If it wasn’t for writing, I think I’d be a professional worrier. My matriarchal role models taught me well. Which means watching a show about children with psychotic disorders starts to get personal. What would I do if my kid was schizophrenic? What if I develop schizophrenia? What if one day my kid runs in front of a car while I’m not watching? Would I be able to live with myself, knowing I could have prevented them from getting hurt?
But that’s just the beginning, because I’m so concerned for these children even by association, I start worrying about a person I have no connection to beyond this prerecorded television screening.
Usually I can let things go with a little self-awareness, but then there are the times I want to be worrying—about humanity, my family, and situations in which I’d need every moment to count. Here’s when I can’t understand other people completely unconcerned. I don’t get scared by bugs; I’m scared of losing anything that remotely matters.
I started this out to make fun of myself for being so ridiculously affected by a television program, by my inability to cut away from the edited representations of life and deal more realistically with what’s actually around me. I couldn’t find the humor in this, though.
Sometimes I wonder if Jon Stewart or any satirical comedian just really sits around in their normal life, frustrated and humorless at the endless accumulation of wrongs within human society.
Then, I’m sure, somebody falls down and slapstick saves the day with a laugh.