PTSD

They’re everywhere you know.  I see them down the state highway or in the bank parking lot.  They stare at me with their bug eyes and gloat at me as they pass. 

Some are white and black and try to blend in with the others, but I can always pick them out.  Others are “gecko green,” “salsa red,” or “sunflower yellow.” 

Even in my dreams they’re there, filling my life with dread.  Their little round bodies, compact and helmet-like, scurry around from place to place, hiding around corners and in alley ways.

I’ve stopped screaming every time I see one.  Even the panic attacks have subsided.  I’ve found if I breathe deeply I can cope.

I still feel as if they’re seeking me out, as if they smell fear.  I can’t concentrate at work, and I have trouble sleeping.  I would give up going out altogether, but then they would win.

My doctor says it’s PTSD.  Punchbuggy Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Ahhhh!  Look, it’s another Volkswagon Beetle!  Run!   

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