Living with PTSD is like riding a horse, feeling the crisp breeze, the exhilaration of the gallop, the rhythm of the horse's hooves, and the synchronicity between the rider and horse.  The goodness of life captured in the view over fields and valleys, the smell of grass and flowers, and the beauty of the sunset on the horizon.  

And out of nowhere the trigger knocks me off of the horse.  Just before I black out I see the bottom side of the horse, and his powerful hooves, right over my head.  And then there I am, on my back, smelling dirt and manure, and not knowing at all where I am, or how it is that I came to be there.  Panicking and alone, the sound of horses far away.  This can be made more confusing when someone next to me blames me for falling, as if I have fallen on purpose.  This is what it feels like.  

My horse came back today, and I'm not astride yet, but he's standing here warming me, waiting for me to climb back up, nuzzling me with his warm, wet breath, and communicating that the view is great, the air is crisp, and the rhythm of the ride awaits.