Moving On and Healing - Part 1
About a year ago, a series of monthly mishaps took place that, even taken in a singular fashion much less as a group, were life-changing. It began with a car accident backing out of my driveway, which should have been the other guy's fault, and wasn't; continued on with a near-electrocution caused by a leaky roof and the neglect of a slumlord, an unexpected fall into a manhole on the 6th Street Bridge of which demolition was slated to start the next day, and ending with a sucker-punch assault by a murderer on parole in broad daylight near some of the city's most stellar cultural venues. I say "ending" but that was the beginning of renewed panic attacks and what I now realize was post-traumatic stress disorder. These events reminded me of a story by my father told to me often over the years about recognizing signs and taking personal responsibility for moving on. The story goes something like this: a man was stranded on a deserted island, and prayed to God, askin