my careless contagion

The photo above is heartbreaking. But that's how I feel. I am that dog. I look terrible and who would want me, but yet I have a purpose here on earth to fulfill. I have a job for a while and then I'll be gone.  I'm broken and beaten and scarred. Will someone take a chance on me?  People who experienced much trauma and abuse seem to heal best when they can help others. It's no wonder I've continually sought out opportunities like that, though I often proceed in a guarded manner. One of the biggest realizations I came to through writing this blog is how much PTSD has held me back from making decisions that lead to growth and healing. As with all major (and many minor) decisions, I've decided to give all my decisions to God, as I cannot be trusted to make the right decisions. I simply don't know what is best for me. That, unfortunately, is how I am programmed. There is a joke out there that says the biggest withdrawal symptom for recovering alcoholics and drug ...

In my mind's eye, I can see us there still, at Reservoir Hill, you in my arms and I wishing us right out of that town. Why didn't I kiss you there or unhook your bra strap or put a hand up your shirt or tell you anything — ANYTHING — that was in my thoughts about us. Why did it have to be me telling you too late and you had already gone away and I was moping my way to some other girl? Sometimes, my dear, I can make it all right if I think about it all night, if I make my brain hurt and my heart flutter and my eyes water a little too. Somehow, I can make myself appear there again with you. If I could only go back, take your hand, and show you my heart. I wouldn't be sitting here wondering about you. I'd know everything. I know you would have given me your heart and your hand and everything you could think of. I'd know you inside and out. If only I could retrace my steps all the way back to you and that hill. If I hadn't thought you were only kidding when you...