It was the PTSD she said, Part 2
Copyright Catcher 22 all right's reserved.
Author's note: Story regards a young couple unable to deal with his life at the end of the Vietnam war. I emulate stream of conscious writers like Ken Kesey, Faulkner, Kerouac and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Please don't give me a ration of shit if I fall short the mark. This guy commented on one of my stories and in eight years he had 32,000 comments, that's 333 comments a month, 33 per day. Another guy claimed to be a disabled veteran, like the first guy has never written a single word. Comment away, I do appreciate constructive words. First is all teed up to go
In part one a young married sailor returning early from pre-cruise (Carrier Qualifications for pilots) as part of an Attack Squadron (A-7B) aboard the USS Oriskany CV-34 to discovered his young wife getting fucked in their tiny duplex. It had been going on for some. He banishes her and he attends college and finally meets another beautiful woman only to discover that he was the instrument of a woman's premarital fling. He is successful financially, but in no other way.
Just a note about PTSD generally and then specifically to the story. There is a part of everyone's brain called the Amygdala (A-mig-du-la) a small part of your brain that processes emotions, memories and learning. It also links to other brain areas that control fear, aggression, reward and social communication. People that have PTSD, have a misfiring Amygdala as if it is overloaded. The memories and their pain are ever present during conscious states as well as dreams. The pain of loss never abates. There is hope and the VA is using as treatment a therapy called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) is a psychotherapy treatment that is designed to alleviate the distress associated with traumatic memories. I can attest that is as close to miraculous as I'm likely to see. Simply the pain is gone. It is now standard use in many cases with Veteran's Administration.
The character's specific trauma relates to unrelenting physical abuse as a child, difficulties around his marriage and other relationships, homelessness and finally intense shame around his involvement with nuclear weapons. The character had not had any therapy that helped.
Living in Boston was fruitful. My career flourished. I was not a recluse. I dated, if you could call hook ups with high end escorts taking to Christmas parties and restaurants, to avoid the gossip about being gay (I have queer friends so no homophobic slights meant).
More commonly massage therapists would come to my townhouse most weekends. I had two or three regulars who would make my tows curl. Late summer there was a small place on Cape Cod, where for two weeks, recently divorced woman (grandmother had the kids for a couple of weeks. If I was lucky the wife of a colleague who was cheating on his wife overseas. One gal especially liked being seeing on my arm in Hyannis at Spanky's Clam Shack.
She would wear a sun dress every night, commando and no bra. She would wave at couples from the bank and she would delight in cuckolding her ass of a husband. The saloon had a little band and we'd go and dance and she'd dance with her friend's husbands and grind on them. We'd return to the cabin and she'd annihilate me, ride me until I was drained, then sit on my face until she could not take any more.
I quit that, because I felt that helping a woman cheat again, the same thing that had caused me such pain. But in that moment, it was the rare thing that caused my pain and despair to expiate. I whimsically said to her,
"If only my dick was a dildo, with feelings."
The last thing, she said to me was, "Oh honey, I'll get you married up with a perfect
wife."
It was shortly after that that I moved my work overseas. Britain, was full of adult cheaters and other sexual deviants. The establishment kids were put into schools that by the time all of them were in the equivalent of our high school they were all bi-sexual and a lesser percentage were used to being caned and loved it.
It was early August and I woke up with that wonderful slept in until noon feeling you get when you're fifteen. I took a fairly long shower letting the too hot water scald me almost. I used this handheld palm held trimmer to run it through my hair. Non-electric trimmer and in ten minutes my hair was the same length it was when I was playing ball. That is to say very short.
I put on some old ratty dirt bag sweatpants and even older high school, long sleeved shirt worn under the jersey. I laced up some red pro ked tennis shoes and walked towards the Pike Place market for a late breakfast lunch combo. I hate the word brunch, quirk I guess.
I was astounded to find that Lowell's was open. The last thing I'd done with my mom and brother that had passed was to go there the summer before she passed. He died fifteen months after her. Then we had fresh cantaloupe with vanilla ice cream where the seeds had been removed, oh and dark heavy roast coffee.
Today I had a Hang town fry, which was an oyster omelet with bacon and hash browns, double order of rye toast. Finally two orders of fried calamaries.
The waitress wrote down the order and looked at me and said, "Is someone joining you?"
I smiled at her and said, "Nope, just a homecoming of sorts. I have not been here since I was a sophomore in high school, last time I went anywhere with my mom and older brother. My grandmother Lola took me here when I was a squirt, she passed on July 4, 1963. Lots of coffee please."
She smiled and scurried away, I swear there was coffee in under two minutes. Old off white porcelain mug, with steaming dark coffee.
It was so hot, but I blew on it and took a drink. It was so damn good, dark with flavorful. People don't know how good coffee really tastes better.
She was back with a clear coffee pot, "More?".
I nodded yes and held the cup up.
"Set it down please, I don't want to burn your leg."
I did. When full I looked at her and said, "This is so fucking good," shaking my head in delight.
She said, "It sure as fuck is, you betcha, " with a twinkle in her eye walking away with a little sway in her giddyap.
There are maybe two million people of Scandinavian descent in and around Seattle.
