Last year’s one-year anniversary of The Thing was, from what I remember of it, a celebration — of being back, of being alive and of pushing forward. We had survived a year and were able to say we were still here — and there were more of us still here than we thought there’d be. We were more fortunate than so many who didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t come back. We had a solid roof, fergodsakes. And power. And clean water. We were, in short, celebrating because we were lucky sumibitches. Because we simply could.

….but this year is different. So very different — in part because so little has changed in so many ways. And because, despite the tremendous strides that have been made on many fronts, there are still so many victims. I don’t mean just those who are still in their FEMA trailers (a little over 30,000 around this immediate region) or those who are remembering lost loved ones. I’m talking about the walking wounded — those who get up and function and try to push ahead and smile and work and resume their life as it was. But, for whatever reasons, they simply can’t. Ot at least not completely. Perhaps it’s an overdeveloped sense of empathy, maybe something they saw in the rubble, possibly a sound that takes them back — but it’s just something they just….can’t…..quite…..get past.

For me, it’s them damn Coast Guard helicopters. They have a unique grindy sound to their engine. When we returned to the city 10 days after the storm, the sky was full of them, still rescuing people. We each have our own trigger. And I guess the basic point of this entry is that we’re all still reacting in our own sometimes irrational ways. I don’t know if it’s always a clinical diagnosis of PTSD, but it’s there. Some are angry, some are vindictive, some have become cynical, some work harder, some are overly stoic, some drink, some gulp pills or other substances, some make jokes and some just cry. God, they cry. For no apparent reason. And, to a degree, I think most of us always will have some kind of gut reaction.

No matter if the images seen from this city this week are heartening or depressing, this is still very much a city populated by a tremendous number of people who are made up of emotional popsicle sticks, rubber bands and Elmer’s glue. There are so many basket cases we just don’t see — even among those who appear to be Just Freaking Fine, okay? Sadly, for a lot of these folks, it’s only getting worse. This has always been a city of crazy mofos — but it used to be the crazy kept us from going insane. Now, too often, insanity is all that’s left.

Or getting out. And that’s the route a lot are taking.

Not me. There is too much to do. That’s my own mental illness, I guess.

Whatever works.

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