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I was doing an interview with The Big Wild, a syndicated radio program out of Madison, Wisconsin, and pretty much thought I'd gotten through unscathed until Big Red and Gundy asked if I hunted and/or fished and would I care to relate a story or two. I'm afraid I went all Oprah on them and confessed to being a victim of PTFD, or Post Traumatic Fishing Disorder. Yes, I am a victim of PTFD but, with treatment and the support of loved ones, I have partially overcome my symptoms, reduced the painful memories, and moved on with my life.
To help explain this anxiety disorder I have to tell you about my traumatic childhood and a father who, if you sat a water-filled, five-gallon bucket out on the ranch road, would have a bobber in it within twenty minutes. The weekends of my tender and impressionable youth were abused by a chronically compulsive and obviously obsessive fisherman who would crack open my bedroom door, and my brother's, well before dawn and deliver the curt, "All right, let's go." Whereupon we would be expected to spend the next twelve hours standing on the bank of some stream or lake to watch a red-and-white bobber in hopes that it might move-or that lightning would strike us and put us out of our misery. You weren't allowed to talk (scares the fish), you didn't eat (we never brought anything because we were going to catch fish), and you couldn't have anybody along (they were all too sane and at home in bed).














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