The fear 4 hours before doctor appointment

My appointment with the specialist doctor is at 9 a.m.

It’s currently 4 a.m.

I’m scared.

I know that to get better, I need to see this doctor.

But I’m afraid.

I’ve never had surgery before. I don’t even know if I need surgery. But I’m scared of it.

I think about all the Drake women’s basketball players I wrote about who had knee injuries or other issues who had surgery.

To me, their condition was news — facts people should know about their favorite team.

I didn’t think about the pain.

I didn’t consider they might be afraid.

Maybe they weren’t.

Those Drake women’s basketball players I covered back in the mid- to late-1990s were tougher than I’ll ever be.

I remember one player, she got cut. She declined a pain killer because that meant shouldn’t go back into the game.

Me? I would have asked for maximum pain relief, my blankie, and my stuffed Pink Panther.

Someone I love was trying to help me yesterday.

This is her way. She takes charge. She leads.

She started to list all the changes I needed to make to get better.

Lose weight.

Listen to my doctors.

Exercise more.

She hit an especially tender spot. She asked if I thought I could walk to my classes at Drake even without my present knee problems.

Her question was legitimate. All my grad school work so far has been online because of the pandemic.

This fall, we’re back to buildings and classrooms.

Can I walk a few blocks to my classes even without a knee injury?

The answer is no.

But.

But I would have found a way. I would have paid for a parking sticker for the lots closest to the building I took my classes in.

If I couldn’t make it, I would use an assistive device — a crutch, a walker, whatever.

I was going to make it.

But her question comes with an unintentional punch.

It reminds me how much I hate myself — my physical body, how repulsed I am by the sight of me.

I know I am disgustingly fat by both medical and aesthetic standards. I know every extra pound shortens my lifespan.

I worry about it all the time.

The latest knee injury terrifies me on a scale I struggle to describe.

I worry that it can’t be fixed or will be easily reinjured. Thus, getting to class will become impossible and I won’t finish graduate school, won’t become a teacher and end up with a pile of student loans and no job to pay them with. I’ll be living down at the YMCA housing or in a hospice.

How’s that for maudlin thinking?

This is what goes on in a brain stricken with depression and anxiety.

That’s why I abruptly ended the call with my loved one.

I was rude.

But I had therapy soon. And I was hurting, both physically and emotionally.

I didn’t want to fight.

I just wanted someone to tell me everything was going to be OK.

Daniel P. Finney writes columns for ParagraphStacker.com, a free, reader-supported website. Please consider donating to help me cover personal expenses as I continue writing while I pursue my master’s degree and teacher certification. 
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Tennis, media embarrass themselves with ignorant responses to Osaka mental health issues

Confession: Before Naomi Osaka announced she wasn’t going to participate in post-match news conferences at the French Open, I didn’t know who she was.

I know. That makes me a terrible human being. I don’t follow tennis.

Osaka is currently ranked No. 2 in the world, and she was the highest paid female athlete in the world in 2020.

So, yeah, I suppose I should have known who she was.

Anyway, before the French Open she said she wasn’t doing post-match news conferences. It kicked up her anxiety and she felt like reporters aren’t respectful of mental health. She was prepared to pay a fine.

The media and tennis worlds collectively shit themselves.

Reporters, not all, but way too many, scoffed at the notion that news conferences are harsh, cruel and dehumanizing.

They acted as if reporters are tame as fainting goats barely braying during these gentle occasions.

And tennis?

Well, the French Open fined Osaka $15,000. And all the Grand Slam goons came out and said they would do the same if she pulled such a stunt at their event.

Tennis is their sport and they’ll be goddamned if some star tells them who will sit for a daily roasting that’s created for no other reason than to give more exposure to the sport and make a handful of really rich guys who profit off the backs of people like Osaka slightly richer.

Day 2: Osaka took her racket and went home.

She was kind enough about it in her public statement, but I hope she gave the middle finger to France as her plane took off.

Her statement went deeper into the mental health issues.

Tennis and the media immediately changed their tune. The once-scoffing media hoped she got the help she needed. Tennis made apologetic burping noises.

But, hey, let’s be clear here: Fuck both the media and tennis.

The news media have no credibility in the common person’s house. The news is just weak sapling hanging off the edge of the entertainment industry trying to gain eyeballs through trickery and pandering.

They pump so much anxiety into the air, they ought to be considered a threat to the environment.

I have no sympathy for that devil anymore.

If nothing else, can we at least admit there’s not a goddamn thing worth a damn that comes out of post-game news conferences?

Reporter: What were you thinking when you double-faulted and lost the match?

Athlete: I thought, “Shit, one of you assholes is going to bring this up later and ask me some dumb fucking question like that.”

My late friend Joe Pollack was a celebrated media figure in St. Louis for decades. He told wonderful stories from his time as the public relations man for the St. Louis Cardinals football team.

“Sports writing,” he used to say, “was ruined the day they started interviewing athletes.”

As for tennis, I hope the greedy hustlers in charge learned something about who really has the power in that relationship: Osaka.

She’s the one people are paying and tuning in to see.

Be mindful of that when you think you can put the smack down on her like she works for you. She doesn’t. You work for her.

As for Osaka, like I said, I didn’t know anything about her.

Now, I’m a huge fan.

We’re fellow travelers on the mental health journey. I don’t pretend to know her exact struggles but note this: She’s one of the best in the world at a pro sport, but she’s living with a health condition.

Nobody can tape it up or apply ice to it, but it can be treated. How she treats it is none of my business. It’s no one’s business.

But if you ever wonder why people talk about stigma and mental health, it’s this kind of bullshit. She asked for one accommodation, and there was an avalanche of jerks rushing to keyboards and mics to out-asshole one another to tell her to get in line and quit whining.

I’ve lived with anxiety and depression for a long time. I am a good writer. I was once a good journalist. I’m studying to be a teacher.

Sometimes, I will look and seem fine to even my closest friends, but inside my guts are churning broken glass and nails.

But here’s the thing I keep telling everybody: Mental health is just health.

Think about it this way: If Osaka had high blood pressure or a blood sugar problem, people would understand that. They might even think it was brave of her to play with those potentially life-threating ailments.

Mental health is also potentially life threatening but can be treated. People who live with those ailments can do anything they want with their lives. Osaka proves that.

So, media people, shut the fuck up. Nobody wants to hear from you about anything.

Tennis bosses? Get it together and treat your players like humans, not characters in a video game.

And Osaka? You do you. When you get back to the courts, you’ll have one more fan.

Daniel P. Finney writes columns for ParagraphStacker.com, a free, reader-supported website. Please consider donating to help me cover personal expenses as I continue writing while I pursue my master’s degree and teacher certification. 
Post: 1217 24th St., Apt. 36, Des Moines, 50311. 
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When melancholy becomes malignant, say something nice about someone else to make yourself feel better

Let me make myself clear: I’m not suicidal. I am clinically depressed. I also live with generalized anxiety disorder. Prescription pills work most of the time, but this is an exceptionally stressful period.

I’m out of work. I’m trying to learn a new career at middle age. Arthritis squeezes my knees and tendonitis stings my Achilles.

My temper is short. My days vacillate between a general melancholy with a dash of sudden rage to a disengaged desire to interrupt sleep just long enough to turn over and take a nap.

I reached for a facial tissue in the bathroom and realized the box was empty. I went to the closet and it was bare. I realized I couldn’t afford Kleenex until my tax return arrives.

Forgive me if I’m skeptical of the federal government’s promise of May 5. I’m supposed to be getting paid unemployment benefits by the state of Iowa. But some rogue algorithm stole my identity and tied my account up at Iowa Workforce Development, where the bureaucrats can’t tell me when my benefits will resume.

I apologize to regular readers who’ve seen nothing but stacks of paragraphs about these problems for a month. But believe me when I say I am more tired of living this successive series of disconcerting events.

When the melancholy becomes malignant, I phone friends. I text random compliments to people I love.

JANE BURNS: You’re one of the best people I ever met, and I learned so damn much from you. I miss sitting beside you at Drake women’s basketball games. Seldom have I known a keener observer who could also translate those observations into readable copy. Thank you for being my friend.

TRACEY DOYLE GORRELL: Thank you for being my friend. You are one of the wisest peers I know. You made my life immensely better with your broad mind and big heart. You are one of my true Super Friends.

MEGAN GOGERTY: To be serious for a moment, I love you. I mean that in the friendliest way. Like everyone, I’m going through a lot of shit right now. Your skating videos, your writing and the light you project in the world helps me hang on. I know you’ve got your own woes, but it takes a special person to take a few minutes every day to write a joke or make a funny video. Thank you for sharing.

SARA SLEYSTER: Thanks for being my friend. Thanks for sharing your faith and hope with me. And especially thanks for editing the foul-ups out of my blog posts.

KEN QUINN: I remain honored and humbled to count a man of your astounding accomplishment, unmatched intelligence, insight and kindness as my friend.

Naturally, these messages disconcerted some of my friends. They were worried the expression of love was an indication I was suicidal.

That’s good insight on their part because that sort of thing can be an indicator. It just isn’t for me.

I feel better when I say nice things about people I love.

This is one of my depression repression techniques. Most of the time, there’s nothing I can do in the moment I’m feeling depressed or anxious to address the cause of my depression or anxiety.

What I try to do is solve what can be handled in the moment. I wish I could tell you I think positive thoughts about myself, but that’s rare.

But I do think all the time about the people I love and who’ve loved me.

You always hear people at funerals say that they wish they had told the dead person something deeply personal while they were alive.

So, I’m doing it. I’m texting. I’m sending letters.

I may not be able to fix my problems, but I can put a little positive energy out there.

Check your inbox.

Daniel P. Finney writes columns for ParagraphStacker.com, a free, reader-supported website. Please consider donating to help me cover personal expenses as I continue writing while I pursue my master’s degree and teacher certification. 
Post: 1217 24th St., Apt. 36, Des Moines, 50311. 
Zelle: newsmanone@gmail.com. 
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PayPalpaypal.me/paragraphstacker.