Saturday, January 31, 2015

Fear, we all have them

Fears come in many shapes and sizes, when you have PTSD, fear is everywhere. Sometimes it's everything.

For me, my greatest fear is getting recalled or drafted. I know that may sound weird, let me explain. I enjoyed my service and would never give it up for anything. But when in a full blown episode my fears evolve into phobias. I have no rational reason as to why this would frighten me, but it does. During some of my more out of control episodes, I have been curled up in a ball. Crying my eyes out, muttering "I don't want to go back." Over and over again I would mutter this, I remember people asking me "Go back where?". I would have no answer for them only continuous mutterings as fears icy grip tightened.

When at rest, calm and clear headed, the thought of having to be in again does not frighten me, it does trigger a small amount of anxiety. Because I am happy where I am in life, and do not want it to change. But I am not affected by it like I am after I hear gunshots or even angry shouts of [Arabic, Kurdish].

Explosions and gunshots send a grown man to his knees crying. Yeah, I just admitted that and posted it online.

Putting words to that is another fear of mine, which is why I did it. I have a fear of those around me, judging me as a murderer or psychopath, but the truth is, I am just man with scars that leave me broken. I am just a man trying to work through things. Things that don't make sense, like how I almost punched a five-year-old girl for trying to play cops and robbers with me. A five-year-old pulled finger guns on me and I reached back and balled a fist back as I stepped into her pretend advance on me.

That is not normal, but I have realized that my fears have and may lead to situations that can not be fixed with a sorry. I am unable to say these things to people who ask "how was it over there?" Because the answer is scarier than you can imagine.

The truth is, it was a blast, it was what I was trained to do. It was what I was enlisted to do. I was a tool that was finally getting used as it should. I was riding a high the likes of which I had never experienced. Every day was an adrenaline rush.

But every night was the dreaded withdraw and the realization of the days work. My nights were somber, dark brooding feelings of shame and regret. My dreams were those of the days events playing before me again, and again. I lived each and every day more times than I can remember.

The shame I felt at night was washed away with the rise of the sun. Only to return, once again, with the setting of night.

Now when asked how it was, I simply reply as if I spent my days camping or backpacking across Europe. I tell them about all the sites I saw and all the food I tried. But never about the darkness, that is my cross to bare. And bare it I shall, whether the shrinks and doctors say I shouldn't I will bare it in my own way. Because the fear keeps that cross up even in the darkest times, because as fearful as I am to share it with other, I am more fearful of letting that cross kill me.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Relationships, I've ruined plenty

This is a hard topic to talk about, I have ruined several relationships. On darker days, I blame myself and tell myself it was doomed from the beginning.

But they weren't doomed, people with PTSD at times are not fully there, and those without are unable to grasp this notion. I know that it can be difficult for those that love and care for people afflicted with PTSD, they want nothing but to help, and comfort them. They want to give anything to make the people they love, whole again.

This is the hardest thing for me to understand, when having an episode. I feel like the emotional outcries of those around me are small and insignificant compared to horrors I know are happening right now, as you read this. I know that sounds harsh and cold hearted, but when I am in the firm grip of anxiety it makes sense and is the resounding truth of my life.

When I have calmed down, and my triggers are gone, I feel terrible for feeling that way. I become so emotionally dead I hurt those around me, and myself. PTSD affects all aspects of life, my emotions, fears, thoughts, and senses have all become liars. Liars to me, and to those around me. I am not weak for having PTSD, I am too strong because of it. I am unable to let go of my memories and my fears. Because of that I have hurt others, and for that, I am sorry.

But with each and every day I grow, and learn to love who I am once again. The lesson of letting others in is still being learned, but I am coming around.

I will not let this be the end of me, and I hope you do not either. Never give up hope, never give in, fight til you win.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Triggers: Not all are seen, or heard

Triggers are an odd topic, for each of us they can be anything, at any time.

Personally, my triggers are sounds, sights, and smells. My hearing is damaged so hearing is both the easiest to deal with, and the most troublesome of my trigger.

I can still tell the difference between a gunshot and a backfiring muffler. But when I am with someone, I have issues decoding what they are saying from the muddled muffle sounds they make as they talk. Kind of like in Charlie Brown whenever parents or teachers spoke.

For me, things like music therapy or guided meditation don't work because I can't hear as well as I once was able to. But when triggers are present, shouting, shooting, even grinding noises will trigger memories. When that happens I am gone, I am back there.

Music has lost its luster, even the songs I once loved are muffled and drowned out. But when those triggers come, I can hear it all again. The shouting, the gunfire, the vehicle breaks, bolts slamming into place. the ring of brass as it lands on the rocks below.

I say it's the easiest to deal with because of my impairment, at times I can force myself to ignore the triggers. Other times I am unable to focus on anything else because those sounds are so clear. The sounds that trigger my episodes are more than just sounds, they induce a sense of panic, and my entire body becomes alert and on edge. I instantly feel the air rushing past my face, my hands feel the grime and sweat of the day's work. My hairs stand on end, and my vision blurs to the point of almost tunnel vision.

All those sensations add to the first trigger and set off more. Like a daisy chain of an IED, first there's a loud bang, then reflections from nearby lights dance across my vision, my skin becomes too tight for my own body, and I am spirited away.

I will not lie and say I am scared of this transition, on some level I love it. Because as scary as it is, I know I am going back to where it all makes sense. I am going back to where life is black and white, I am going back to where I feel most at home. I am going back to where I never left.





#combatptsd #ptsd #combatptsdvideo #military #veterans #vets #mentalhealth #mentalillness

Sunday, January 25, 2015

I am a broken man, on the mend

This is a way for me to talk about the things that have shaped who I am today.

I am broken, fractured. My mind is not what it once was, it was my sanctuary. Now it is my prison. I am chained to memories I can not break free from. I live in fear, fear of being weak, fear of being cornered, fear of being forced to do the things I hate myself for. Forced not by the hands of man, but by those that would use my sense of duty, and honor against me, to fight their wars.

I am weighed down by the things I can no longer do, images, events, even phrases will set me off. I have hurt people I love, and alienated those who once loved me. I have ruined a marriage and lost family members.

I would like to say I am sorry but is sorry truly the right word?

How does one apologize for actions they committed, but they were not in their right state of mind?

When I have episodes, I am not myself. I am not "here" anymore. I am instantly transported back to the time that I was forever changed.

Iraq.

I can feel the heat of the sun on my skin and the scratch of sand across my face. I can feel the weight of my gear once again, I can feel the flat polymer of the hand guard of my weapon. I know it isn't there because I know I am not there. But every sense, every feeling is telling me that I am. My hands ache because I can feel the hand guard in my hand, but I can't sense the weight of it. My hands grasp at air, and desperately trying to free themselves of the feeling of something so real yet not there.

My patience becomes nonexistent, not because I don't love the ones around me, but because I am living in two worlds, at to different times. One of peace, and one of the split second decisions, no time for questions, just obey or give orders.

How does one apologize for this? Is this even something you can say sorry for?

For a long time, I was angry and wanted "THEM" to apologize to me. For a long time, I felt like a chunk of my brain had been removed, and the person I once was, was no more. The part of me, everyone liked, and remembered, carried off in a mason jar, and stored in some evil person office so they could watch all the lives they had destroyed. For a long time, I was angry. Angry at the world, angry at my wife. Angry at my family, all of them so damn happy all the time. Not knowing what I knew, never having seen what I saw.

But all the time asking, "So What is it like over there?"

You reply with something, humdrum. "Oh, you know, not bad, there's a lot of sand."

Something evasive, and obvious. Something to make light of the subject matter at hand. Something to remind yourself that they don't really want to hear what it is really like. Because you know what it is really like, and you don't want to know. That something is enough to make the trigger go away. Well, temporarily because you may have fooled them. But the one closest to you isn't fooled.

They'll be back later with a backhoe, ready to dig into that subject til you explode.

And explode you do, on them, and everything you and they love and hold dear. They say they want you home, cause you never came back from there. And you try to understand that, but you can't cause you remember the flight back, you remember walking off the plane and seeing everyone, you remember leaving and coming back and your wife was swollen. You remember having to put your bags down, so you wrap your arms around her cause when you last saw her she wasn't ten month pregnant. You remember coming home.
She swears you're not, everything inside of you wants to be home, you want to be home. Then you start to think, what if I am not home? You lose your foundation you were holding on to the fact you'd come home, it held you here.

You lose yourself.

You make mistakes, and hurt people.

You say you're sorry. But sorry doesn't fix it.

So is sorry enough, or even the right thing to say? I don't know.

But I know this, I am a broken man, on a journey to find out. I did not ask to be this way, but I will stand tall and proud. Because my body may be broken, my mind may be fractured, but I know my spirit is still whole, and as long as I have that, no enemy foreign or domestic will stand before me, and what I want.

So demon deep within, darkness that invades my thoughts, and memories I can not be rid of, watch out. I am coming for you, you are my enemy.

I am stronger than you.