Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“I know.” I was powerless to get out of my own way.
Carson said he was happy, wanted to help me with my vet work, and wanted me to trust him. I couldn’t seem to do any of it. I flipped on the radio to avoid making things worse, but several sad country ballads in a row had me even more depressed by the time we arrived in Durango.
I found parking near the community center, but Carson stopped me with a hand on my shoulder before I could exit the truck.
“I’m not mad.” His voice was sure, but there was some lingering hurt in his eyes that made my stomach twist.
“Thanks. I’m not mad either. Just frustrated with myself.” I leaned into his touch, letting him give me a brief massage.
“Well, stop,” Carson said reasonably.
“You still want a burger after?” I needed to know we were back on something of a normal footing. Might not be a fancy date night, but I’d settle for a return to our usual friendship routine.
“Yep.” Carson released my shoulder, and we headed into the meeting.
Simone was at the door to greet us. Many of the regulars were already there, as well as two newcomers who had staked out our usual seats near the door. Darn it. No choice but to join the main circle. Simone smiled encouragingly as we took seats near the gap in the circle where Alan had pulled up in his wheelchair.
For his part, Carson seemed unfazed, far more comfortable than he’d been at the first meeting, nodding a greeting for Ron as he took the seat on my other side. Ron wore a Grandpa of the Year shirt and looked spry as ever. Simone started with the usual announcements before holding up her sign with the word for the month.
“Our word this month is a tough one, but one we all deal with far too often. Guilt.” She pointed at her whiteboard. Hell. I knew I should have read my email before coming. Didn’t matter how colorfully Simone wrote the word, I hated the topic immediately.
Judging by the amount of shifting bodies and downcast eyes around the circle, others shared my discomfort. Guilt was something I carefully managed and carried in a tightly locked box deep in my chest. It was partly why I came to these meetings, an obligation I couldn’t shake, but also something I tried never to dwell on. Simone, however, doggedly pressed on, voice dropping to a more soothing pitch.
“Guilt comes in different forms: survivor’s guilt, guilt over past actions, guilt over present needs, guilt over our behaviors or words, and the sort of nameless guilt that seems to pile up unless we address it. So, let’s start.”
No one rushed to be first, so Simone shared this month’s poem, written by a veteran in North Dakota who was struggling with survivor’s guilt. I listened with one eye on the door, unease growing with each stanza.
“That hits,” Alan said softly as Simone finished. He spun his wheels in place, gaze on the scarred linoleum floor. “I was one of only two on that chopper to make it out.”
His admission brought a round of sympathetic murmurs from the others.
“It feels like I should be more grateful,” Alan continued, shaggy hair falling forward, voice pained. “Doing more with my life. Honoring theirs. Struggling less.”
“Be gentle with yourself,” Valerie urged from across the circle. She wore a T-shirt that offered zero stars for adulting. “You’re doing plenty. Sometimes making it through another day is the victory.”
Her comment got several “yes” replies from others, including the two newcomers against the wall.
“Might be the victory, but it sure ain’t the war.” Bert’s voice came out louder than Alan’s, startling Roxie, who’d been snoozing at Bert’s feet in her canine service dog vest. The dog immediately went to nudge Bert’s hand as he continued, “I feel guilty every month when the damn disability check arrives. I should be able to work. I should be able to sleep through the goddamn night.”
“You’re should-ing all over yourself.” Ron shook a bent finger in Bert’s direction, but his voice was a gentle rasp. “You’re not at fault here. You did nothing wrong. You didn’t ask for PTSD.”
“True.” Bert leaned to pet Roxie.
Not at fault. God, I hated that statement. I’d heard it enough. Seen it on paperwork. Used it myself countless times in this group and with clients alike. Yet something black and sticky bubbled inside me every time I tried to apply it to myself.
A frustrated noise escaped my chest, causing several heads to whirl my direction.
“Jude?” Simone prompted.
“What about the guilt when someone did do something wrong?” The question slid out of my mouth on the barest whisper. “Followed an order they knew was a clusterfuck waiting to happen? What about that guilt?”
“That guilt is valid too.” Valerie’s brown eyes were soft with sympathy. “There’s little moral high ground in war. We all did things we regret, orders or not.”