The Game is Afoot

I've never fancied myself a reader.  Well, at least not a recreational reader.  As you can imagine, one tends to have their beak constantly buried in books when pursuing a career in the medical field.  So, in the past, I have had to read out of necessity rather than pleasure.  The sheer thought of having to read brought forth a bad taste in my mouth that was synonymous with the notion of digging a trench with a spade. That, coupled with the fact that I was taught whole language and not phonetics in school, made reading one of those arduous tasks that was better left for the "have to" rather than the "want to".

Fast forward several years, a couple of knocks to the head, and the diagnosis of a mental disorder later to a shocked me when I discovered reading would become something I could use as a treatment for one of the symptoms of PTSD.  See, I can't sleep.  Since 2004, I've found it increasingly difficult to sleep.  Sleep has become something that only comes when my body has enough of being awake for days on end forcing a shut down.  Then, the sleep that would come was rarely restful and usually resulted in waking up tired, sore and numb. 

Hours of my life have been wasted staring at the ceiling, watching the ambient light dance off the fan, listening for noises and remaining ever vigilant and on watch. Playing games in my head or counting the proverbial sheep rarely resulted in more than twilight sleep, which would lead straight to nightmares filled with the images of war.  But reading, it seems, has began to chip away at this terrible routine.

As a child, I was always a fan of Sherlock Holmes.  Though I admit, I never once picked up or flipped through the pages of any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works, I enjoyed the exploits of Holmes and Watson none-the-less. Television became the medium of choice for the weak willed, lazy literary fan in me.  The old black and white TV shows with the poorly done sets and the very put-on, overly enunciated British accents were my favorite. This image of Holmes became the norm in my mind.

Frustrated with nothing to do but look at the internet during my long, sleepless nights and on a lark one day while at Barnes and Noble with my wife, I picked up a copy of The Continuing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, opened the book in the store and read the first paragraph.  Something about the writing style of the author was comfortable and casual and sucked me in.  Even though it had been years since I held a book in my hand, I bought it thinking it would give me something to pass the time in the bathroom if nothing else.

That night, as I lay there watching the ceiling fan and planning the execution of would be home invaders I remembered the book I had just bought.  So, I turned on the bedside light, propped myself up, bent back the cover hard so the book would lay open and began to read.  With every passing sentence my loathing of the written word diminished as I was pulled into 19th century London.

My therapist would probably be alarmed at the way I'm about to describe this, but when I was reading I felt myself slip away into the scenes set by the author.  I was there.  I pulled my collar up to my neck to ward off the cold, damp evening as I stared down Baker Street that foggy London night.  The gas street lamps illuminated yellow balls of moist atmosphere around them.  Faceless people walked in the shadows between the streetlights.  The clopping of hooves on cobblestone, the acrid taste of the coal soot, manure and urine in the air, I was there.

I followed Holmes and Watson as they tracked down the evil that lurked therein and clung to their coat tails during every exciting moment. And just as quickly as I had entered this world, I was lulled from it as my eyes began to wane and the sentences became blurred.  I had slipped away from my fantasy and had to re-read sentence after sentence to make sense of what was going on in the story.

Then, it hit me.  A feeling I have not experience since before I left for Iraq.  I was genuinely relaxed and tired. I was TIRED!  This time it wasn't because I had allowed fatigue to deal me knockout blow.  It was because I was relaxed.

I marked the page, closed my book and sat it on the side table. Before I knew it, it was morning and I had slept.  I had REALLY slept because it was morning but only just.  I think the time was about 11:30am.  I had slept for almost 12 hours and when I awoke, there was no numb, tired feeling.  There had been no nightmares.  I awoke and felt as though I could whip the world’s ass with one hand.

The next night's experience was much the same as were the following nights.  

At first, I considered this just a fluke and that maybe I had had some coincidental break in my symptoms.  It happens periodically leaving me ripe for crushing disappointment when sleeplessness and nightmares come flooding back with a vengeance.  That was until after my third book.  After dancing back and forth between mystery and science fiction, I found myself again cracking open the cover of a Sherlock Holmes novel.  

I wish I had read the first page of this book before I bought it. This book was about how Holmes and Watson came to meet.  The book started as an aid to the then Captain Watson was working in a field hospital in Afghanistan.  Again, I became somehow teleported into the environment in my mind.  It was as real to me as my own experiences as a medic in the forward aid station, EMEDS, and on the ground with the troops.  It was overwhelming. I put this book down and didn't pick up another for some three weeks.

During this time, I went right back into my old habits.  Little to no sleep exacerbating my irritability and the bear's ass was once again inflamed. Being a stubborn, military minded and pretty frugal individual, I found it hard to not get my monies worth and refused to lay this book aside and buy a new one. I kept promising myself I would pick it back up and get through it.  My notion of doing things in the order I had acquired them got in the way as well.  I guess all the years of denying I have a touch of OCD have finally caught up with me.

When I discussed my experience and the distaste for this particular book with my wife, she gave me that look.  You know it, the one that expresses amazement and disbelief at the same time.  She then tried to deprogram me by explaining that it's OK to not finish a book you don't like.  In my structured, military mindset, this alien thought was unsettling yet freeing at the same time.  I walked away from that book and never looked back.  

Any thought of this being a coincidental break in my symptoms was quickly dispelled.  The very next time I picked up a book before bed the process repeated.  Night after night, the relaxation comes.  The sleep comes. I'm glad to say that I'm on some sort of schedule again.  Instead of sleeping when I can, I sleep when I should.  My demeanor is much more controlled and I feel as though I've found a way to conquer one of PTSD's many symptoms or at least hold it at bay.  

While it's not a cure, it is surely something I would recommend trying to anyone who is experiencing PTSD associated sleep disorders.    

Sightseeing, an Unintentional Side Effect of Combat

Tonight I saw a familiar sight. A facebook friend and fellow veteran posted up a new profile image.  The image was that of two Abrams tanks passing through the “Qaws an-Naṣr” or “Swords of Qādisīyah” in downtown Baghdad.

I’m sure you’re familiar with it by now.  It is a pair of “victory arches” erected by Saddam Hussein to commemorate the Iran-Iraq war.

Each arch consists of a pair of hands holding crossed swords. The two arches mark the two entrances to “Great Celebrations Square” and parade grounds.

When you look at images on the Internet or TV you may experience feelings associated with those images. The Eiffel Tower may invoke feelings of pleasure or bring forth fond memories of your honeymoon or family vacation.  An image of the Washington Monument may remind you of a school field trip.

Just as smells and sounds, images can take you far away form where you are.  They can force you to relive things you’d rather not.

Tonight, almost ten years after the fact, when I saw this image, a lump formed in my throat and I tensed up.

I grabbed at my face to adjust that damned stiff, yet soaking wet, headgear chinstrap. And, for a minute there I could smell the mustiness of that heavy, sweat soaked, hand-me-down body armor. I actually looked at my hands to see nothing where my weapon should be. There was no weight where my medic pack should have been secured.  I felt like I was in the shit again…  Naked.

Even though nothing bad happened to me the day I gazed upon those swords, I felt unprotected.  When you spend the bulk of your time in a total state of vigilance, if something is “off”, you realize it quickly.

And, in that altered state of mind, you still manage to notice that your guys aren’t there.  There’s no one.  No one to cover you.  No one to pull you out if shit breaks bad.  No contact with command.  No orders to be handed down.  Nothing.

You’re standing there in the middle of the street with your dick hanging out and you’re quite sure that there are any number of Hajjis just waiting for the opportunity to take you out.

Even though it only lasts a few seconds, it feels like you relive your whole deployment in the blink of an eye.

Oh sure, you come to your senses and the reality of “home” comes creeping back in after a few moments.  But, you’re left with the same feelings you had when you hopped that freedom bird out of the sandbox.

The feeling that you didn’t get to finish the job you started.  The feelings of guilt you have for surviving.  The holes in your heart for the ones you couldn’t save.  They all come crashing though in a sick symphony of pain and self-loathing.

Yet, as sick as it sounds, someday, I’d like to see them again.  I’d like the opportunity to stand where before I needed cover and casually take in the scenery.

Baghdad, from both the air and the surface, even in the throws of war, is an incredible city.  And even though Saddam was an egomaniacal, evil, murderous bastard the man sure knew how to erect monuments.

If given the chance to hold my wife’s hand and walk her down the streets and around the areas I worked, would be something I’d probably like to do.  Hell, it may even give me a bit of closure.

Sure, I’d be crying or pissed the whole damned time but the fact that life goes on and people rebuild is such a beautiful aspect of mankind.

There’d be places and buildings I’d pause at, take a knee and be silent for a moment.  There’d be areas where I’d talk about my exploits and laugh at how stupid my buddies could be and how in horror, they made me fell somewhat comfortable.  And, there’d be locations where I’d fall to my knees and cry like a baby.

I’d search for and probably never find the children and people I came in contact with.  Hell, they wouldn’t remember me anyway, but I’d want to see them. I’d want to make sure they were still OK and had survived.

It probably sounds weird but, in my minds eye, it seems like it would have to be better for me than to sit in a room with a doctor and whine about how messed up I am in the head.  Just for him to prescribe me a happy pill to subdue these images.

To me it would be a place where I could finally face my demons, call them out and challenge them right there under the swords.

I don’t know.

Since the day I left Iraq, I’ve been wanting and needing to go back there.  Perhaps without combat, the place wouldn’t seem the same.  Without purpose, chaos and fear, Baghdad would not be the Baghdad I remember.

Who am I kidding?  I, in good conscience couldn’t stay in an air-conditioned room in a hotel in Iraq.

I’d crave the spirit killing heat and the rock hard, lumpy rack.  I’d crave the shitty food and the constant fear of mortars, small arms fire and IED’s.  I’d crave the need to jump into MOP-4 the moment I heard a “thud”. I’d crave the smell of the burn pits and the metallic taste of the air.  I’d crave being chased by a camel spider.  I’d crave being sweaty going into and coming out of the shower.  I’d crave gearing up for a convoy rather than taking a taxi.

Hell, I doubt that until Hilton erects an era correct “tent city”, I guess I could never be comfortable there.

So, I guess I’m relegated to having to go there in my mind, in my flashbacks and in my dreams where all of these things are real and current.

No, I’ll leave it to future generations to sightsee and enjoy the scenery. I only pray they never have to have these images and thoughts engrained into their psyche.

Perhaps someday, many millennia from now, mankind will find a way to resolve their differences without the need for metal to ever make contact with meat.

The only thing I can hope for is that scholars look back on us as fondly as they do medieval knights and know that the premise behind our actions was a noble one.

Great picture Mark.  Thank you.

Normality is Just a Word

Tonight, I heard a pretty poignant thing in a commercial for a new movie coming out. 

“Don’t go to men who are willing to kill themselves, looking for normality.”

It got me thinking about my experiences and how much things have changed.  I’m going to admit it; there is a higher level of adrenaline rush found in combat that can be found in no other arena.  And it’s VERY addictive.

Sure, you hear about it all the time.  Vets either participating in the most extreme of sports or going off the deep end looking toward crime just to feed the addiction.

Some of us however, go another route.  I have little want or need to participate in anything that would give me that rush, ever again.  Just as smells or songs can recall memories, adrenaline rushes remind me of a time in my life that has affected me in ways I’d rather not remember. 

I’m not even aware that I’m remembering most of the time.  I just flash back and a few hours later, I’m asking my wife what the hell happened and praying to a God I no longer believe in that I didn’t hurt anyone.

But, indeed, men and women who are unlucky enough to have survived the war no longer have what can ever be considered “normality”.  We’re all broken in one or more ways.  We even sometimes envy the ones who died.

Simple things aren’t normal anymore.  That “night out” isn’t relaxing or fun.  It comes at a cost.  That cost is normality.  We go out to dinner and scan for the exits.  We set where we can see the exits and watch everyone coming in or going out. We formulate a plan of escape and scan the perimeter for cover. 

We look hard as we approach crowds; access the situation, look for possible unfriendlies, scan for potential targets, and reach for a weapon that isn’t there.

We spend hours ramping up for that “night out” knowing we’re going out naked with no intel, no briefing, no plan, no backup. We’re still fighting.  In our minds, we’re all still putting on our rattle and going into the shit.  Only this time, and every time, we’re alone.

In the years following my return from deployment, I’ve come to find that “normality” is subjective.  One man’s “normal” is another man’s “crazy”.  It’s finding ways of dealing with our own construct of normal that matters.

Once, I told the doctor I was afraid of being crazy.  He chuckled and told me that truly crazy people don’t care that they’re crazy.  Therein, caring proves your sanity.

I’ve struggled with what is now normal for me and have come to terms with the fact that I must continue to deal with my version of normality until the day I die.  It’s just who I am.  I’m broken, but not destroyed.

I was a Combat Medic

Originally posted December 14, 2010 on my wife's blog.  

It's taken me a long time to commit to writing about my life with PTSD, and sometimes I just don't have the energy to put the words down, so when my wife told me she'd like me to post some of my older writings on this blog, I jumped.  It's been a rough couple of weeks; I'm just barely making it.  But the fight goes on, and will continue...

-

I was a Combat Medic. My guys called me 'Doc'. I died in Iraq.

I don't remember the exact day and time, but somewhere in the dirty rural streets of Iraq I met my fate. What exact circumstance or series of events had finally caught up to me eludes recollection, but I can say with all certainty, at that very instance time ceased to be linear and became a chaotic mess.

There were no letters home.  No sharply uniformed soldiers knocking on a loved one's door. There was no drill team toting my flag-draped carcass off an airplane.  No flag was handed off to my grieving mother by my commander. None of that. Those guys are the lucky ones. They did their job then left it behind to go to heaven or to be reincarnated or whatever construct they had made for themselves in the afterlife. I've held the hand and brushed back the hair of countless men and tried to comfort them as they left my futile struggle with God.  Is it wrong that I harbor a great deal of resentment for not having the same luxury?

I may not have died in the literal sense but I died none the less.  The person that came home was not me. All that remains of that person are faded photographs of some kid with no clue and little motivation for anything. I've never thirsted for innocence as I do now. I envy children. What bliss they must have in innocence.

-

The trip home was blur and all I can really remember is waking up in Germany, waking up in Baltimore, and my sphincter biting a hole in the seat of that GSA van as we entered the on-ramp leading from the airport onto the highway. And me with no weapon, no hoards of heavily armed men covering my nearly naked ass.

I remember waking up sweating and freezing in my parents' house. Not really sure where I was, I reached for my Kevlar. It wasn't there. I fumbled for my Level 4. Not there either. Nothing was there, no weapons, no noise, no nothing.

The first cognitive sight I had was of the ceiling fan beating the air above the bed. It looked like home. But there was an oppressive atmosphere that hung over everything. I felt like I was frozen. I couldn't move. Not one muscle. It wasn't easy to chew at the time but I was absolutely terrified for the first time since my first intimate encounter with live rounds.

Rolling out of my rack, I all but low-crawled to the bathroom. Regaining some composure, I turned on the faucet, filled my hands with water and splashed my face, a novelty I had not had for quite some time. Rubbing my eyes vigorously to clear my blurred vision I caught a glimpse of myself. It took a while to sink in, a couple of hours really, but something didn't seem right about my stare. I had noticed it once before when I was in theatre.  I reckon, something inside of me at the time was either fucking busy or subconsciously I had denied it. Anyway, it was there... again.

We've seen it before. That 'ocular emptiness,' if you will. I remember seeing this look on countless faces before. Patients with massive head injuries, those who had an altered mental status, the same look which accompanies the 'passion that kills'. Totally devoid of emotion, compassion, anything. I remember not feeling anything.

As if those notions weren't alien enough, I then embarked on what I can only call a residual haunting. Unlike the ghosts that go about moaning and moving stuff or showing up on surveillance cameras, my apparition only appears at the most inopportune times.  My ghostly embodiment changes but most of the time I become a poltergeist. Throwing things around. Hitting things. Breaking stuff. And immediately after one of these episodes it feels like I'm duct-taped to a flagpole in the town square naked. People all look at you in disgust and everyone is too afraid to try to improve the situation. You try to scream through the tape on your mouth but no sound comes out.

Somehow the whole world has changed. I left my country safe and sound. I left it in good hands. I went off to do the things that would ensure that it would be there when I got back. Hell, that was the only thing that really kept me going. 'One day, I would be back and pick up like nothing had happened.'

No, the world I returned to was totally FUBAR. I remember cursing out loud and commenting on how fucking stupid all these people back here had become. I remember listening to folks talking about things they thought were important with my mouth gaped open. And I remember my first altercation with someone whining about their infantile issues which I thought were little more than a cold pile of bullshit. I'm sure in their safe little stick house they had built for themselves, their 'problems' seemed like a big deal but I wasn't hearing it. There's a lot of sadness in this world and no one really gives two shits that you have to wait in the line for an hour or think your job is too hard. Give me a fucking break. Really?

Since then, the world continues to plummet out of control. It seems like the lunatics are all running the asylum. Hell, I'm waiting for some dickhead to nominate Charles Manson for President in the upcoming election. That would seem perfectly normal in this alternate universe I now live in.

I want my life back. I want my world back.

-

My only saving grace, the ONLY thing I wouldn't change, the singular reason that I haven't run hot lead through my brain before now is my wife. She's not your run of the mill wife. No, she really does sport a big red and yellow 'S' on her chest. And for some unbeknownst reason, she loves me.

Oh sure, we've had fights. We've struggled. I've broken things and acted a complete ass, made her cry over nothing. At the end of the day she still hugs and comforts me. Sometimes, just as now, when I think about the raw deal she was dealt when she drew me, it makes me cry. She deserves so much more than I can ever give her but I pray that somehow I never do anything that would make her go away. I need her. I don't just need her for emotional support and love, but my very existence hinges upon her. Without her, I am nothing.

I can tell the years of dealing with this has caused her to become weary. I can hear it in her voice and see it on her face. I ask her what's wrong and she just replies 'nothing' but I know all too well how taxing taking care of someone else can be. She tells me I'm paranoid for thinking she would ever leave. I dunno, maybe something in me is and I use that as a defense to keep myself in check. After all, fear keeps you sharp.

She shrugs often and just smiles when I speak about her just as a religious zealot would speak about his or her perspective deity. And the notion of someday saying or doing something to cause her harm is a sobering thought. I know within myself lies a monster but unlike most people that carry this specter, as of yet I have not directed my aggression solely onto her. For that is a path taken by a fool. I may be fucking nuts, but I am no fool.

One can go crazy trying to figure out why our situation is so much different than others. Maybe it's the fact that I was a Medic trained to care for people. Maybe it's the fact that my grandfather always insisted that under no circumstance was it appropriate to strike a woman. I can't say exactly and I don't really want to know. All I want is for her to be happy and know that she is loved.

Bad days and Freedom

Sometimes, the things that need to be said are unpleasant to hear.  Sometimes we need to know someone else is feeling those same desperate thoughts.  Frustration and anger cave in and direct the words that are sometimes frightening for those who love us and sometimes just writing them out is cathartic and lets us breathe long enough for it to pass.   I’m posting this because of that.  It was a bad day, and this is how I felt.

 _

What is freedom?  Is having it the driving force behind why we enlisted?  Is it what we wrote that "blank check" to defend?  Is it not being incarcerated? Please tell me, I want to know, because freedom is a little more than a fleeting thought to me as I am trapped in this prison that is my head. 

We really don't have "freedom" in the literal sense.  We're NOT free to go to the mall naked.  We're NOT free to punch the people who really deserve it.  Hell, we're not even free to smoke a cigarette in a restaurant that sells food that has been proven to contribute to all sorts of health problems.

But I will tell you what freedom isn't.  It isn't something you have once you take that step and ask for help.  Especially if you were serious about your attempt to end your life.

It's quite the opposite actually. The very moment you seek help and admit that you have had the notion of hurting yourself, your freedom is GONE.  Completely.  Shit, they even take away your clothes. 

They dress you up in maroon "look at me I'm nuts" pajamas and medicate you well beyond the "jello" state.  And once you get used to the medication, it's MANDATORY that you go to the day room for a few hours throughout the day.

Ah, the day room.  Where the old Vietnam vet is talking to himself whilst shuffling his slippered feet until he hits the wall, staggers back and repeats shuffling into the wall for hours.

The day room.  Where you're free to play checkers...  With yourself.

The day room.  Where the puzzles are all 100 pieces or less.

The day room.  Where the air smells like medicine, urine and feces.

The day room. Where the condescension from the staff runs rampant as they hand out plastic model kits of cars and airplanes that are not snap together. Oh, and don't even ask for glue because then, you know, they alert the doctor because they think you want it for huffing and not for its intended purpose. 

You're at their mercy and if they're having a bad day, you are too.  They look at you with their judgmental eyes not knowing what you've seen, what you've smelled, what you've caused. And as they stand there with relaxed yet guarded body language, you know in your heart that they have never done anything but take a few classes and a civil service test.  You hate them.

You hate them so much.  Your inner destructiveness turns to images and thoughts of knocking them down or holding them against the wall, wrapping your hand around their trachea and squeezing until the life in their eyes fades. You hate them until the newest round of mandatory meds kick in and you fall off into a subconscious fog.  Minutes, hours, days all go by without solid memory and it feels like time has betrayed you.

Once they feel comfortable enough to let you go, they then monitor EVERY aspect of your life.  Yup, you my friend are under the microscope and nothing is left to secrecy not even your finances as they tell you how and when to spend your money... For the rest of your life.

Freedom my ass!  Those Soviets had it good compared to us my friend.

I'm not free.  No sir, not me. I'm forever stuck in that god damned day room... the only difference is, it's in my mind now.  Every day I'm a prisoner to this sick, twisted, demented side effect of giving a shit and trying do something worthwhile.  My only crime is, I cared.

But there is one tiny sliver of "freedom" I have.  I am not incarcerated by the VA currently.  And I'll be god damned if I EVER allow them to lock me up again.  One tends to learn the "correct" responses to the questions they ask, even if its all a lie.  I've always been honest, it's the way I was raised.  But, the VA has made me into an outright liar at times.  I know exactly what they want to hear to keep me off that ward and out of the "real" day room.

I looked it up once...  The word "freedom".  But, I have a different definition than Webster.  Freedom is locking yourself up to keep others safe.  Freedom is within the safety of your own personal compound. The only thing that has changed in my mind is that it isn't me that I want to do harm to anymore. It's the stupidity that is allowed to openly graze upon the earth. 

Everyone is safe as long as I stay self-incarcerated in my own personal day room.  And they don't know how lucky they are.

I have...

I'm Chris and I have PTSD.  

Why the hell does that sound like I'm supposed to be ashamed of it?  Why does that feel like something I'd say after I lit a candle in front a group of others who are unwilling but remanded to be rehabilitated?

I didn't want to be this guy.  I didn't want to be the "crazy old vet down the street".  I didn't even want to be a vet yet.  I was a Combat Medic.  I was supposed to finish my career.  I was supposed to endure years and years of dry, poorly written correspondence courses.  I was supposed to add chapters to my training folder and make sure all the boxes were checked. I was supposed to keep my CEU's current.  I was supposed to add a third and fourth volume to my shot record.  I was supposed to set and wait for promotions and better than average TDY's.  I was supposed to mold the minds of my junior enlisted and make competent Medics and leaders out of them.  

I had never even given thought to "retirement".  No, not me.  I was in for the long haul. I was one of those guys that made sure the rank wasn't waiting on me.  I was the guy that knew the uniform reg down to the letter and was always fresh pressed and sharp.  I was the guy that came in early and left late.  I was the one that had discipline, drive and aspirations of one day being that jaded E-09 with the grizzled squint and the gruff voice that everyone feared and admired. Hell, I even had plans to commission and go on to Physicians Assistant training. 

None of this was in the cards I suppose. I was destined to be the one that shone brightly then burned out quick. The one that disappeared into obscurity.  The one that people in the unit would later ask "what ever happened to".  The one whose job ended up costing him more than just hard work.  The one who wasn't strong enough to get over the things he saw and did.   The one who got broken and couldn't be fixed.  The one that was discharged.

I don't know how much of the things I'll write about will help any of you.  But if just one person finds any comfort or help from the things I put into words, then it would have all been worth it.  I guess I'm predisposed to help in any capacity I can. Once a medic always a medic I guess.

I'm Chris and I have PTSD.