Involved in a bus accident that took the lives of six people, David Gibson has been battling through PTSD
for over three years. In an effort to better understand himself and to communicate with others, he turned to writing.
His first book was The Other Side of Reason: A Journal on PTSD, available now via petrabooks.ca.
This column continues that text.
[In between somewhere]
The passing of time.
Moments we live and lost.
Days or our lives?
Does it make a difference?
In the loving and through our embrace.
Or in the dreaming of what could come to pass.
And what could be passing us by.
Near or far from here. Like the tide and the moon's calendar.
Somewhere.
I pull back the old musty red velvet curtains – the microphone looms ahead of me – center stage. I've been here before that much I am sure of – many times.
Hello? Is this thing on? Testing 1, 2, 3.
Bloody hell! They said the sound would work in this dreadful forsaken place. I'm not even sure I want to be here. Hello again. I hope you are out there?
My name is…. not important – I'm here that’s the point. Can I have some light? Check one, check – can you hear me? Why I put up with this is beyond me.
Before I begin, I am reminded by what my family said to me the other day. They said, 'please whatever you do don't be too charming, witty or intellectual – just be yourself' – I guess they meant well?
Nothing? – Ouch this is a tough crowd. Do I have one relative in the house? I wish there was a light – Why is it so dark? What happened to the lights?
Is anyone out there? Please let there be, otherwise I am only a dream. Not real – I am neither here nor there – just somewhere. Not good, now I'm feeling really anxious.
Could I ever use a drink – look at me I'm shaking and sweating profusely – probably nerves nothing more. Another costume change at intermission will suffice – no biggie.
Do you want me to continue? I really could use that drink – make it a double my good man! Liquid courage is what they say – better numb than to feel. A time to get lost that's all – trust me I will be back. The show must go on. And on and on like it never ends – a repetition of pain, fear and self-loathing.
Why are you leaving so soon – I'm not done yet. The worst is yet to come. Now that's funny. Rude bugger! Go on then – nobody cares if you leave. Sorry, did you say you care?
Thank you – I'll see you next week then? My show seems to always have reruns.
Until then, Elvis has left the building.
Exit stage left.
