That Moment of Every Day

I smell the fresh air coming in the window. It’s my first impression as I succumb to the loud demands of my cat to get-the-fuck up, feed me and play. It’s still dark; it’s 4:45 am.

As I rise, I see from the streetlamps that the road is shiny but not wet; it’s going to be another indoor day. (Summer was two weeks long this year.) I open the window; the air is cool and damp. It smells like a September morning.

My morning routines end as light dawns. I sit down at my computer, by far my favourite place to be. I look out the wall of glass at an ocean the same colour as the clouds, a lighter tone of grey than the concrete towers.

I’ll cook this morning. I have friends coming for dinner on Friday and I have some prepping I can do. I’m glad to have something to do. This afternoon I go to my physiotherapist; the appointment plus walking there and back will kill two hours.

Tonight I’ve been invited to a dinner party at Burke and Sue’s. They don’t know about my PTSD and I haven’t forewarned them because they’ve also invited my friend Cathy who’s conversant with my symptoms.

I want to go. I’m looking forward to it but I’m also dreading the first ten-to-fifteen minutes.

The questions start: Should I take my medications? Should I send them a digital version of my What the Hell Happened to Chris booklet? Should I call and let one of them hear me?

It’s time. I rest my arms on my desk, lower my shoulders, bow my head and close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths and then I sit up straight, shoulders back, head erect. I clear my throat and ….