Now I gotta go see a psychiatrist. They’re probably going to make me into a gun-hating Communist, next thing you know. I’ll spend $357 an hour telling them all about my guilt I feel over hurting myself by accident by being tired and ending up costing myself time and money I didn’t mean to spend. Then they’ll videotape my therapy sessions and the Other Guy will use leaked videos of me huddled in the corner and shaking, in his campaign videos when I go to run for President of the United States! Maybe I’ll just live with my disease and try to somehow get on with my life as normal as I can pretend to be.
I had to cut open a bag at work first thing today, for which the go-to tool is my handy-dandy razor-sharp pocket knife. As I realized which tool I had selected, I totally freaked out . . . for about as long as it took my hand to move a couple of inches on its path to my pocket. I use this knife daily far more than I use ANY tool, including writing utensils or screwdrivers. I’m not going to let a little thing like almost cutting my finger off stop me from using the most versatile tool in my kit! Still, for about 1/27th of a second there, that really sucked. Until I told myself to get over myself and get the job done.
Calm down, I’m not making fun of people who have actual Problems with Post Traumatic Stress Disorders. I’m making fun of myself for being silly. You don’t need to know how or who or when, but I have been a voluntary part of PTSD rehab for a few traumatized veterans in my time. I get it, it’s a thing . . . but not a thing I have, not from this.