Say It Ain't So (The Thrills - 2003)

Any similarities to actual events and persons in my family are not coincidental. This story took place on Friday, May 22, 2009.

“A paranoiac, like a poet, is born, not made.” ~ Luis Buñuel Portolés

Lauren approached our waiting car looking as if she had just thrown up in her mouth.

I was picking her up at the end of another school day. However, it didn't appear my 7th Grader had just another school day. Apparently, she either had the aforementioned mouthful of puke, or something was dreadfully wrong in the unfair — and sometimes cruel — world called "school." It was difficult to say which because Lauren's "puke" face and "something wrong" face are exactly the same face. Not to mention, having regurgitated food in your mouth, is often perfectly dreadful — especially at school.

I suspected her look had nothing to do with vomit.

As she threw herself and her backpack in the front passenger seat, I greeted her with the usual, “Hi Sweetie, how was your day?”

Looking me squarely in the eyes, she said, “Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”

She caught me off guard. Honestly, the thought had crossed my mind . . . but of course, Lauren was not paranoid — you know, in the strict clinically psychotic definition of the word. Although I must say, the kid did have an overly abundant number of irrational fears and anxieties. Some of the recent few included but were not limited to: hookworm infections, sharp pretzels, parking in front of liquor stores, moths, and the imminent end of the world.

“Why?” I asked defensively, as if I had already been caught in some kind of trick question.

“Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”

Sounding a flabber short of gasted, I said, “Why, did somebody say you’re paranoid?”

“Yes. So, do you think I am?”

Looking away from Lauren’s piercing gaze, I pulled away from the curb to begin what I expected to be a very long drive home.

Further delaying what would inevitably be an unpopular answer, I said, “Who said you're paranoid?”

“My friends Colleen and Jen,” she said. “So do you?”

Damn. Like my dog with a rubber tug toy, Lauren wouldn't let it go. Seconds from a delay of game penalty I said meekly, "Did they say it nicely?”

“They didn't mean it meanly. Dad, do you think I'm paranoid?”

I was trapped with no where to hide. I was like bankrobbers Butch (Paul Newman) and Sundance (Robert Redford) in the 1969 Western, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid — and Lauren was lawman Joe LeFors. She had me cornered high on a rocky canyon cliff, overlooking a raging river of hormones and teen insecurity. I had no choice but to jump. Like Butch and Sundance, if I could survive the fall I might escape her angst and make it home safely. The kid demanded an answer and doggone it, I was going to give her an honest one.

Taking a deep breath, I jumped. “Yeah, I can see why they might say that.”

Tightly gripping the steering wheel, I braced for impact.

“Paranoid? Paranoid!?” she said, slightly raising her voice.

“Okay, of course you're not clinically paranoid," I began. "Perhaps just overly concerned about . . .”

“Dad? Oh my gosh, you think I'm paranoid?”

“No, no, just a bit overly sensitive . . . ”

Again interrupting, more desperate, and speaking rapidly she said, “Paranoid means that I think everything is out to get me. Dad, I don't think everyone is out to get me. Do you think I think that? Do you really think I think that?”

“No, I don't . . ."

"Do you?"

"No, I . . ."

“Oh no! That's bad!"

"What's bad?"

"[My religion teacher] said that God wants people to have a peaceful mind and the devil wants people to be paranoid!”

Oh my. Maybe, on second thought . . .

The water was frigid and I almost drown, but I survived the ride home. I just hope Lauren doesn't ask me this question again anytime soon, the next time I might have a different answer — and that would be a simple, "No, you're not paranoid."

For now, let's just add "being paranoid" to the growing list of my daughter's irrational fears and anxieties.

“Paranoia is knowing all the facts.” ~ Woody Allen