Paranoia: it’s a survival tool...and also possibly genetic

To say that I’m the most paranoid person in the world wouldn’t be fair to that guy who’s kept himself locked in his house with a cushion strapped to his head. You know him right? No? Well it’s probably because he’s kept himself locked in the house with a cushion strapped to his head.

In saying that, my levels of paranoia are probably only one Crime Library (or Wikipedia) entry away from forcing me to buy some serious padlocks and some serious knee and elbow pads...and possibly a Styrofoam helmet.

As far as I’m concerned, most things in this world are out to get me. Why else would an innocent stroll across a catamaran land me in hospital? Or why would the ground shift suddenly under my feet, landing me in the gap between the train and the platform?

To my utter mortification Mark is the furthest thing from paranoid, meaning if given the chance he would happily jump out of a plane without a parachute because “what’s the worst that could happen”? He actually thinks it would be fun (FUN, can you imagine?!) to get lost in a mountain range and try to survive until you found your way back to society. And no matter how many times I tell him that getting mangled by a bear, drinking water distilled from faeces (yes I watched that episode of Man vs Wild) or slowly starving to death would be the furthest thing from fun, he just can’t accept it.

I’m not sure where this comes from because he was born and grew up in Australia. Which, as my father reminded me daily before (and forever after) moving to its lethal sandy shores, will try to kill you if you’re not careful...and aren’t wearing homemade gaiters, a rashie and some sort of hooded baseball cap (Is it still called a baseball cap if it’s hooded and looks nothing like a baseball cap?)

Let’s take a moment to talk about my dad:

Firstly I think it’s important you know that he is a genius. The man is a medical physicist who occasionally writes computer programs in his spare time. You know, just to relax. His scientific mind means that he needs facts and statistics to correctly process new information and formulate his responses. He does a lot of formulating, my dad does.

So when he made the move to Australia with his young family, he made sure to read up on all of the scariest, deadliest creatures in his new homeland and prepare his kids and wife for the eventuality of being attacked. Which, according to the statistics, was high enough to warrant concern.

My sister and I were the only kids in primary school to know exactly where to hit a Great White Shark if it ever attacked (the gills and the eyes) and who could identify the deadliest Australian snakes. Fun fact: Australia has six of the world’s ten deadliest snakes, including a sea snake.

We were also the only children – and members of the only group of people – to visit perfectly safe tourist sites wearing homemade gaiters.

Just to clarify, gaiters are kind of like thick rainproof legwarmers which are worn over shoes and pant legs to protect limbs from deadly attacks (the kind you should expect at all times in an exotic land like Australia).

Usually they look like this:

But since we were poor Eastern Europeans doing it tough in a city that didn’t care, and since my dad is a genius and all, there was no way we were going to pay that kind of money for professional gaiters. Not as long as there was cheap polyester and Styrofoam to be bought and no sense of fashion to offend! Instead my parents put their genius and sewing know-how and Polish aesthetic together and produced something that looked vaguely like this:

Except less like a container and more like really offensive knee-high gaiters. Maybe one day I’ll be organised enough to scan a photo of the real deal. If you’re really lucky I’ll make it an awkward family shot.

My dad’s paranoia wasn’t limited to amphibians, fish, mammals or insects...when I broke my wrist rollerblading, for example, he spent the drive to the hospital telling me that I was about to have the most painful experience of my life. Nothing I had ever experienced before (including breaking my wrist) or would ever experience again (like childbirth, Two and a Half Men or death itself) would ever compare to what I was about to go through.

He even told me about how he had broken his leg or knee or something playing basketball as a young man, and had to be held down by four people while it was set back into place.

I was terrified, but actually it wasn’t that bad.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that when I become hysterical over heights/waves/feet/getting lost/my reflection/hypothetical diseases I might have contracted/anything else that suddenly comes my way, it’s my dad’s fault. Just you remember that...