Tonight Shylee was taking her plate to the trash to dump the food left on her plate. Eating everything on your plate is way over-rated, and even I am aware of my cooking skills, or lack of. It wouldn’t be fair to her, or the lucky kids in Africa. As she was taking it to the trash she dropped her plate smashing it into a thousand pieces. I was across the kitchen and covered my eyes (for good reason). When I looked out of behind my hands I saw Brian frozen in a Heisman pose holding Shylee up in his hand that wasn’t deflecting glass (or a football).
I cleaned up the mess while Mr. Heisman and Shylee supervised. They’re really good at it. While I was sweeping, it got me thinking about why I closed my eyes and hid behind my hands, my PTSD. Last time Shylee smashed a plate, pieces flew everywhere, and I got a piece in my eye. It was just a micro fragment, but it sounds much tougher if you leave that part out. I’m fairly certain I developed dish PTSD. As a safety measure, I decided it’s best I don’t do dishes. Or laundry for that matter. Just to be safe.
It got me thinking about my dish PTSD and if I ever had to discuss it with someone else with PTSD, you know like a WW2 Vet.
Me - I think I have PTSD.
Actual Hero - Yeah, me too. I’ve seen some shit.
Me - Yeah? I couldn’t see shit!
Actual Hero - Wow, what happened.
Me - I don’t want to talk about it (for embarrassment reasons).
Yep, that’s how my brain works. I hear a dish break and I close my eyes and imagine myself talking to dead people.