It's a common enough ask in the aftermath of divine uterine expulsion day but I confess I was not expecting it to be asked that of me. It came from behind me and I thought it said to another until he came around to where I could see him. It was the owner of one of the open every day local places that stocks a bunch of treats I like.I have this habit of robust truth and confessed that my Christmas was rubbery and that I had a PTSD attack on the morning."If you have PTSD then Christmas is probably a day that you're going to get an attack," I explained.In my case it was theboy being mad and thewife upset and me repairing the breech leaden with sorrow because I hadn't been able to by a present for my own wife. I should have nutted one out before we left but then presumed I'd get something while we were there. Then there was the leg boil and I could not move after we got there so failed to get something kewl. I felt I had failed them all, as I fail them all always.He went in to soothe things with her and I excused myself and went out of view from their cabin but on the road, barefoot on the smoothest tar I could find given my super flat feet. There I had a massive, juddering silent screaming anxiety attack twinned with dread and stood curled in on myself on the road silent crying because I didn't want to alarm anyone with my agony. It took about 10 minutes to pull it together before I could get the fuck off the road and get something to help the attack then rejoin the mended festivities. I didn't tell the owner any of that but that was what happened. It was horrible and horrifying. But I got through it—and the day—and also avoided later unpleasantness that made everything turn to shit for about 90 minutes until thewife fixed that new horror. Then I had to remember it but also remember how I fixed my attack with CBT, talked myself off the road and into our cabin to take some Valium then back over to the other place to rejoin the crew. I'm getting better at coping with my condition but I'll have to stop auto truth mode. I mean he didn't need to hear that and I should have jollied back with a "great and how was yours?"But I didn't because I couldn't. Because to do so would not be true and would deny what happened to me and keeps happening to me. I get through it, I always do. But now he knows me as short beady bike helmet man with the PTSD instead of just short beardy bike helmet man.It's a tough gig playing me. But hey, no small parts—just small actors.