Arnesto (PTSD)

Arnesto arrives overdressed and uninvited. Always. His suits are custom, his mustache immaculate, and his judgment? Immediate. He speaks with the cadence of a courtroom closing argument and the confidence of someone who’s never been wrong, even when he is.

He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask. He simply appears, usually around 2AM, monologuing about things you did, didn’t do, or should’ve seen coming. He calls it “clarity.” You call it a panic attack in formalwear.

In his breast pocket, he carries a list of every time you failed to prevent your own suffering. Printed on heavy cardstock. Embossed.

He says he’s trying to protect you. But protection, in his hands, feels a lot like reliving everything—on repeat.

The Black Medallion Creed
As dictated by Arnesto (PTSD). For Andreas (Anxiety).
A gentleman’s guide to surviving what should’ve killed you—without losing your style.

  1. Never trust anyone who says, “You’re safe now.”
    Safety isn’t declared. It’s something you audit. Lock in a drawer. Maybe label, but never display.

  2. If your body reacts before your brain does, believe it.
    It remembers. It just doesn't bother with introductions anymore.

  3. If you cry during sex, ensure it's either poetic or weaponized.
    Dissociation is forgivable. Doing it poorly is not.

  4. Always have an exit plan.
    One for strangers. Two for family. Three for shared hotel rooms with men who say “I’m a good guy.”

  5. Panic in public? Sell it.
    Commit like it's method acting. No one questions a breakdown in a blazer.

  6. If someone touches you without asking, picture a traffic cone.
    Replace them with it. Later, set it on fire. Tastefully, of course.

  7. You don’t owe anyone the softened version of your survival.
    You can polish the edges. Just don’t bleach the truth.

  8. When your heart starts racing, try listing your traumas alphabetically.
    “Abandonment” through “Youth pastor.” Even the weird ones count.

  9. Keep a list of red flags.
    Cross-check it with your dating history. Bind it. Call it Volume I: I Knew Better.

  10. Love if you must — but build an escape hatch.
    One with soft lighting, decent music, and a towel for crying that won’t stain the sheets.

    Final Instruction:

    If you dissociate, nod politely.
    If you flinch, smooth your lapel.
    You’re not unstable, you’re just highly trained in collapse.

    And if anyone calls you dramatic?
    You were there.
    They just read the brochure.

    — Arnesto
    PTSD. Decorated. Discerning. Occasionally unhinged, never underdressed.