I visited the chiropractor today. Somehow the conversation evolved into trauma dreams. I gently alluded to one I’ve had nights past and the struggles of the cold-turkey sober dream factory I attended. He shared too. Then walking into the grocery store the dog leads to a chance meeting of a veteran officer who was part of the presumptive ptsd legislation coming to pass in Ontario. Turns out we shared a city for a while. His aging service dog has developed arthritis and stayed in the car on this rainy dank day. 

There’s something about living in a small town with a population lower than my old immediate neighbourhood. Seems this is where the old guard go to watch the butterflies. I guess I’m one of them now. Still doesn’t seem right, and I don’t know that it ever will. This wasn’t the plot, but it’s far from a shame.

The mental “vault” has been exposed again, but I’m feeling okay. I’ll take sentimental over panic any day. Some of those days are always going to be stranger than others.