Michael Barton* * *“Okay,” Dr. Tony Albert, my psychiatrist says to me, “that’s good. You’re making a lot of progress, and your memo...ies seem to be sorting themselves out.”I’ve been coming here every Friday for a few months now, and Tony, as he prefers I refer to him as, has helped me with the IED attack. I hadn’t even realized how much about it I’d forgotten, but with his help, I’ve been coming to terms with it.“Do you see how your friend’s death wasn’t your fault?” This question. Gary was telling me to move and directing the guy with me to do the same. We looked like robots placed in motion on a film. It reminded me of those black and white films where all the action was jerky.The guy with me, I later learned was named Alex, and myself moved into all kinds of positions up and down each others body. Sometimes with our hands on each other and other times not. We knelt before, or leaned into, or wrapped around each other. I never knew what was going to be next.I did figure. More

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