A/n: so here we have Joe's take on recovering from serious injury. No, Joe isn't mine. a fact that makes my husband very grateful. (he's the jealous type) and the lawyers disgruntled as they cannot sue me for infringement for pretending otherwise.

Dear Diary

May 3rd

My name is Joe Hardy, and 2 weeks ago I got shot. In order to be sprung from my prison that is the 4th floor of Bayport General Hospital, my therapist is making me chronicle my 'feelings'. My mental health therapist, not my physical one. SHE is Torquemada and Lorena Bobbit's love child. Seriously. I have got to escape her evil clutches so I shall humor Dr Suitland and play his silly games. He seems to have this misconception that I have PTSD. Dude, have you met my family? Getting shot? Not a big deal.

Okay, okay so this time was a tad bit different. This whole not being able to walk thing is putting a cramp on my style, I will admit. But sheesh, not like is gonna be permanent or anything, right?

Right?

Dr. S wants me to come to terms with what brought me to this place. So that I can 'move on and heal'.

I got shot. Three times. It hurt. I'd do it again. Although I am willing to admit that next time I will try and not get shot. But the shoving of my brother outta the way so he doesn't get shot? Yeap. Do it all over again. No regrets. Mentally I am fine and dandy, thankyewverymuch.

May 4th

Hmpf. Dr. S thinks I am not taking this seriously. What does he expect, me to have a breakdown and start having nightmares? I have nightmares. You can't stand on the rubble of what used to be a seaside fishing village surrounded by devastation as you try and deliver safe drinking water to the survivors of a Tsunami and not have nightmares. Wanna know who has PTSD? That 5 year old Japanese girl I pulled out from under the demolished remains of her home where she lay buried under the corpse of her mother for 3 days. Me? Nuttin' wrong with me at all.

May 5th

I swear to gawd if Frank doesn't quit with the hovering I am going to jab him with my IV and then turn the Morphine drip on high. Anything to get him to just chill out. I get, it Bro, you are feeling guilty and crap. I keep telling you it's no big deal, that it was my own damn fault for shoving instead of tackling. It's done. You don't owe me squat. Now quit asking me if I need anything. What I need is a nap and a pizza. Not you self flagellating all damn day. Sausage. Extra cheese. And bring back some of Mom's gingersnaps too.

May 6th

Today is Iola's birthday. It's been almost ten years. I dreamt of her. She called me an idiot. Maybe I am. Doesn't mean I am all messed up in the head. Just because it hurts like hell to breath deeply, or that I can't feel my legs doesn't mean I cried myself to sleep last night. Dr. Taylor is annoyingly optimistic and keeps tossing uplifting phrases at me. Bastard is entirely too damn cheerful all the time. Hello? Non functioning lower limbs here! Don't talk like I'll be out on the football field by Summer. We both know it's a pile of BS.

May 7th

Dad came by tonight. Right now he's the only one I can stand to have around. Frank is still full of self recrimination and it's pissing me off. Starting to regret saving his annoying butt. Can't deal with Mom's pity either. Oh she tries to hide it and acts all supportive and loving and Mom Like, but it's written all over her face. Frank won't leave the White Elephant in the room alone and she is totally ignoring it. Dad at least hasn't changed a thing about how he acts around me. Still get yelled at for swiping the sports page. We discuss his latest case that got shoved by the wayside. We talk about that punk who shot me and who is trying to cut a deal. One good thing about being pals with the Chief of Police? Yeah, cut rate thugs who prey on innocent old couples and end up shooting a fine upstanding member of society.. do NOT get deals. Con's pushing for the book to be thrown at him, and his 2 pals. Attempted murder. Works for me. Dad asks me tonight what I will do if this paralysis thing ends up being the way things stay. I had no answer.

Oh my god. I may never walk again...

May 9th

Okay so maybe, just maybe, Dr Suitland has a point. If I was absolutely forced into baring my soul I might concede to being conflicted emotionally here.

Point: I love my brother. He's awesome. Always been there for me. He'd take a bullet for me. Hell, he has taken a bullet for me. He's also been beaten and kidnapped and all sorts of other stuff because of me. Never complained once. In fact I had to be forced into seeing just exactly how much he has sacrificed for me over the years. So in retrospect, I still do not regret my actions. I owe him. I owe him much more than just a pair of working legs for everything that he has done over the years for me.

Point: I like being able to walk. Like running even more. On the football field, not jogging. That's Frank's outlet. Ask anybody, I don't even sleep 'quietly'; always tossing and turning. This forced stillness is the absolute worse thing about getting shot. Brain working overtime, can't shift to get comfy. Can't escape when I need to get away from little miss Torture Barbie and her Hands of Ice Cold Doom. Can't decide which is worse, the inability to make my legs do what I want without question, or the utter lack of feeling. Dr. T says that once the Morphine is completely outta my system and the swelling goes down, all that will change...

Point: All this uncertainty is driving me insane. Just give me a friggin' prognosis fer cryin' out loud. Once I know the score I can move forward and make the best of it. If I am never going to walk again I need to know now. That way my self pity stage can start sooner rather than later and I can get over myself. Start looking at catalogs and getting my chair all tricked out. And if I have a shot in hell of walking again? Tell me what I need to do to make that happen yesterday. I would willingly succumb to all the Ice Cold Hands of Doom out there if it meant I could be upright in 6 months.

This morning Dr S. asked me if I had any instances of 'why me' Syndrome. I had to stop and think about that for a minute. Still not sure how to answer that. I mean, I keep telling myself( and Frank) that I'd do it again with no hesitation. I even joke about how I'd make sure to go for his knees next time so the bullets fly harmlessly over my head. But now, today? Lying in this bed hooked up to machines with the uncertainty looming? It shames me to admit, even here where nobody else but Dr S will see, that I wish I wasn't in this situation in the first place to have to answer such a loaded question.

I am scared.

A/n: If you think this is disjointed, you are right. But it is meant to be. PTSD has a lot of peaks and valleys and you go through a lot of conflicted emotions. on the one hand he's glad he could save Frank. and on the other he's royally ticked at the circumstances he finds himself in. And being JH, he's gonna try and hide behind sarcasm and jokes. I only have one other chapter written which may get put up tomorrow. If you are lucky.