The First Tear
Perry Walker served in the Marine Corps from 1966 to 67 in Vietnam. He wrote a short story (poem) about his first experience with a PTSD counselor. I’m sure many of us can relate. Check it out!
by Perry Walker
The outer office was small, the white door melded into the woodwork almost unnoticeably. The walls are almost bare except for a large clock, it’s ticking loudly, reminding one of tapping at the door. The hands long, stretching out, seeking the black numerals to no avail. Beside the quiet door, a fish tank, its inhabitants lazily moving to and fro, constantly moving, yet going nowhere. Their large eyes unblinking, staring forward almost as in a trance. To my right, the entry door. Large, unyielding.
I felt my palms, wet with perspiration. My mind, racing with fear, anxiety, and questions. The clock on the wall, the ticking louder now. The door, my only escape, seems larger, more opposing, more intimidating. What question will he ask, what memories will he stir, what pain will he bring.
I gently rock, my padded chair squeaking in protest. My eyes darting around the room, yet always back to the door. The clock pounding now, yet yielding no time. The fish, hanging there, frozen in time. The dark door, my only egress to safety. That damn door, larger now, mocking me, that damn door.
The silhouette of a man, “beckons me”. The room is larger, darker, warmer. The silhouette sat back, a dark bookcase framing his body. My eyes flicked left to his accomplishments hanging dryly on the wall. Then to the right is a clock quietly staring back at me. And now to my rear, dark, foreboding almost hanging above me, looking down as a predator might, was the door. I felt my body begin to “buzz”, my hands wet as I wring them together and the ringing in my ears almost deafening.
I stared at the floor waiting for the silhouette to speak. I lost focus as my eyes began to well with tears. What memories, what visions so long buried would he evoke.
I felt my lips start to quake, my eyes darting around the room trying vainly to seek escape. “I understand you served in Viet Nam?”
My eyes stopped searching. My hands stopped wrenching. I froze. The silhouette asked again “I understand you served in Ve” A disembodied voice, soft at first, unsolicited,
“Yes, yes I did”
“What brings you here today?”
I’m staring at the floor, my eyes begin to water and my mouth is dry and quivering. I hear the voice again. Even softer than before. “I didn’t do enough”
The silhouette, “you didn’t do enough of what?”
The quiet voice, “I didn’t do enough, they died anyway.” Then I felt the first tear as it fell upon my hand.
*****
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