I got me a boogyman. Here he comes. My breath
shortens. My heart pounds. He's hidden in some brain crevice, or, attacks head on screaming: "They will get
you! You are in grave danger!"
why? Why does my mind--my ruinous thoughts--define me now? Why does my spiking blood pressure twitch my body? Why
does my heart flutter and pound?
Because I know. I know how
"the system" works. I know that honest, enthusiastic, creative--albeit imperfect--people are not celebrated
in "systems". Ordinary, "do-what-you-are-told", data driven (or rather data stagnate) robotic people
are cheered and rewarded.
And unethical and dangerous people
rise to organizational leadership positions. Yepper. They do, they do.
Two. Two. Two recent incidents. Twice slammed. Pricking my brain. Like brackish water
filling streams, my brain's fissures fill with outrage and fear. Floods now. Floods of the outrage and fear. Putrid.
The stench of 2010. The boogyman
In spite of six years away. In spite
of three years, now, of kind, caring, and smart leadership; in spite of perfect evaluations under that leadership. In
spite of the trust I feel for that man, my mind's "keep-it-away-at-all-cost" boogyman dam broke. Took me right
back to the war zone of that school where people literally died in the "battle field."
The enemy is still there. And he probably still wants to "get me." Every
year I check to see if there might be a new name listed as leader of that school. Every year I think: "Maybe this
is the year of liberation." But no. He must have some powerful people beholden to him for every year since my departure,
he is still there.
I fear they all may want to "get
Evil in the world. I got me drawers full
of evidence of his evil acts. I'm beginning to think that the evil's seeping through the drawers' crevices. Wafting
through my bedroom's air. Filling my erratically sleeping nostrils and then my brain's crevices with its God awful stink.
Is that my diagnosed PTSD at work? How
come the hyper-vigilance and distrust are vengefully back? Is it paranoia? Am I the real problem?
I remember an open casket. My friend's inside. It was two
years ago that I received the news of his death. Descending the stairs of my school. A colleague's "Hey, did you
hear about M?" question. That horror, too, flooding my brain. Collapsing my lungs--dragging my labored breath
from my body.
My boogyman is back. Apparently
he never left.