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.
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.
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.
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.
