Of course, actually becoming a volunteer leader never actually occurred to you.
With my PTSD??? Are you kidding??? No, Charlie---not only for my sake, but for theirs. About the first time I asked them to settle down and pay attention and they paid no heed, I'd go off the deep end and turn into The Sergeant again......and believe me, nobody wants to deal with The Sergeant---not even me. I'm a pretty even-tempered guy most of the time, but The Sergeant is not. The Sergeant is a mean, intolerant, foul-mouthed, quick-tempered SOB, and you don't want to mess with him.
I'd have to raise my voice to get their attention----and the voice that The Sergeant uses is the same voice used on a gunnery range or a flightline: loud. Really loud. It's usually accompanied by physical gestures which indicate that any more horsing around will be to the perpetrator's eternal regret.
Try that with a bunch of six year old Cub Scouts, and when they got weeping to Mama about The Mean Ole Sergeant, I'd be lucky to wind up having the parents simply demanding my resignation---that is, if I didn't wind up in jail.
Not that I would ever touch one of them; I would never, under any circumstances, lay so much as a finger on any of them. But I can scream with the best of them; I can get two inches from their noses and bellow into their faces; I can scare the living daylights out of them. It gets results---and boy howdy. But it's not the sort of thing that these little white-bread suburban my-daddy-is-a-tax-accountant miscreants are used to, and it doesn't sit well with Mama at all, because her little darlings actually have to sit still, be quiet and respectful, and keep a disciplined tongue in their heads.
The Sergeant made his appearance numerous times when I was still working, when some smart-mouthed college kid, obstreperous drunk, or shuckie-jive ghetto turkey decided to give me a ration of crap. It always ended with the perp looking like somebody had smacked him upside the head with an oak plank about three inches thick, and I always ended up with some sort of disciplinary review. It wasn't something I could control, and under the wrong circumstances, I still can't.
No, Charlie---I wouldn't even entertain the idea of me becoming a scoutmaster. In the immortal words of Molly Hatchet, that's flirting with disaster. I'm much, much better off where I'm at right now: retired, not dealing with people, and taking my happy pills every day, and not having to put up with anybody else's nonsense. It's easier on me, and it's definitely easier on them. I don't ever want to have to be back in the position where the perp is so terrified of me that he ends up hiding behind my lieutenant and weeping, "You keep him away from me! He's crazy!"
(I don't know what he was so worried about; I hadn't even drawn my gun.)
And just for the record, I'm not crazy. Paranoid, quick-tempered, hyper-vigilant, angry, suicidal, and mean? Yeah, I've been all those things in the past. But that's due to a disorder, not insanity. And the lovely little pills the VA gives me have gotten all that down to a manageable level, and that's where I want to keep it, believe me.
I don't like being a total @#$%&*^ any more than anybody else who has to deal with me does.