John Scholvin

still can't fit a half-stack in the trunk

author: jks
10 Mar 2020

worry

Don't tell me not to worry.

Don't tell me not to worry about my 79-year-old father with chronic lung disease.

Don't tell me not to worry about my kids missing a quarter (semester? more?) of classroom instruction.

Don't tell me not to worry about the six months of planning I've done for Ragnar going down the drain when they inevitably cancel it.

Don't tell me not to worry about the tens of thousands of people who will die needlessly because the minority-elected buffoon-in-chief is actively concealing critical data, hampering the federal response, and spewing squid ink about the severity of the situation.

Don't tell me not to worry about being the new guy at his job in an economic downturn, or about all the time I spend traveling when I am working.

Don't tell me not to worry about the impact of this on the election.

Don't tell me not to worry about my many friends and family in the medical profession.

Don't tell me not to worry about my own health, or about Sharon's or the kids’.

Don't tell me not to worry about the millions who can't afford to skip work, or to pay for health care in this hellscape nation.

Don't tell me not to worry about the large suicide cult out there which believes this is a hoax, and is actively behaving counter to expert advice on slowing the spread.

Don't tell me not to worry about the canceled volleyball games (or ultimate matches) or dance recitals I'll miss, none of which will be rescheduled..

Don't tell me not to worry about being ordered to sit in my house for weeks.

Don't tell me not to worry about the college savings that disappeared.

Don't tell me not to worry about how the authoritarians will seize this moment to consolidate power.

Sure, tell me not to panic. Unless you mistake my worry for panic, in which case I might hit you in the fucking mouth. I'm not panicking. I'm worrying.

Don't tell me not to worry.