother deeply. Mother was a special kind of woman—supportive and tenacious when it came to the people she loved.
The bus pulled up in front of us, and as the door opened, everyone patiently waited for me to step on. I climbed aboard and took a seat next to Ira Plimpton, who casually mentioned a rumor that I had passed away. I looked at him, a bit confused, until he gently reassured me about my diagnosis. He'd heard from his mom, who had spoken to mine, that I had tried to take my own life. Despite all of this, life kept moving forward, and I found myself learning to ignore the debates around me. I loved everyone just the same.
I realized that suicide isn't a true escape from life, even though I sometimes felt overwhelmed and anxious. The psychologist who helped me see my feelings as important reduced my stress.
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