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said curtly. “Do you guys think I’m nuts, or what?”
    â€œNo, Reggie, we don’t think you’re nuts,” Dad said slowly. “But sometimes things affect us in ways we aren’t even aware of. Lots of people see therapists. Look at it this way: You’re going to be getting some expert help—no different than if you sprained an ankle or broke your leg.”
    Yeah, right. Nobody thought you were a wacko if you went to the doctor. But just wait until the kids at Lincoln found out I was seeing a psychologist.
    â€œThat’s easy for you to say,” I blurted out. “Nobody’s ever told you that you need this kind of help, have they?”
    My father’s brow furrowed. He sighed and shook his head slowly. Maybe my last comment had gone too far.
    â€œI’ve never told you this before, Reggie,” he said. “I
have
needed that kind of help myself.”
    I was stunned. What was he talking about? My Dad, the most dependable, straightforward, no-nonsense Mr. Boring Guy had gone to a therapist?
    â€œA couple of years ago, I had some problems. I had an anxiety disorder,” Dad said. “It was different from what you’re experiencing. But it was affecting me at home and at work. And just like you, I didn’t want to talk to anybody about it. Mom finally convinced me to see somebody.”
    For a moment I forgot all about my problems and thought about what I was hearing. My Dad had problems with anxiety? How come? Why hadn’t I noticed anything? Was he okay now?
    â€œSo what happened?” I asked, croaking out the words. “With your, um, problem.”I didn’t want to use the term anxiety disorder. I didn’t even really know what it meant.
    â€œI went to see Dr. Shaw about it,” Dad said, referring to our family doctor. “He put me on some medication. But he also sent me to a therapist. Mostly, we talked about how I was feeling and the problems I was experiencing. He taught me some ways of dealing with the feelings I was having. I know it sounds corny, but it changed my life.”
    â€œBut how were you feeling?” I had to ask.
    â€œIt’s hard to explain, but I’ll try.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I guess the best way to describe it was that I was worried. All the time, about everything. I’ve always been kind of a worrywart—you know how you and Mom always tease me? But it was beginning to take over my life. I was worried about things that it wasn’t logical to be concerned about. I can see that now, but then...”
    â€œLike what?” I asked. This was fascinating and scary at the same time.
    â€œLike, for instance, I’d drive through an intersection and then, thirty seconds later, start wondering if the light had really been green when I’d driven through. Then I would wonder if I’d caused an accident. I’d worry about something like that all day. It started to affect my work, and I wasn’t sleeping well or eating right. I was always worrying about something. When it was at its worst, I was barely functioning.”
    â€œI never knew,” I said, shaking my head.
    â€œPeople with mental health issues are pretty good at hiding them until it becomes extreme,” Dad said. “That’s when they usually get help—when it gets so bad they are finally forced into seeing somebody.”
    I was in a daze as my father continued talking. I was absorbing his words but I was also worried: What if I had inherited Dad’s problem? What he had described to me sounded pretty scary.
    It was as if he was reading my mind. Dad looked directly at me now and put his hand on my shoulder. “I know what’s bothering you is different from what I went through,” he said. “You need help dealing with the aftereffects of one traumatic incident. For me it was a chronic condition, something that built up over time. But I also know that if you