Sometimes PTSD steals my breath out from underneath and suspends me midair like a hooked fish, gasping for the oxygen that chokes me.
Sometimes PTSD steals into my dreams on tiptoe, so softly that I don’t realize I can ever wake up again.
Sometimes PTSD steals a conversation away from its original intent and plunges it headfirst into dark water—bottomless, surfaceless, directionless, hopeless.
Sometimes PTSD steals with bone-sharp fingers the joy from happy moments and plants new sets of memories with old pain.
Sometimes PTSD steals away for a week or a month, maybe even a few at a time, to let me get back to living in present-tense, but it often returns when I’m least prepared.
Sometimes PTSD steals glances at the liquor shelf or the medicine cabinet; they’re only brief glances, but I catch them all the same.
Sometimes PTSD steals over my body and paralyzes me from the waist down, the shoulders down, the brain down.
Sometimes PTSD steals a march on my logic and arrives at conclusions that circumvent reality now in favor of reality then.
Sometimes PTSD steals my heart from the ones who cherish it the most.
Always, PTSD steals.
[Impolite-but-apt vocabulary warning]