In Medias Res

A friend asked how I was doing the other day.

I think I'm pre-PTSD, I said.

That's not exactly right—I haven't been through an acute trauma, after all—but it's the best way I can describe how it feels to be subjected to unrelenting stress over a protracted period of time. In the moment—the months of moments—you just have to deal. The many crises that currently comprise my life require nothing less.

Eventually, though, those crises will abate, and then, sometime after that, they will end. And that's when I think their effects will make themselves known.

That's when I think I will crave week after week of quiet time. Long nights of sleep in a comfortable bed in a peaceful cottage on a quiet hill overlooking a sleepy town. Or long days of reading under a cozy quilt in a hammock in view of the sea. The healing sound of wind chimes chiming in the soft breeze, or waves lapping on the deserted shore, or birds calling to their mates in the leafy trees high above.

No bright-white hospital walls. No urgent beeps from flashing monitors. No vigilance. No vigils.

No examining tables. No needles. No test results. No tests.

No joint pain. No weight gain. No co-pays. No bills.

No deadlines. No sources. No classes. No commute.

It won't be soon.

But I hope it won't be too, too long.