check yer pants!!!

Papi gets on my case if I don't write a blog.

"People like to read it every day and if you don't write it they will be let down!"

Thank you my love, for your undying support.

But what happens when I don't feel like writing?

What happens when all I can do is bitch and fucking whine about this and that?

Oh, wait.

You like to read that stuff.

Ok.

So, I'll keep bitching.

I'm miserable.

Train wreck enough for ya?

No? 

Ok.  Let's talk about my P.T.S.D. shall we?

I'm sure you'd like that.

Remember the screaming episode I had with complete strangers two months ago?

... oh, hehe, they won't ever speak to me again ... scared'em off REAL good ...

I got another shot at embarrassing myself yesterday.

I thought I was done with giving the panic attack disclaimer in my life.  For the longest time, I would have to tell people what to expect when driving with me.

"If it looks like I'm gasping for air, please don't make a big deal of it, honestly, just ignore me and I'll be back from the dead momentarily."

Never mattered that I gave the disclaimer.  People still freaked out when they'd see me turn white, shake and gasp for breath.

I haven't had to give the disclaimer for a while, but lo and be-fucking-hold, I had a massive fucking attack yesterday.

Uncle was so sweet to drive me to and from a chiropractor appointment, because I was just in so much pain.

So, upon leaving the building for my ride home, he went to pull out from the curb and someone didn't like it, came right up honking, with screeching tires and blammo!

Instant psychopath in the passenger seat!

Immediately, I saw my motorcycle t-boning the car once more, just like it did three and a half years ago.

In a mere blink of a breath, I was transported back to my accident, and at the top of my lungs I screamed louder than Cannibal Corpse.

I could definitely have auditioned for their band with the blood curdling sounds that came out of me.

I scared the fuck out of Uncle and the poor man swerved our vehicle out of terror, nearly causing an actual accident.

I'm pretty sure when we got home, he checked his pants to be sure there weren't any fucking surprises in his underoos.

The best part was, the person who honked heard me, and drove past to stare at what the ruckus was all about.

Oh, nothing really, just Hurricane Andréa in the front seat having flashbacks of a much scarier time.

Then of course comes the shortness of breath, the, "I think I'm going to pass out," speech, along with the tears and the, "I'm so embarrassed," or, "I'm so sorry."

He understands that it's a mechanism in my brain from the accident.  He gets that P.T.S.D. can't be helped.

When that little trigger goes off in my mind, there's nothing anyone can do.

That motorcycle accident will probably never leave me.

It's just so fucking embarrassing.

Anyway, there's your train wreck for the day.

Are you laughing along with me?  It's ok to laugh at me as well.

I better stick to the 'short bus'.

i am strong and secure