Fred is a stone (get it?) that I was given during my stay at homewood. Fred was my first grounding stone. A dish full of stones was passed around the PTSD group and we were invited to take one if we wanted. The second the dish came out I saw Fred and knew it must be mine. Black and grey striations. A crack. It didn’t fit in with the rest of the smooth tan stones. When the dish finally came I instantly grabbed Fred, secure in my decision. It fit my hand perfectly and had an indent where my thumb naturally sat when I held it.

I didn’t put Fred down for the remainder of the session. We were an instant match. I commented on how much I liked having the stone to hold and rub when feelings and anxieties started ramping up. The counselor named it Fred as a joke but it stuck.

Fred came with me everywhere. AA. Walks. Sessions. Passenging in the car. Shopping. Socializing. Sharing some of my paramedic trauma with a PTSD processing group comprised of myself and victims of various abuses. Fred got me through numerous situations during my early recovery. The only downside to Fred was dropping it occasionally when my hands got disgustingly sweaty from anxiety, which was frequent. On a couple of occasions I found myself apologizing for startling a room full of trauma patients when Fred popped out of my hand and clattered across the floor unexpectedly.

I got Fred out today for the first time in a while (I have since turned to using cloth bean bags as grounding tools which are much better for gross sweaty hands) because I wanted to think about how far I have come since I first got Fred. The running therapy theme lately seems to be about acknowledging progress and success rather than just focusing on what I can’t do so I’ll be good and entertain that.

Fred was the first coping strategy I got some success from. I remember sitting in one of my first AA meetings and staring at the floor trying not to cry or show weakness in front of strangers because I had been triggered and I was struggling to stay present. I had somehow managed to get a coffee on the way in but after almost spilling it multiple times from shaking I had put it down under my chair. I got Fred out and I squeezed it tight. Fred is the here and now. This AA PTSD anxiety alcoholic bullshit is all a nightmare. Fred is presence.

Fred helped me cope with my time in a triggering lonely place. Like me Fred was an anomalous darkness that didn’t fit into its dish either but Fred still found purpose and hope despite it and so have I. Fred will be a part of my uniform for whatever my return to work ends up being. I can keep Fred in my pocket and give it a squeeze to remember not to be ashamed of my injury around coworkers when my symptoms inevitably ‘flare’ up.