Jimmy Talk

It's 95F and a bit humid. I'm finishing a run then walking next to the Utown mall across from my apartment. My mind is down a winding, messy path. Thinking about life problems. Work problems. I don't really have anyone I can talk to about these things. Or I should say, I don't have anyone I would burden with my thoughts. So, I find my mind, as it often does, talking to my brother Jim.

Except, Jim isn't with us anymore. He passed a week ago.

I'm telling Jim about how when I moved to Beijing, I'd often spend nights with the nanny and kids as Yang would be out. How, I'd join her a few nights a week, then maybe a night a week, then not at all until I had my own place. That I resented that, and the solution was to have the resenter go away. Then when my elder kids had their problems in the months before Covid, how I moved to the next door apartment to help.  Giving up months of rent and my neighborhood. How after the initial months, Yang would be out and I'd be left caring for the kids again. Always tired. Always stressed. Circumstances change, patterns repeat.

I realize this story isn't the best one and self-aware enough that I'm not blameless. Yet, in my mind I'm telling Jimmy this story. Not for him to take me side. Just for him to hear it.

Then I shift to the work story. I'm at a work offsite. Except because of cost reduction we are having the "offsite" in a conference room in the same building we normally work. 40-50 of us are there, the most "senior" leaders in the org except I know I'm not in the top 20 of these people. We are doing one of these pointless framework exercises that seem work altering until we actually return to work. We work in small groups. The organizers ask for volunteers to share the group findings. I'm excited about an idea. I volunteer. I stand in front of the 40-50 leaders and their welcoming stares. I start strong, having mentally rehearsed the point I want to get across. Then I realize I forgot to introduce the framing for what I'm talking about. Anxiety wells up. There is single piece of letter size paper in my left hand. I lift it to read. I can't read, think, and talk at the same time. So, I lower the paper and continue talking. My hand starts to shake. The paper is waffling and making an audible sound. The anxiety grows. The shaking gets worse. The noise louder. I see faces of confusion. I know these attacks. If I can get through 30 seconds I can recover. But that damn shaking hand just makes it worse and worse. I repeat my points, try to smile, slink back to my chair and hunch. A coworker next to me gives me a sympathetic thumbs up. I tell him, no, that was bad.

In my mind, I want to tell Jimmy this story too. Not for his sympathy, but for his accepting ear. And after I tell him my story and those of other horrific anxiety riddled public speaking events, I find strength. I find strength, in that I know I'm prone to these attack yet I still volunteer. Courage? Stupidity? Pride? I'll go with courage.

I'm crossing the street now to my apartment. Heart in throat realizing there is no more Jimmy to chat with.

A day or so later, I realize I can still speak with him during my self-talks. In reality, my self-talk doesn't often become real talk and I've been talking with Jimmy "offline" for years now and for years to come.

He's not the first.