Who Is My Trouble?

Bunny Boo

Everyone enjoyed decorating their Christmas trees. The vibes, love, joy, and excitement was building up into all the kids in the town who were running around their parents as they were waiting for the new year to knock at their doors. In November, everything felt cold. People went to their houses early, stores were closed almost all night, and the streets were always empty. With all of the emptiness that November vibes connected us with, people still felt intimate with each other through their connection in decorating and building Christmas trees all over the place. It was that connection that I never had. I had to stay at Kate's house for 2 months while meeting a counselor who believed I was diagnosed with PTSD. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder wasn't an easy thing to be diagnosed with. Anxiety befriended me, depression married me, and most bewildering, the nightmares. There was no end to any of the flashbacks that would turn my day into a haunted battle, or to the nightmares that had different ways showing me what happened in the explosion. I found myself being attached to 5 medications, yet the pain was never over. It was a numbness that took over the pain, and that wasn't what I was truly seeking. One day, I stopped seeking anything at all. I stayed the first month at Kate's place, but that didn't seem to be effective because of her baby and her husband's drama, which they tried to tune it down. Henry, on the other hand, was very supportive. In the second month, I moved into his house, which was a calm place to gather my thoughts and benefit from the medication I was having. During my stay, Henry had to deal with a lot of my own drama. The screaming at night, yelling at day time, and the sudden panic attacks and self-loathing I drowned in. It was all witnessed by him. Gradually, the drama stopped. That was something I made up as a lie, for I needed to leave back to Nottingham. Lying was not easy. I had to cope with my lie, which was the drama being over and that I was not having any attacks or uncontrollable flashbacks. Initially, they didn't believe it, but they couldn't stop me from what I wanted. Kate promised to be supportive and to check on me whenever I needed it. Henry was not convinced at all, but he knew there was going to be a way out to figure it in the end. I finally came back in November, with all these trees bringing joy to the town, yet I couldn't feel anything. Eventually, my medication sucked out all the emotions I had of belonging or relief. Sometimes, I felt paranoid. I felt the need for crying, but I couldn't cry for an unknown reason. I would force myself to listen to sad true stories or sad music, but it wouldn't work. Laughing was even worse. Laughing in a context was more of a reaction just as an escape from social awkwardness. The worst part of PTSD is that no one would know what could trigger the attacks, not even the person who suffered from it. Getting back to the bookstore was an easy job to handle. I would read most of the time, then write to balance off my thoughts. Sometimes, all that I would write was, "I am a killer. I am a killer. I am a killer." as if it was a sort of punishment or a way to express my grief on what happened on that day. My medication wasn't the best thing to help during these attacks, this is why there was a great invention called "the alcohol." There was a pub which was opposing the bookstore. After the closing time, I would walk a few miles to take these shots that would pull away the soberness away from me. Some people drink to elevate their confidence. Others do it to enjoy their time, escape the real world, face their fears, run away from their pain, or just like me, drink to forget. In every attempt, I would drink to forget what I saw around me all the time. One night, the bartender questioned me unexpectedly "Aren't you the bookshop keeper in this bookshop?" she pointed out of the pub. "Yes, I am," coldly, I answered her back. It wasn't crowded when the conversation started kicking off. "When I get a good amount of tips around here, I take my money and buy a new book from there," she excitingly confessed. "Oh, do you?" I smiled as I was drawing circles on my glass. "Yes! I enjoy reading," she replied as she was cleaning the cups before having to go serve another guy. I stayed silent for a while as I knew that I was reaching my limit with the drinks. I paid double my check as I made a move back home, knowing that the night was just like any other pointless night. The next day at the bookstore, the bartender crashed into the bookshop and placed her money angrily on the desk. I looked at her top to bottom, then looked at the desk, "What's this?" I questioned as I looked back at the book I was holding in front of the shelf. "I didn't ask for your money," she replied aggressively. "I don't remember saying that you asked me for my money," I placed the book on the shelf and moved to the other one without looking at her. "You did it because I told you that I collected tips," she followed me with her same tone. "Okay, can we tune things down and lower the attitude here, please? I needed to go, and you were serving this other guy. I paid, left, and that was it. Do I need to do any math before I leave?" I asked while looking straight into her eyes. "No," calmly, she concluded. "What genre do you read so that I could choose for you a book if you'd accept that at least," I smiled as I fixed the couches in the bookstore.