I always preferred the term "shell shock."

Post traumatic disorders just don't sound right three years after the event, but I wanted to share this.

It's Monday, 4:24 AM August 25 and we're getting the remnants of Tropical Depression Fay. Wind, rain, you know. Nothing scary. I've finished an exhausting Sunday (teaching, prep for teaching, prep for the fantasy draft tomorrow, prep for teaching tomorrow, then relief in blackjack for a dead assed Sunday, oh joy. Not enough coffee in the county) and I should be sawing logs something fierce.

Want to know what I can't do? STILL?

Sleep when it rains. Two years and three hundred sixty one days after the storm and I cannot sleep to the sound of rain.

Ever wonder when the drama ends?

Here I am, by all accounts should be dead to the world because tomorrow is even worse. Kids come over 7:30. Kids go to school 8:10. Megan has a dentist appointment 9:30. Football draft in Ocean Springs 12:00. Kids from school 3:30. Teaching CCD 4:15. Kids homework as soon as we get home. Dinner and bed. I should be sleeping right now damn it but it's raining and I'm as awake as awake can be.

You know? I never had to swim, I never had flood water in my house, I didn't watch anyone die, and we were all pretty pro-active when it came to recovery, so one would think I'd have purged all this "trauma."

Yet here I am typing away to the sound of rain coming down the apartment building gutters and rain hitting my windows, the wind howling at 15-25 knots outside and the occasional computer ding as WLOX Weather Center alerts me online to severe weather watches.

Damn.