by John Krohn PhD

Created on: April 18, 2008   Last Updated: May 26, 2008

Then Comes The Dawn

The night was misty with the tears of angels. It was one of those nights along the California coast where you can feel the light mist caressing your face, your hair and your hands. The kind of mist that gradually soaks you to the bone, but so slowly that you don't notice how drenched you are until its too late and you find yourself dripping wet. Richard was laying on a chase lounge on the back deck that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The patio umbrella provided some protection from the light falling rain. Sometimes a gust of wind would blow a spattering of rain into his face, and Richard would close his eyes and let the cold spray run down his cheeks and drip off of his chin. It was cold enough that it was not a pleasant experience but rather made him gasp and shake his head like a black lab back from the pond after retrieving a stick thrown by its owner.

He could not see the ocean, but he could smell the salty air and hear the constant roar of the waves below as they were driven ashore by an angry north wind that was marshalling its forces for the storm that was coming. He could also smell the wet cedar of the deck. He raised his wine glass, and as he gazed into the night, he could just make out the dark silhouettes of the large evergreen trees that acted as a barrier between his house and the cliff face of Castle Rock. The trees swayed and moaned in the wind and resembled lonely sentinels of the night standing watch for the coming storm but knowing that there was no stopping it. Their efforts were futile at best.

Richard had never spoken to anyone about his experiences in Viet Nam. While in the army, he had voluntarily spent two tours of duty roaming in tangled hostile jungles on dark rainy nights. When he was triggered back to those days, as he was tonight, a chasm of paralyzing depression would sweep over him. There were times in the night of late, where he would wake up out of a dream with suffocating fear and anxiety choking him. His heart would be pounding so fast that he would be gasping and could hardly catch his breath. He would be covered in sheen of cold sweat, and would sit in the darkness rocking himself and shivering as if sickened with malaria as the icy adrenalin raced through his body.

A cold spray of rain, driven by the wind, pelted Richard and brought him out of his reflections about his time in Viet Nam. He brought the glass of wine to his lips and drained it. He could see that his hand was shaking either from the cold or

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