Kelly Wilson

The morning after Jim__ death, as I dried off after my shower, I wondered to what extent, if at all, Jim was_around. Could he be with us, unseen or unsensed by us, but able to observe? Most importantly at this moment, could he possibly see me naked?

For me, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is like a good friend. A necessary girlfriend, but with chronic PMS. A temperamental _ and even volatile _ friend who does not play well with others and whom I dearly love. It__ a strange relationship.

I have attempted for years to make fun of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which is a dangerous game. It__ similar to poking fun at the largest, scariest bully at your school and assuming you won__ get beat up.

I have become conscious of my own __ry face._ My face puckers like the business end of a hot dog except for my mouth, which stretches in a grimace so wide as to accommodate said hotdog horizontally within it. It__ not pretty.

I realized at that moment that depression and I will always be linked, tugging back and forth, like the drunken uncle who still gets invited to the family reunion even though everyone knows he__ going to make a messy scene.

We will remember what it was like to lose you, our pain the black background of our electric blue joy. We will remember that there are few answers to our questions; the questions that seem to float into an endless expanse of sky.