Dead Teeth

Nineteen years ago my world changed when a young male client beat me up in my office.  I had just gone back to work a bit early after major surgery, because after all, all a psychotherapist does is sit and listen for the most part.  It wasn't as if I had to lift things or move around all day.

About half my teeth were killed.  Did you know that teeth can die? My rotator cuff was torn.  My eye was blackened. My co-workers wanted to know what I'd done wrong to set this guy off.  But mostly I became afraid.  I didn't see another client alone behind a closed door for 13 years. 

So today, when I was interviewing a man in a jail and he came across the table at me when I refused to give him drugs, something was triggered in my brain.  Later in the day a co-worker was trapped in her office, actually held against her will, by a man who later threatened her life. More stuff was triggered.

I had to fill  my car with gas this afternoon and I kept thinking someone was sneaking up on me at the gas pump.  That's paranoia.  I know it.  PTSD? Whatever.  Giving it the correct label doesn't help a bit.  Not one little bit.

I'm pissed is what I am.  How dare these idiots steal my peace and how dare I allow it to happen.

Teeth die if you hit them hard enough.  Then you have to have root canal, which isn't all that fun.  Then the teeth get capped.  They look just fine, but they are dead inside.