A couple of years ago while working at the library there was a commotion out the west side of the building. There are huge windows in the library looking out that way. By the time I got out of my office and over to the windows, there was a mix of at least a dozen patrol cars and unmarked police cars spread out like a fan. The policemen were out of their cars, behind their doors, with their weapons drawn and all pointed at a pickup truck in the parking lot across the street.
If the persons in the pickup truck had decided they were Bonnie and Clyde, then they would have come out of the truck firing their weapons directly at the library windows. I think every person in the library was standing in front of the windows watching the drama unfold as though they were watching TV. My PTSD immediately kicked in. Holding myself barely together, I tried to get everyone to move away from the windows.
I remember a student from the masters in counseling program coming up to me and telling me I didn’t look so good and that I should go somewhere else. So, I did.
From that moment on I don’t remember a thing. All I do remember is “coming to” about a half block away hiding behind a trash bin. Fortunately, the professor of counseling who specializes in trauma intervention was the one that found me there. We went to her office where, along with my therapist on the phone, I was able to get myself together enough to get home.
This was the event that helped us, my family and my therapist and me, decide I needed Hunter.