Entry Two: My Brain Has Trust Issues… With Reality

A Men’s Mental Health Series — by Christopher Moore

Let’s talk about fear.

Not the “boo!” kind. Not the clown-in-the-sewer kind.
I mean real fear. The kind that lives behind your ribs and whispers that you’re not enough. Or too much. Or both, depending on the day.

I’ve carried both rational and irrational fears most of my life, and the bitch of it is—they wear the same damn face.

Fear of Failure?

Let me tell you what failure looked like to me:

It looked like a jumpsuit and a courtroom. It looked like missing birthdays. It looked like my kids growing up wondering what the hell happened to Dad.

So yeah, that fear was rational as hell.

But after I got my feet under me again? After I started doing good?

That same fear kept showing up with a new mask:

“What if you screw it all up again?”
“What if the new you is just a costume over the old you?”

That’s when it got irrational. Because I wasn’t failing—I was rebuilding. But my brain didn’t care. It was stuck in the past, screaming “watch out!” every time I tried to grow.

Fear of Vulnerability

I’m a Marine. A mechanic. A fix-it guy.
I don’t cry at Hallmark movies or sit in drum circles talking about my chakras. (No offense to my hippie brethren.)

But there’s a quiet kind of fear that hits hard when you try to open up after decades of stuffing it all down.
Letting someone see you?
Tell them, “Yeah, I’ve got anxiety. And trauma. And some real-deal depressive days where I don’t know who the hell I am anymore”?

That feels like stepping out on stage naked with a spotlight on your scars. And even if no one’s booing—you still feel exposed.

So you stay guarded. You joke too much. You deflect. You drink. You fix other people’s shit because it’s easier than fixing your own.

I know that dance. I used to lead it.

Fear of Success

This one’s gonna sound backward to some folks.

But when you grow up in survival mode—when you live in chaos long enough—peace feels like a setup.

I used to self-sabotage any good thing that came my way. New job? Blow it. Healthy relationship? Push her away. Money in the bank? Spend it fast before it disappears.

Why?
Because part of me didn’t believe I deserved it.
Another part knew it wouldn’t last—so I’d rather end it on my terms.

That’s fear, man. Not of losing… but of having.

Fear of Judgment

I’ve walked into rooms where I knew I was being judged.
Tattooed. Divorced. Felon. Mental health history. Father of five. Loud mouth. Too blunt. Too honest.

You don’t survive those rooms by being soft.
But eventually, you get so used to judgment that you stop letting anyone in—even the ones who aren’t judging you at all.

Therapy taught me that sometimes my fear wasn’t about the world judging me.

It was about me judging myself.

How I Started Taking Control

Identifying which fears are rational and which are irrational is the key to managing my intrusive thoughts and anxiety.
It’s not about pretending I’m fearless. It’s about sorting the real fires from the false alarms.

Here are a few things that have helped me figure that out:

Ways to Tell the Difference:

1. Ask, “What’s the evidence?”
Is this based on facts, or just feelings?

If someone else was in this situation, would I tell them the same story I’m telling myself?

2. Play it out—then zoom out.

What’s the actual worst-case scenario?

And even if it happened, would it really be the end of me? (Usually, no.)

3. Talk it out loud.

Seriously. Say it to someone you trust—or to the damn mirror.

Half the time, when I say my fear out loud, I realize how ridiculous or outdated it sounds.

4. Name whose voice it is.

Is this fear mine, or did it come from someone else?

A parent? A bully? A bad memory?

Knowing who installed the fear makes it easier to uninstall it.

5. Body check.

Rational fear feels grounded—even if it’s intense.

Irrational fear feels like chaos. Racing heart. Shaky hands. Tunnel vision.

When my body reacts like that, it’s time to slow down and ask what story I’m believing.

So what do you do with all that fear?

You name it. You sit with it. You ask it questions.

And then? You make damn sure it doesn’t get to drive the truck.

Because fear might be in the cab with you for the ride—but it sure as hell doesn’t get to take the wheel.

Look, man…
If you’re reading this and thinking, “Damn… that sounds like me”—you’re not alone.

You’re not broken. You’re not weak.

You’re just a guy who’s been strong too long, carrying weight you were never meant to carry alone.

This is entry two in my men’s mental health series.
I’m not a therapist. I’m a mechanic with mileage.
But I’ve been to hell. I’ve screwed up. I’ve built back.
And I’m telling my story so maybe some other dude doesn’t have to go through it alone.

Stick around. More’s coming.

And hey—just so we’re clear?
I still freak out sometimes over shit that doesn’t make sense.
Old ghosts. Dumb triggers. That random, outta-nowhere panic like the world’s on fire when all I did was misplace my damn wrench.

But I catch it faster now.
I breathe through it.
I don’t let it run wild.

Because this thing? This anxiety disorder? These intrusive thoughts?
They don’t get cured.
No matter what some overpriced life coach on Instagram tells you.

They get managed.

And that’s the win.

-The Gun Loving Hippie Dad … Who Fixes Stuff

Read Entry One

Read Entry Three

Rants, repairs, and realness