Someone asked me the other day whether I was suffering from PTSD. I immediately answered that I was not. But then I began to read about it and now I am not so sure. My return to work has been difficult, my sense about future employability has been severely shaken and I go through these cycles of not sleeping well, feeling weepy and mildly depressed.

The mild depression is not helped by social events that remind me of my situation when people ask me about what is next. People with very friendly intentions have also asked me about the plane crash and about what it was like to live in Afghanistan – they can’t imagine either one – but I don’t think my telling makes a difference – they still can’t imagine. I realize that I don’t want to talk about these things and prefer to be a wallflower at these social events – of which there are many at this time of the year.

In fact, I would prefer nothing better than that envelop myself in a warm blanket and sit in front of the fireplace and watch uncomplicated movies like Miss Marple or documentaries. I can’t seem to concentrate long enough to read a book or even something as short as a New Yorker article.

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December 2011
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