NOTE: This following story is half-truth, half-fiction. The parts that make me look wise and sexy are the truth. The parts that make me look like a dick are fiction.

So my mom calls me up the other day and asks, "How do you handle panic attacks?"

Oh... just to preface, I used to suffer from pretty bad anxiety attacks. In fact, since I was 14 years old, I was experiencing them quite often (Up until about four years ago).

"How come?" I asked her.

"Well, your father's on Oxycotin because of his surgery, and I think it's giving him anxiety."

My dad just recently had heart surgery to fix an arrhythmic heartbeat. He's in his mid-to-late sixties, so this didn't come as a surprise to any of us.

"Huh... well the first major thing that helped me overcome them was I moved out here," I said, trying to run past anxiety attacks in the back of my mind.

"Your father's not going to move to California," my mother said from a hospital somewhere in the Midwest. I'm not quite sure why she kept referring to him as "my father" instead of Jim or Dad or whatever. She only really does this when she's pissed at him.

"Well," I responded, stretching out on the floor. I had recently started doing sit-ups, push-ups, and crunches in the mornings and evenings. I wasn't trying to be buff or anything, I just didn't want to hold my breath every time I tied my shoes... which is odd, because at the time I was wearing loafers.

"I guess the way I handled it was to get away from people, because people usually set the attacks off in the first place," I said, counting the number of crunches I had left in the back of mind. "Once I was isolated I either needed to have a completely emotional breakdown and just let it all out."

"Your father's not very good at letting things out," she responded dryly. The first thought I had was that she was making some sly remark to their dwindling sex life. The second thought I had was that I need to clean my ears out with boiling water after this conversation was done just to get the dirty feeling out.

"Well then he's just gotta' learn to center himself," I said. "That's how I handled it. I got away from people and meditated. You close your eyes, focus on your breathing, and count to ten."

"Does meditation work?" she asked.

"I dunno, mom. Does prayer work for you?"

"Of course."

"Well it's basically the same thing. It's quiet time to reflect on your problems and search inwards. Only difference is you aren't asking for shi- stuff. You're helping yourself."

A long pause.

"You think prayer is meaningless?" she asked.

I paused mid-crunch. Had my mother and I ever talked about religion before. We must have. I don't know how the conversation hadn't come up over the past 26 years.

"I think prayers are a way of assaying people's fears," I said. "But as far as them talking to God and getting wishes granted... yeah. In that case, they're meaningless."

"Oh great," she muttered. "Next you're gonna tell me you don't believe in God."

I thought carefully before answering.

"I don't see how anybody could nowadays, mom."

"That's a pessimistic attitude to take."

"Then I'm a pessimist. But at least I was smart enough to dump my imaginary friend when I was six."

I could hear her breathing on the other side. It sounded wet. I think she had started to cry.

"Sorry, mom. That was unfair. I just thing God would have something better to do than help dad with his drug-induced panic attacks."

Quiet sobbing from the other end of the line.

"Mom..."

"Sometimes I really just don't know, Steve. And it hurts my heart to hear you say those kinds of things."

Catholic guilt. Great. We're not even Catholic.

"I'll try your little meditation thing, although I don't think it will work."

"Not with that attitude..." I blurted out before even realizing it.

There was silence on the other end, and then she hung up on me.

It took me a couple of seconds before I realized I couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes and started counting to ten....