I’ve told you before about my tendency to take my job home with me. As of late, though, I’m starting to realize just how paranoid I’ve become.
Grant it, my paranoia started long before my journalism career. My father, bless his heart, is not a calm soul.
In elementary school I wanted to join a soccer team, he told me it was too dangerous. In 8th grade I joined a cheerleading squad, he told me I was going to be killed. Even now, at 24, he asks me to call him when I get to my apartment.
I love my father. His paranoia is his way of showing me he cares, but alas, its caught on. He relishes in the fact that I’m more paranoid than he is now.
When a member of my family doesn’t pick up their cell phones I think they’ve been killed in a car accident.
When my parents should be home and I can’t get them on the phone there’s a house fire.
When I go for a run and stop at an area park I watch the lone man in his car with definite certainty that he is a drug dealer.
The garbage man is a serial killer, the neighbor is cooking meth and every authority figure is up to no good.
I don’t love this, but it’s my new life. I am overly cautious and fairly certain most people are out to get me. Sadly for them, I am always alert.