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No counseling ever helped me one God damned bit. I don’t know whether that was because I moved around so much and didn’t stick with it, or it was just me, but none of those VA fuckers ever did me
any good. I already told you things got worse for me as the years went
by. My marriage was in the toilet, my kids had grown up right under my
nose, and I was pissed off at myself because I nothing I did made anything
better.
Toward the end of my marriage, suicide was always on my mind. Once,
my teenage son came into my bunker just in time to wrestle away a rifle away
I’d
pointed at my head. Nice, huh? I’m still ashamed of that. The
only good that came out of that little incident was the court ordered me to
go see another shrink. Kitty went with me to the veteran center, and
we were there only two minutes when the lady counselor started talking about
PTSD and wanted to set me up with more therapy. I told her I’d
already been through that, but she said it was for my own good and wouldn’t
take no for an answer. She begged me not to give up, to try one more
time. I refused.
- Marlin’s refusal to go back to therapy was the PTSD symptom of avoidance. Bringing
up old, painful memories in previous therapy had done him no good, and he
did not wish to do so again.
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