O My Soul:Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is not only for war torn soldiers and civilians, but is available for all in the hidden wars of family and domestic violence.
It was a perfect day for a picnic. The leaves were turning colors early that fall. The sky was clear and sunny. It was the day for the County Policeman's Annual Picnic. My dad was a county patrolman, off we went.
Yahooooo! This was fun stuff. I was about 10 years old. It was time for my little brother and I to spend the day with dad since he and mom were already divorced or separated or something like that. Mom was at home in the afternoon but then would waitress the evening shift at Grandpa's restaurant. Dad would drop us off at the restaurant after the picnic and we would go home with mom.
I loved picnics. So many other kids would be there. And a little secret. Dad's policeman buddy recently remarried and his cute step daughter (who started attending my public school and was in my class!?) would be there too.
The afternoon started with the big softball game in the park. My little brother and I played center field on either side of dad. Dad even had his boyhood baseball glove which he shared with us rugrats. Between innings we were served free Root Beer. What joy. The grownups had the free beer but that stuff was awful tasting. We kids had the good stuff.
After the big game, I served for half-dollars in a haystack, won a three legged race with a friend of mine, and wondered why my hands were so shaky and warm everytime I passed by my dad's friends cute step daughter whom I was to nervous to talk to directly.
It was a great day.
When it was time to go I, swore I wouldn't forget this day. Plus, I was high from all the sugar from that free Root Beer. What I didn't know was that dad was pretty high from all that free beer.
...to be continued.
Until then:
Hope in Christ &
God bless you.
-oms
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