I’m PTSD’d. Again.

I remember a time when months were twenty-four hours long.

I remember when November 7^th was twenty-four hours after October 7^th, and when twenty-four hours later it was December 7^th.

I remember …

… when every sound, face, sigh, boom, voice: dragged us back into the dark pit of the 7^th.

I’m there again.

This past Shabbat, Eli Sharabi, Ohad Ben Ami, and Or Levi emerged from the hellish tunnels of Gaza, or was it Dachau?

This past Shabbat we were grabbed by the throat. A hand squeezed us blue. Aghast, again.

It’s ‘25. Just twenty-four hours since ‘45. From never.

Again.

This past Shabbat was suddenly that Shabbat. Black Shabbat.

This past Shabbat wasn’t February 8^th, it was October 8^th.

And already, another is creeping up again. Another dreaded Friday as prepare for the holy; wondering, wondering, wondering when the monsters will reveal the names of those to be released, and revel: in our agony.

And when this February 15^th arrives, it won’t be February at all. It will be October 15^th, 2023, again.

We’ve been dragged back to black again.

I can’t believe what is happening.

Again. Time isn’t time anymore. It’s something else. It’s a foul trap.

The devil couldn’t write this vile script.

I took another long walk this morning.

A rage infested walk. Dark anger courses through my veins.

Cold tormented blades of rain slash my heart.

Who can think straight, feel straight?

It hit me.

In my small way, I’ve been PTSD’d again.

Everything is a trigger again.

It’s October 8^th again. David’s funeral again. And the Mt. Herzl procession of that soldier again; and that one, and that one, and …

I turn on the news. And I’m PTSD’d again.

I see a redhead, and I’m PTSD’d again.

Ido starts making my morning coffee as soon as I open the door to Café Malke. He says b’sorot tovot (may we hear good tidings) to the woman in front of me, and I’m PTSD’d again.

I hear the first note from the voice of Idan Amedi, and I’m PTSD’d again.

I walk into the hostage solidarity tent in Jerusalem, to say a prayer, and I’m PTSD’d again.

I see young girls with rifles slung over their shoulders, ready to protect me—shouldn’t I be protecting them!!?!!—and I’m PTSD’d again.

I’m there again.

Time has no meaning again.

Old dear friends are visiting from the States.

They want to get together for dinner, but I must explain why not.

Because Alon subsists on a scrap of pita. Alone.

Because I’m there again. It’s February 10^th again. 2023 again.

And so, as I walk beneath the cloud encrusted Jerusalem sky.

I take photos of flowers.

So many beautiful, beautiful flowers.

I crouch down. I get close. I touch the earth. I focus. And for a moment, it’s just me and the colors; me and the petals, me and a drop of dew on a leaf, me and a bumble bee. For a moment, I’m not there again. I’m not PTSD’d again.

And then …

In Memory of David Newman z”l.

And in honor of Let’s Do Something

https://www.letsdosomething.com/

All photos by Shimon Apisdorf