Memorial Day is a serious holiday and a good one to have.
Unfortunately, in my dreams my father returned and strangled me while somebody was bombing the place where I used to live at with my parents (the last incarnation of it). He was very ineffective, but then again, being pinned down and strangled while the world is going to hell was not a good feeling in any way, shape, or form.
My father always had a thing for inducing terror.
Today I technically should remember him, because he was a good soldier and all that. Won awards. Fought on the side of the Americans during the Vietnam War.
Beating and terrorizing his wife and daughter, on the other hand, is barely something to be considered, if at all, today.
Except, you know, for my PTSD.
I swear to all the gods in the heavens and all the demons in the hells and all the spirits walking the earth, PTSD should be a swear word. I personally prefix half of my thoughts during this time with “fuck it fuck it FUCK IT argh” anyways.
So, right. Tea. Laundry. Too late to pray that I don’t get two corners of the PTSD tarp blown off today.