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Abstract

thing hour mark is when I came to long enough to see a priest at the end of my bed giving me Last Rites.<figure id="1e6b"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*UOTBBNUOUX9ZOoUEvbHZ4g.png"><figcaption><a href="https://readmedium.com/im-coming-out-of-the-closet-54b2a7c0cf1a">If you’ve read my work you’ll understand this head nod.</a> Hopefully, my ancestors approve! <a href="http://Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay"></a><a href="http://Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay">credit</a></figcaption></figure>But maybe that is the reason I am as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers (rocking chairs for you Yankees). Maybe because I’ve come close to dying so many times (I mean seriously) is why I’m jumpy today. Maybe if all of those other times I hadn’t been misdiagnosed. Maybe if I hadn’t been mistreated (literally and figuratively). Maybe if I hadn’t been ignored, not listened to, not understood. All the times that I was, metaphorically speaking, patted on the head like a child being placated had never happened.Maybe if I hadn’t seen the inside of an ambulance more times than I care to recall. Maybe if I had been in that 5-car accident and pinned inside my car. Maybe if I didn’t hemorrhage for 90-days while doctor’s called it an “abnormal period” (no shit, ya think). Maybe if that pallet of freight hadn’t collapsed on me w

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hen I was younger and working in a rinky-dink retail store. Maybe, maybe, maybe.Maybe…this is me and my long-forgotten friend…maybe it had come back for a visit…gasp…son of a b-<h2 id="f01b">PTSD has reared its ugly head</h2>Just when I think I’ve got things figured out. Just when I think I’ve got a handle on things. Here comes this heifer out of storage, luggage and all.K.M.A.No, I don’t need a puppy or a coloring book or a safe space. I need to handle this so this Clown will pack its shyt and roll on out the same way it rolled on in. I’ll show it who’s boss.Between you and me? Keep this on the low, okay? I plan on asking them to take pictures of the procedure. How ya like me now? I figured what the hell. If I have to go through this today I may as well get some read time out of it once all is said and done. What can I say? I’m over 50, got a lot of Irish in me, an Aries, a type “A” personality, and have had to tangle with an honest to goodness demon already in my life. So how much could this possibly suck?Stay tuned.<figure id="edc5"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*ctmxtxtIPYMxQvbzM2d7Aw.png"><figcaption>Why am I hearing “Bad to the Bone’ playing in my ear right now? <a href="http://Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay">credit</a></figcaption></figure></article></body>

Psalm 23:4

Not something to be thinking about when you’re waiting for your surgery to begin.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Not one of my finer moments I admit it. You can’t say anything that I haven’t already thought of.

Bwak bwak bwak CHICKEN

Coward

Scaredy Cat

Wimp

Lightweight

Wuss

Shall I continue or do you have the gist? Okay. Good. It isn’t like I haven’t French kissed death on the mouth before and this isn’t even close to those other times.

January 2005 I was rushed to the ER (a different story for another day) and spent just shy of three weeks there. Around the 30 something hour mark is when I came to long enough to see a priest at the end of my bed giving me Last Rites.

**If you’ve read my work you’ll understand this head nod.** **Hopefully, my ancestors approve!** credit

But maybe that is the reason I am as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers (rocking chairs for you Yankees). Maybe because I’ve come close to dying so many times (I mean seriously) is why I’m jumpy today. Maybe if all of those other times I hadn’t been misdiagnosed. Maybe if I hadn’t been mistreated (literally and figuratively). Maybe if I hadn’t been ignored, not listened to, not understood. All the times that I was, metaphorically speaking, patted on the head like a child being placated had never happened.

Maybe if I hadn’t seen the inside of an ambulance more times than I care to recall. Maybe if I had been in that 5-car accident and pinned inside my car. Maybe if I didn’t hemorrhage for 90-days while doctor’s called it an “abnormal period” (no shit, ya think). Maybe if that pallet of freight hadn’t collapsed on me when I was younger and working in a rinky-dink retail store. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe…this is me and my long-forgotten friend…maybe it had come back for a visit…*gasp*…son of a b-

PTSD has reared its ugly head

Just when I think I’ve got things figured out. Just when I think I’ve got a handle on things. Here comes this heifer out of storage, luggage and all.

K.M.A.

No, I don’t need a puppy or a coloring book or a safe space. I need to handle this so this Clown will pack its shyt and roll on out the same way it rolled on in. I’ll show it who’s boss.

Between you and me? Keep this on the low, okay? I plan on asking them to take pictures of the procedure. How ya like me now? I figured what the hell. If I have to go through this today I may as well get some read time out of it once all is said and done. What can I say? I’m over 50, got a lot of Irish in me, an Aries, a type “A” personality, and have had to tangle with an honest to goodness demon already in my life. So how much could this possibly suck?

Stay tuned.

**Why am I hearing “Bad to the Bone’ playing in my ear right now?** credit