So: the Giffords shooting.

I’m not going to talk about it so much. Other people have said things better. This is my blog and this is a selfish post about myself.

Anyone who says that the current atmosphere in political discussion in America isn’t… rather corrupted hasn’t lived here. I don’t really want to be reminded repeatedly of it, and have preferred to avoid it, but that willful ignorance is only a luxury now.

When I was little, I monitored my father’s stress and anger levels constantly, because sometimes predictions paid off in the matter of staying alive. Timing can be everything in such situations—kind of like war on the battlefield. As a result, the constant vigilance is always present, and worse, this hypervigilance goes sky-high during stressful times. These are those times, and much as I want to deny it, the fallout of the Giffords shooting—in conversational circles, on blogs, and on Twitter—keeps me up at night. Everyone’s on edge, and I’m even more so.

Such is the life of a PTSD sufferer when there’s not enough of a trigger to keep one from going over the edge, but just enough to keep the level of anxiety around PTSD level 1 or 2. I wish I could tell people to knock it off, but oh well. Not happening. Until then, every mention is like being jabbed with a poker.

As well, the shooter reminds me of my father: far, far too much of my father.

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