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body div#devskin0 hr { }

How often do you think about it really?
How aware are you of the space between you and the boy to your left?
Because I know there are 4 steps between us. Just enough room that if I had a clear path I could still get away.
There are 3 exits here and I know where they all are.
One is over my left shoulder the other two are in my line of sight, this was not an accident.
I have counted how many times his eyes wandered my way and I know I am probably being paranoid but god help me if he tries to talk
I put my music up and look anywhere else.

You are twenty years old when you start to consider yourself recovered.
It has been a year since you self harmed, three since the last suicide attempt.
You begin to write that part of your story and stop about 5 months in.
Something, someone has tripped you up.

There is a man here, in your space. He is all grown up.
If you saw it on the news they would say he knew better.
He looks harmless enough, salt and pepper starting in his black hair.
Plus, he's an EMT, the media would say he's a good guy.
The trauma starts to talk again
The trauma says all kinds of fucked up things
Trauma is a bitch I wish I could kick out of my fucking house

Afterwork I get a text, it is ended with a smiley face emoji
It reminds me of the way my aunt uses emojis on Facebook.
It reminds me of his age, of how he should fucking know better.
The trauma says to be polite. It asks me to respond in a nice way.
The trauma tells me to flirt. I do not. I pull all of my strength together as the panic begins.
I am shaking when I begin my response, by the time I hit send my vision is tunneling.
No amount of coping skills will save me from this one
The recovered voice in my head reminds me of the greatest lesson I have learned;
"It will pass."
I breathe. I shut my phone off. I breathe a little easier.
I will not have to see his reply. I have stopped this. I get my vision back
In only a few minutes the panic has passed.

Two hours later I am putting my uniform together
Every day I wear it pulls my shoulders back in pride
I am a success story.
I am no longer the sad teenager in the back of an ambulance
Now I drive it, take vitals, and provide life-saving care.

Tonight the blue shirt incites another panic.
Tomorrow is Wednesday.
Tomorrow he will be working. He will be in my shared space.
The trauma has the nerve to speak up again
It says, don't tell anyone. When you see him, smile.
I pick up the phone, fingers shaking as I fish for an excuse.
I am halfway done dialing my supervisor,
before I decide I will go to work. I am strong.
A misguided man will not keep me from work.

I am grateful his truck is already out on a call when my shift starts.
He makes the right choice to stay in his truck when his partner comes into the station.
I am all strength as I imagine calling him out face to face.
When I finally see him I shrink. I avoid eye contact.
Trauma tells me to act normal. Trauma tells me I am making drama.
Trauma tells me to smile.

I climb in my truck and turn on the sirens. I am driving away before I let myself breathe.
I let my partner take lead on the next call.
Trauma tells me I am too weak.
Trauma tells me not to speak to my supervisor.
Trauma reminds me, they were best friends when they rode a truck together.
Trauma says I am just the type of weak these men prey on.
Trauma says I will never move on.

I say I am moving on.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

How often do you think about it really?
How aware are you of the space between you and the boy to your left?
Because I know there are 4 steps between us. Just enough room that if I had a clear path I could still get away.
There are 3 exits here and I know where they all are.
One is over my left shoulder the other two are in my line of sight, this was not an accident.
I have counted how many times his eyes wandered my way and I know I am probably being paranoid but god help me if he tries to talk
I put my music up and look anywhere else.

You are twenty years old when you start to consider yourself recovered.
It has been a year since you self harmed, three since the last suicide attempt.
You begin to write that part of your story and stop about 5 months in.
Something, someone has tripped you up.

There is a man here, in your space. He is all grown up.
If you saw it on the news they would say he knew better.
He looks harmless enough, salt and pepper starting in his black hair.
Plus, he's an EMT, the media would say he's a good guy.
The trauma starts to talk again
The trauma says all kinds of fucked up things
Trauma is a bitch I wish I could kick out of my fucking house

Afterwork I get a text, it is ended with a smiley face emoji
It reminds me of the way my aunt uses emojis on Facebook.
It reminds me of his age, of how he should fucking know better.
The trauma says to be polite. It asks me to respond in a nice way.
The trauma tells me to flirt. I do not. I pull all of my strength together as the panic begins.
I am shaking when I begin my response, by the time I hit send my vision is tunneling.
No amount of coping skills will save me from this one
The recovered voice in my head reminds me of the greatest lesson I have learned;
"It will pass."
I breathe. I shut my phone off. I breathe a little easier.
I will not have to see his reply. I have stopped this. I get my vision back
In only a few minutes the panic has passed.

Two hours later I am putting my uniform together
Every day I wear it pulls my shoulders back in pride
I am a success story.
I am no longer the sad teenager in the back of an ambulance
Now I drive it, take vitals, and provide life-saving care.

Tonight the blue shirt incites another panic.
Tomorrow is Wednesday.
Tomorrow he will be working. He will be in my shared space.
The trauma has the nerve to speak up again
It says, don't tell anyone. When you see him, smile.
I pick up the phone, fingers shaking as I fish for an excuse.
I am halfway done dialing my supervisor,
before I decide I will go to work. I am strong.
A misguided man will not keep me from work.

I am grateful his truck is already out on a call when my shift starts.
He makes the right choice to stay in his truck when his partner comes into the station.
I am all strength as I imagine calling him out face to face.
When I finally see him I shrink. I avoid eye contact.
Trauma tells me to act normal. Trauma tells me I am making drama.
Trauma tells me to smile.

I climb in my truck and turn on the sirens. I am driving away before I let myself breathe.
I let my partner take lead on the next call.
Trauma tells me I am too weak.
Trauma tells me not to speak to my supervisor.
Trauma reminds me, they were best friends when they rode a truck together.
Trauma says I am just the type of weak these men prey on.
Trauma says I will never move on.

I say I am moving on.