By Jack Smith
I live in the future, not the present.
My mind is like a powerful radar, always sweeping the horizon for threats seen and unseen, problems known and unknown.
My eyes see through people like an airport scanner, sizing up their motives. My emotional instincts are sensitive and sharp, able to gauge how others feel even before they can.
My anxious disposition is a blessing. It is also a curse.
Worry, an all-consuming art-form of mine, makes me good at my job. It also makes me insane.
I spent a good 90 minutes with an anxiety specialist today, and it took him less time to size me up than it did for me to realize he looks and acts just like Seymour Hoffman.
Seymour jarred me with real talk about my suicide attempt, apparently not convinced I understood the gravity of my selfish act. Speaking of my family, he termed it an attempted murder on a person they care deeply about. The problem, he said, is that the victim and the offender are the same person. He challenged me to reconcile that with all involved. I didn’t argue the point.