Thank You, Belated.

There have been situations in my life in which I wanted to say thanks, but may have been unable, forgotten to do so, or have been barred from communicating with that person by my family.  It’s something that weighs heavily on me.  I was raised to be grateful and thankful when people do nice things for me.  I have Asperger’s Syndrome, and that makes me wonder something.  I wonder if my ability to speak is attached to my anxiety levels in a direct way.  I don’t mean I wonder if my pancreas has a mouth.  I mean, it seems to me that whenever my anxiety level is elevated, my ability to speak disappears.  I’ll have to email my doctor and ask.  It’s a vicious circle, as not speaking when I should or need to makes me anxious.

When I was attending college, I had an old boat of a car.  It was a Chevy Impala from the late 70’s.  It was a dream to drive, as the ride was as smooth as a Cadillac.  However, I struggled to keep it in my lane, and it was too easy to speed without realizing it.  I got it for a decent price from a friend of one of my brothers.  It served me well during that time.  When I was driving home for lunch one day, I decided to take a country (unpaved) road.  I like to play my violin for cows, and was scoping out a new pasture that was close to my college.  As I was driving slowly, gazing at the surroundings, my car died.  I had run out of fuel.  How quickly I had stopped using the pre-driving checks that are mandatory in the Army.

As I realized what caused my car to die, I got out and stood beside it, silently berating myself for not checking the gauge before I left home.  I had recently gained the necessary confidence to drive again, as I lost it after acquiring PTSD.  I was still fragile in situations involving stress.  Before I had time to calculate the distance I’d have to walk in either direction, a red truck pulled up.  The man looked to be in his 50’s. I don’t recall him saying anything, but that could have been because I was silently freaking out.

He peeked in through the driver side door, saw the gauge, and waved for me to follow him to his truck.  I did.  He drove me to the nearest gas station, purchased a container and filled it with fuel, then drove me back to my car.  He poured it into my gas tank, and this is the point where I am not sure if I thanked him.  I was thinking to myself, “Wow, he must be a real angel”.  I’ve always considered him one of the angels in my life ever since.  It’s not a religious belief.  I think angels are people who do extraordinary things without being asked.  I’ve had five that I can readily recall, and he’s one of them.

Knowing me, I’m pretty sure I didn’t utter a single word while this transpired.  I regret this very much.  I sent a letter to the editor to the local newspaper, described his angelic acts, and thanked him.  It doesn’t feel sufficient, as I have no idea if he read it.  So in this instance and others, I send my thanks to the universe.

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