We have a funeral to attend later this week. Hanging there, hidden from my daily sight it reared its crest and reflective striping as I searched the closet for my suit. I used to cry when I would open the closet and see all my work shirts hanging there. My wife had to move them to the back of another closet. It was demoralizing accepting that I wouldn’t be needing them for a while. If ever. I had to dig one out when I started having OT appointments at my headquarters that were centered around exposure to the work environment. Wearing the uniform was part of the therapy. It didn’t always end up being worn to those appointments, some days I just couldn’t do it, but for the most part it was. I would put it on a couple hours before the appointment to get over the initial anxiety of having to put it on. I likened it to playing dress-up. I didn’t feel I deserved to be wearing it. The anxiety it caused only made those sentiments worse. The appointments were exhausting. Between the drive there and back, all the ambulances and almost everyone I saw being in uniform it was like facing everything at once. Progress was slow. I had begun to make it further onto the property (10ish parking spaces I think). During the last appointment I managed to sit in the passenger seat of an ambulance for a few minutes (my department was able to supply a spare ambulance for some of the appointments). It was dysfunctionally overwhelming. It was surreal. The door stayed open. There were many appointments where I circled the truck then stood at the open door unable to get in. I would end up at home afterword putting myself down for not being able to do better. I secretly viewed each attempt to get in the ambulance as a failure and by extension as a statement on my worth. How could I return to work if I couldn’t even do that? What good was I? I had a hard time staying focused on the good despite leaving each appointment with my OT having me point it all out. Those return-to-work appointments ultimately ended up on the back burner; a psychiatric assessment I had at the end of April deemed that it was too soon for me to be trying to do that. The shirt was hung back up and the pants were put back in their hidden place in the bottom drawer. Hence why I currently meet her at a mall.

A lot raced through my mind as I looked at the shirt. It didn’t feel like it was laughing at me this time. I didn’t feel belittled. I was still sad, but it wasn’t over feeling like less of a person. I tortured myself looking at “better” as going back on the road. Any deviation from that was failure. Convinced I knew what I had to do I remained closed. Removing that nucleus and seeing the option for change is no small matter. A large part of my identity is at stake. It’s hanging in the closet waiting to find out if it still is. I can’t answer that yet. Either way at this point I’m going to feel like I’m starting over. Paramedic is still my main possibility, but it’s not the only one anymore. If the writing is on the wall I have to be able to read it. So I was sad looking at the shirt hanging there in suspension. But the damage is done. If that shirt stays in the picture, great. If it can’t what fills its place could be greater. I just have to be open to it.