Many years ago I returned from the military and combat duty with a severe case of PTSD. I spent the first year stateside under the Burnside St. Bridge in Portland, Oregon hiding from everything and everybody, sneaking up to a soup kitchen and shelter called Baloney Joes or, if folks started getting too friendly, across the bridge to the Salvation Army. I never stayed at the shelter; I couldn’t be around that many people let alone close my eyes in their presence. Eventually I found a starting point and I worked really, really hard at overcoming the effects of PTSD. I’ve considered that journey a success but today really tested that.
I live out in the woods but went into town today to pick up some things at the grocery store. The little town of 10,000 had swelled to 35,000 today as Fourth of July revelers took to the streets and the waterways to party. As a result, our tiny streets couldn’t handle the traffic and there was bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to get out of town and back to the highway as I tried to cross the street. I walked between two cars and as I passed and with my back toward them, one of the four teenagers inside threw a lit firecracker at me. It was very small but it was so close that I felt the explosion before the sound of the pop had subsided.
I mentally processed it faster than I moved and I knew what had happened before I got turned around. When I did I was five feet away from an embarrassed teenage face that knew he had been caught in his ‘prank’. I smiled at him and gave him a short, friendly warning about playing safe, “Play nice now,” in a parental kind of voice that said, I’m going to ignore this but we’re getting out of hand. He sheepishly mumbled an, “I’m sorry.” And gave a weak smile. Without exaggeration, twenty years ago he would have been dead and I would be on the run or in custody now.
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