Every day — whether I’m conscious of it or not — is an effort to avoid passing out. You see, I deal with an incredibly mild, and completely self-diagnosed case of anxiety disorder. My understanding of the term is thin, but I know it involves phobias, breathing into paper bags and Xanax prescriptions. My issue? I tend to collapse like somebody pulled my plug when I see shit like I saw on Sunday. You could have given me a king size Xannie bar, and it would have had no affect when I saw poor Kevin Ware’s leg snap like something… Continue Reading
