"Don't Freak Out!"

a poem by Camilla Joy

You don't want me to freak out?
Is that right? Like when the GPS reroutes
and I punch the steering wheel and cuss it out?
Or when I pout after not being able to figure out a child's riddle
in the middle of the mini golf course?

Of course you don't want me to freak out,
not after I spent three days in all-out silence
when I found out you took your own car to get check out
without my permission.

Or are you talking about when I freak out
day in and day out
when our child dares stand in front of the television
obstruction my vision while on a very important mission?
It's my God-given right to shout after all you benefit
from my hard-earned provision.

"Don't freak out."
I know when I talk I tend to spout lies
and theorize and generally fantasize
til everything you thought you knew dissolves into doubt, and then—
hold up. Time out.

None of that was me.
I guess I got it turned around and inside out
'cause it's YOU with the history of freaking out,
not ME, but I could show you a thing or two about 
burn out
from trying to make us work out
without letting my 'irrational' emotions spill out.

So hear me out:
You don't want me to freak out?
Turns out, it's really pretty simple:
Quit being a fucking idiot.

I'm out.

---

“I don’t think there’s any cause to freak out about it.”

As soon as I heard those words, I knew I needed to end the call. Like, immediately.

Our son has had a cough for about a month now. Not just a little tickle in his throat, but strong, doubled-over, body-wracking coughs that sometimes result in hacking up nasty chunks of congestion that’s worked its way into the lungs or back of the throat.

After a few weeks of it not getting any better, I took him in to the doctor, who prescribed him some antibiotics and told me, “If he doesn’t feel better after a couple of days, bring him back.”

Unfortunately, Cedric was going to his dad’s for the next couple of days. No problem, I thought. He can take him in if it’s not better.

I sent a text with an update, quoting the doctor verbatim.

Text was confirmed.

Early the following week Cedric got home from school after being with his dad all weekend. He was still coughing.

“How did the doctor visit go?” I asked.

“Oh, we didn’t go to the doctor.” *cough* *cough*

“Oh really? Why’s that?”

*cough* “Umm, I think we just didn’t have time.”

I immediately texted asking for a phone call.

Cue the excuses, the defensiveness, the “let me explain to you what the doctor actually told you even though I wasn’t even there in the first place but I know I’m right and you just can’t remember what he really said.”

And then, the cherry on top. “I don’t think there’s any cause to freak out about it. I mean, it’s not like he’s dying.”

I instantly flashed back to three and a half years ago. Cedric was not quite 2. I’d just closed down my piano teaching business. My husband had put in his notice at work. We’d just put in our 30 day notice at our apartment. We were headed to Utah to carve out our place in the world, put down some roots, and build a new life.

And then I find out… There’s no job.

The “job offer” my husband had told me he had (the one that would pay him enough so that I could stay home with our child, homeschool, and finally write my book) was nothing more than a single off the clock conversation, a quick handshake and a, “call me when you have a moving date.”

Only, he hadn’t been able to get ahold of the guy. For months. And instead of telling me this vital information, had decided to keep it to himself while we burned every bridge we were still standing on.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked, extremely calmly. (← this is important)

“I know how you get so stressed and I just didn’t want you to freak out. You freak out about much smaller stuff, I just didn’t want to add this to your stress.”

What I should have realized → This man withheld vital information that affected our whole family and then blamed me for not being able to handle it and made me out to be some kind of hysterical, fragile girl that needed to be handled delicately. This man cannot be trusted.

What I actually “realized” → I “freak out” too much. I really need to get a better grip on my emotions. My emotions just add to his stress, I need to not have emotions so that I don’t add to his plate. I need to prove to him that I am strong enough to handle important information even if it’s bad so that he feels safe being open with me. I’m the problem.

I can count on one hand the times that I’ve objectively “Freaked Out™” at him. After being separated and spending nine months in therapy, I know enough to know that hearing that I’m “freaking out” is a trigger for me, but not enough to know how to not freak out when I’m being accused of freaking out. It’s an infuriating place to be in.

So I ended the call ASAP, called the doctor, and got Cedric in the same day.

And then I wrote this poem, which is based on pure facts. (He did, in fact, have a tantrum about me solving the mini golf trivia question “too fast” when we were reading it together. I let him figure out the rest of the questions on his own and he was much happier.)

Fucking idiot.

Yours openly,

Camilla Joy