Saturday, February 28, 2015

Visions of Madness

For the longest time, I thought madness was creeping up on me, stealing my sanity bit by bit. Because of my past, gunfire, and explosions are my biggest triggers. I tried for the longest time to carry on as if nothing had changed as if I were the same old person I was before.

I went to the range, I watched military movies, I carried on. But it became harder and harder to hide my sanity siphoning out of me. Over time, I would lash out, at those who loved me. I still do that, even though I do not mean to.

Every trigger brought with it ghosts. Ghosts of my past, of my nightmares, of my dark secret. I refused to admit anything was wrong, and I refused to admit that I saw them. Men fully locked and loaded, taps on my shoulder letting me know my fire team was stacked and ready.

A door slams, I'm there, a door gets kicked in and the room is cleared.

A gun is fired, I'm there, my Captain is yelling at me to keep my eyes on the road I didn't know was there. I'm leading a convoy again.

A car backfires, I am there once again, the alleyway leads up on both sides. Three stories up, the sky is a soft tan, a sandstorm is coming. Dark fabric keeps jutting in and out over the edge of the roof.

A small child cries, I am back again checking in, a small girl no more than 15 is lying in the gutter. Shards of glass ripped through her face, an ungodly moan escapes her mouth as she chokes on blood.

A balloon pops, and I am back once more. Running from my chu (Containerized Housing Unit), in nothing but boots, underwear, and a helmet with my weapon at the ready.

All of this I hide for years, til I broke. I feared that the world I was watching was not reality. It couldn't be, there was no way. How could a four-year-old girl send me back to Iraq with just her tears? How could a day at the ranges lead to all that blood again?

I was losing my mind, and instead of getting help, I hid it. And lost my family. My friends. My sanity.

If you have, or someone you know has PTSD, get help. If you THINK you have it, get help.

I am still struggling with the visions. I live with the ghosts even to this day. I see them, they know I do, but I am finding a way to combat them. Day by day, they are sensing this and leaving little by little.


Friday, February 27, 2015

Night terrors

I have put off talking about Night Terrors, simply because if you've ever had them or spoken with someone who has then you know. You know the fear that is in the eyes of those who have lived through something like that.

There is a huge difference between nightmares and night terrors.

Nightmare's no matter how scary are still just dreams. I have and have had some pretty wicked scary dreams. Dreams so intense I am awoken covered in sheets of my own sweat. Dreams so terrifying I am wiping tears away from my bloodshot eyes.  But I am able to push them aside after I have woken. I am able to carry on, and go back to sleep. Most nights.

Night Terrors, now that's a whole different bag of tricks. Night terrors are not nightmares, and there is no waking from them.

The first night I realized I wasn't having a nightmare was eight years ago. I shared a room with a good friend. I had my side and he had his, we had our furniture stacked in the middle, like a makeshift wall. It was a quiet night, I had fallen asleep, and as usual the nightmares came on as soon as I fell asleep. But this time was different, I woke up. The nightmare played across my vision, and slowly faded. Now blurred images of shadowy figures played across the canvas of my vision. I saw my room, I saw the painted white stone of the walls, I saw the light oak furniture forming the great wall in my new prison. I saw the hallway that lead to the bathroom. I saw what time it was, 11:23 pm, I will never forget that. The longest minute of my life.

The shadows danced, and ran across my vision, never escaping the confines of the surfaces around me. I lunged at them, trying with all my might to find something that was real. Anything solid and tangible was what I needed.

I did not find it.

My arms would not move, my legs did not shift. My voice was lost to me. I could not run, I could not cry for help. I was paralysed in my own body, my eyes saw all, my body responded to nothing. The shadows danced faster and faster as my panic and frustration grew. They began to scratch at me, clawing my flesh, poking at my eyes. Tears ran down my faces, blood trickled down my chest. my breathing quickened, and I saw a ray of hope. In that ray, I realized I could clinch my lips and breathe how I wanted.

I had to call for help, I was trapped, and they were attacking me. I couldn't fight for myself I needed help.

I inhaled.

and Inhaled.

I pushed my lips together and forced all the air out of my lungs at once.

"BUUUuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhssss"

I heard the rustling of my roommate.

I inhaled again, and again.

Inhale, force is out, inhale.

Over and over I repeated this, more and more desperation fueled me, pain radiated across my chest and down into my lungs. I was going to hyperventilate soon, I knew it. My back arched, I felt my head dig into my mattress, springs pressing against my scalp, digging in. My heels pressed down, now in full possession pose my body refused to respond and wake up. One last time, I inhaled and with everything I had I called out my roommates name.

"BOOOOOOOOSSSSSS!!!"

I did it, I had called for help, and he came running. He saw me and pushed my solid body causing me to topple.

Bouncing, I regained control of my body. Now fully awake, I saw the room the way it was meant to be seen; shadowy, figure free. The lights came on and took time to regain myself, I explained what had happened, and why my roommate was called upon. I tried to explain that the shadows had cut me, and he interrupted me.

"You are bleeding, across your chest."

I looked down and realized I had been fighting so hard against the shadows that I had dug into, and cut my own skin. Blood was caked under my nails, chunks of skin balled up in my cuts, and between my fingers.

That is a night terror. That may or may not be typical, but nightmares, I can handle. Nightmares I welcome you, any time, any places. Bring it.

Night Terrors... Go F*&K Yourself!



Wednesday, February 25, 2015

I am now a spectator.

On the days that I struggle, I question myself and ask myself: What have I done, in this life? What horrors have I committed? What nightmares have I brought to this world?

On the darker days, I am reminded of all the things I have done that weigh on me. On the darker days, those are the days when my vision is clouded with blood and screaming faces. Those are the days when waking nightmares and flashbacks are one and the same.

But there is hope since I have started writing, I am able to distance myself. I am able to objectively examine myself and my past. Writing has enabled me to create a 'space' if you will, room for me to breathe. Room for me to breathe and think things through.

There are still dark days, but there are moments of clarity moments where I am no longer an actor in a memory I can not shake. I can now take on the role of the critic, in a theater full of readers of this blog. Watching the way, the words of my past weave themselves into feelings and fears and all of the things I tried to hide for so long.

I am no longer a slave to the nightmares, I am now the curator in the museum of my darkest secrets. But this museum still comes alive on the darkest days. When that happens I write, and I write. I use the words, I am unable to speak, to combat the exhibits of my personal prison.

I know times will be hard, and I will not always find the words, but I know that there are others out there fighting the same fight as I. As curator I can not let my exhibits dictate my story. I must be the one to weave the tale of the exhibits of my shadows into the epic that I know it is, will be. For someday, peace will find us, still here, still writing. My demons and I are one, and our story has yet to begin.


Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Never let it win.

First off, I would like to apologize for not posting yesterday. Ok, now that that is out of the way, why didn't I post?

It is beyond tiring some days, to prepare my mind, body and soul for what it takes to write about PTSD.  It is painful, as anyone with PTSD, can tell you. PTSD hurts physically, emotionally, and mentally every episode can be different, but they all leave us worn out and tired. To spend time dwelling on it, is like inviting it into your life. To relive those moments again, and again. It becomes all too real. Fighting those demons, defending my sanity from those sweet moments of insanity.

All of that while trying to connect with people who truly understand what it is like to be affected by PTSD. All the while trying to find the right words for those that suffer beside us, letting them know we really do care and love you. It is hard to struggle with one's demons and pour your soul out for the world to point at and examine. It takes a lot out of you to write about PTSD knowing that all it will take is a future employer to google my name and read all of my 'dirty laundry'.

Sometimes it all just enough to make you want to walk away. But I can't.

The same people who I rely on, rely on me to work through this. And so I write and heal. The nights I do not, are the nights that the battle is just too much. That the reality of it all is just too much, and I want to run. But I gave my word, and I can not betray that trust. And so I write, I write for my sanity and my life.

I write so that some day I can say "I beat that". I may never win this war, but I know that every battle I do win, is one that PTSD does not. There will be days when my spirit is broken, there may even be days where I feel as though I can not carry one, but I will. I will carry on because I can not, will not let PTSD win.

Never let PTSD win, together we can win.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

There is darkness in the world

In 2006, I was stationed in South Korea, I had developed an unhealthy drinking problem. And would frequently venture out alone to drink. By this time I had begun to show signs of depression, I was moody, I had thoughts of hurting myself and others. The alcohol was my way of escaping Korea.

I would drink away my day, I would drink til I forgot. Forgot everything. I would drink to kill the feelings I had. I would drink to silence all of the sadness and pain I saw around me.

In S.Korea, there is a common practice, it is a depressing display of humanity. There are women who are "hired" from other countries, they are brought to S.Korea and forced to work off the debt of their family members. When the women arrive, their papers are taken, they are made to work in bars and clubs as 'drinkie girls'. The scam is simple if you want to talk to the girls, you buy them a drink and you buy yourself a drink. After a set amount of time, you have to buy her another drink. And then another and another. When you run out of money the girls are sent to someone else who does have money.

The scam goes on and on all night long. The girls spend the night drinking juice at 10 dollars a glass. Hopping from guy to guy, trying to pay off their families debt. A father so morally bankrupt that he would sell his own daughter to a bar owner in a different country. A country so corrupt that this practice is legalized. Men so callous and jaded that the knowledge of this practice does nothing to chink away at their cold hearts.

I would walk the streets, drinking, smoking, cursing the world. I was a nineteen-year-old Holden Caulfield, and I hated the Catcher in the Rye. Through all of my walking, and hating I would wonder the masses of debauchery and sickness. Every night I would find myself in a new circle of nightmares.

From taxi drivers trying to get you to get some "boom boom", to random factories full of children chained to desks sewing the wallets we buy in Wal-Mart. From Bestiality to carrying IV bags in your backpack so you can hydrate before you show up for morning formation. I would drink to make it all go away.

I would drink anything to make it all disappear.

I was alone, no one else could see the filth that fertilized my disgust with my own life.

These are the memories that haunt me, these are the memories that will not leave me. The late nights full of broken souls, tears behind eyes that I can never forget.

I have stared into the eyes of a sex slave and felt my own humanity crumble, no longer able to support its own crushing weight in the absence of my broken heart.

I have looked upon the child slaves of this world and felt the missing joy of stolen childhoods.

I have drank to kill the pain of broken families, and crooked fathers and heartless mothers.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

A dear friend of mine shares his story.


As a way of helping people, and some friends of mine, I reached out to my buddies who I knew had PTSD as well. I asked them to write up a short description of the most memorable episodes they had, and if they were willing write about the event that caused PTSD. Here is one of my best and closest friends first step in joining the battle. 


Friend's Email to me:


The start of my PTSD:

I remember it like most people remember their fondest memories. The happiness, love and warm feelings are replaced with pain, fear, and loneliness. My first week in Iraq was a quiet one, almost too quiet. 

You could have cut the tension of the impending first attack with a knife, then it hit. Mortar and small arms fire crackled in the near distance, the unmistakable deep thud of mortars hitting the ground and the snapping crack of 7.62 rounds echoing in the air. That unmistakable incoming alarm that never leaves your head. It will forever be with me. It may have only lasted 30 seconds, but felt like a lifetime. 

My most memorable episode:

Saying 'goodbye' to my wife as she left for work, I went to brew some coffee. Tired from the sleepless night before, I sat on the couch waiting for the coffee. I passed out. Sometime later, forgetting her phone in the house, my wife comes crashing through the door, I jumped up and leaped off the couch. In one smooth motion, I swept up a knife from the kitchen and shut the lights off, without pause I ran down the hallway screaming. Obscenities and threats flew out of me, things like "I'm going to fucking kill you" and I almost did kill. The only thing stopping me was my wife. She screamed for her life, "It's me, IT'S ME! STOP!", looking up I saw my wife's face covered in fear, small rivers pouring out of her eyes, I dropped the knife and immediately broke down. 

What kind of a monster had I become? 

What dark force had such power over me, that I couldn't control myself? 

It was as if someone or something had taken the reigns, I was but marionette in the hands of something greater than myself. My wife stood over the man she thought was her husband, breathing heavily, still crying asking, "what's wrong? what just happened?" I couldn't put it into words or begin to describe to her what it was that I had just been through, what I had just felt.

PTSD destroyed me and my marriage. Even the strongest of marriages can only put up with waking up to their husbands or wives, choking them in their sleep, for so long. She could only deal with so many angry outbursts, so many missed family events and so much distance created to protect themselves from the monster they were married to. I got help, but it was too late, she was gone. She couldn't take it anymore

Losing my wife was the worst thing, this monster has done to me. 

Time can not heal this wound

My father told me the other day, "The further away you get the easier it is to deal with". I wish this were true.

Many people who do not have PTSD believe that with counseling, medication, and time that PTSD will 'work itself out", or "pass" like all things do with time.

If this were so, it would have been something that Vietnam veterans would have been sitting around having a drink, joking about it. But they aren't. No one with PTSD jokes about it. PTSD isn't a storm that will pass, it is a something that comes on, and never leaves. It may quiet down, but the cloudy skies never leave. I have had PTSD for over two years now, and have just now taken steps to battle this. Others have had this since before it was called 'shell shock', decades they have suffered, and fought. Some losing and some carrying on. But very few have won this battle.

If PTSD were a storm that passes, I would have moved to the tropics along time ago where no storm could follow. If PTSD were a wound that healed with time, I would not have started this blog, to help myself, and others. If PTSD were to be healed with time there would be a cure.

To those that know this all too well, I salute you. I honor your struggle. Whether it was war or the evil in the world that set you down the path that PTSD forces us, I salute you. Together we win, together we suffer, and together we fight.

Time may not heal this wound, but together we can.

Friday, February 20, 2015

PTSD and Stability

I frequent forums and feeds of people and organizations that help others with PTSD. I chat in rooms for those venting, ranting and searching for a shoulder to rest on. We all have had a singular (or multiple) event(s) that have altered our very lives. The way we think, the way we live, and the way we interact with the world.

We are searching for one thing, not to be 'cured' some of us don't even realize we have PTSD. Most of us are searching for Stability. If we use the analogy that life is a river, those of us with PTSD are searching for that log that floats down the river. It may bounce around, and even roll a few times. But it is solid ground, with which to plant our roots.

My worst days, come and go when things in life take a turn for the worse. When I can't pay my rent, or I am coming up to an end of a contract, for work. Contractor work is terrible. When huge things start to happen, and I start to lose my footing, that is when PTSD starts to make a move. I become paranoid that there is a grand orchestrator planning my demise. I feel the 'hyper-vigilance' go into hyper drive. I feel depression's tide roll in, and my head begin to dip, under the sea of pressure.

When things are stable, I am able to rationalize things. I am able to tell myself that the fears I have of being followed, and watched are not real. I am able to ignore my need to watch if vehicles are following me. When things are stable I am no longer thinking of buying a gun, for those late night raids, that might happen, on my house. When things are stable, I do not have to check the doors late at night.

Stability comes in many forms and is different for many people. Some need a daily routine, some need a full-time job, some just need to know that when they get home they aren't going to be alone. Our goal should be to find a support system so that we can begin the search for stability. Then and only then can we begin the healing process.

Hypocritical, I know. I have not yet healed or found complete stability. But I honestly believe that life is a journey, it doesn't matter where you are going, or when you'll get there. Just that you are going, it's the going that matters. It's the search, and the journey that matters. As long as you are on the path, then you have already won. 


Thursday, February 19, 2015

Awesome Band, with an awesome message.

Great Band, Five Finger Death Punch, and a great song for out troops. At home and abroad. For our enlisted, commissioned, and veterans.


It's time to live life.

On the dark days of PTSD, it is hard to find the good in life. Because you are reminded of all the darkness in the world. That is the true binding factor of all those who suffer from PTSD, we know what the true darkness of the world looks, feels, smells, and tastes like.

On the darkest of days when PTSD is at its strongest, you literally can feel, smell, see, and taste the memories. That is the hardest part, I think, for people to understand. That a memory can be so strong that you are sucked back into it and relive it again. Over and over.

In my own life, I have come up with a method of battling these memories. These memories of insurmountable strength. If a memory can make itself so powerful that it alters my life forever. Then I can make my life so powerful that memories are made to battle the nightmares.

I know that this may sound crazy, but for most of my life I have understood that the universe seeks balance. Male to female. Cats to Dogs. Land to water. Positive to Negative. I can go on for days. But you get the point. So why can't I do the same in my life? If life has dealt me a hand that has left scars, why can't I get a 'tattoo' of life to balance those scars?

Well, we can, people with PTSD have very similar symptoms, anxiety, avoidance, mood swings etc. If we know we avoid things that used to make us happy, we have to power through that and live life to the fullest. I am still fighting this part about myself. And some days I am losing.

But I have good news, this does work. On my worst days, I focus on all of the amazing things I have accomplished in life. I have meditated in caves, high in the mountains of Asia, with monks. I have travelled the world, and seen and eat things I can't even describe. I have had complete badass Rambo moments, firing 10,000 rounds out of a .50 Cal machine gun in a raging tsunami causing a mudslide. I have written books, and articles that have been read the world over. I have sold art, MY art across Europe.

These things are not meant to brag, they are my anchors. I am not even 30 yet, and I have experienced life. And I have found it to be good. These are the things I hold on to, to remind me that life is good and worth living. The millions of people I have met in my short life are the chains that I hold on to in the darkest of times.

Do not give up hope, do not go silently into the night. Do not accept your past or your fears. Those are the demons that keep you from living. To fight PTSD is to live life, to stop yourself from being your worst enemy. Bad stuff happens in life, but good stuff does too. Make sure you have more good stuff in your life to shut those voices of doubt up.

Together we can win, and together we can live life. 

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Today is a dark day

Today I woke up and everything went wrong, the day started off horrible. Seven hours later it's still just as terrible. 

Today is one of those days you wish you could wash away from the pages of history. But would settle with watching the world burn to ashes around. As B.B. King sings, 'the thrill is gone', so is the thrill I once possessed for life, and this world. I am trying to remember the good things, but it is difficult today. 

There are no clouds in the sky today, but there is no sun for me either. I see no light ahead, no way out. I have been here before, I know the drill. I know the mantle I must dawn. If I am to survive I must plaster the fake smile across my lips. I must spray tan that little glitter in my eye so none can see the darkness swelling within. I must prepare the auto replies of "I am so happy today" or "Yea I'm ok, are you?"

Anything and everything will become my weapon to hide the darkness, my words, my actions, my movements. All will be used to redirect and deflect attention away from the demons within. Because even if they are my demons, and I fight them alone, I am fighting them for those around me. They can not, will not know of the pain and suffering I keep at bay. 

Yes, today is a dark day indeed. It is time I dawned my armor, for the fight will be long and hard, I can feel it. I have been happy for far too long. It is time I paid for that happiness. Like warriors of old I will charge forth into battle, my survival is of my own making. 

No demons may stay too long in these halls. No darkness may call this place home. I know that they will come and go, and I will be at peace for some time, followed by fighting once again. But I refuse to allow them any quarter in this life or the next. 

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

I am not Ahab, but I killed my whale.

I served in the army for just about 6 years, I say just about because there was a break in service. Then I was recalled. In between 2005 and 2012, I was in the army three times. I also do not remember large chunks of my service.

I did not receive any sort of TBI(traumatic brain injury) or anything. I did not experience blackouts (in the normal sense of that word), I did, however, have a drinking problem. And a drug problem. My time in the army was full of pain.

I spent my days, in anguish, both physical, and emotional. Both self-inflicted, and exterior. I drank away the pain and memories. I popped pills to numb the tired bones. And I ran lines so I could run a mile. I did everything I could to escape my prison of pain.

My day would consist of waking up at 0500, that gave me an hour before PT, to shower, get my buzz going, and pop whichever pain pill was on the menu. And dry shave, because if you've ever dry shaved slightly drunk and pills revving their engines in your veins than you know how that feels. By 0545, I was standing in formation, pills hitting hard, a few cigarettes on my breath to cover the remaining scent of alcohol. Drinking mouthwash and chewing gum didn't always work.

I hated the cattle wrangling, and the formations, and the nice neat little lines. I hated the cold wind on my razor burnt face, I hated the fact we had to get up early... and run. Now I am not lazy and I don't mind a good run in the morning. But when you're hung over, starting your drunk all over again, and slightly high the last thing in the world you want to do is play sing-along while running in little rows of nice neat soldiers.

The drugs and alcohol fueled my hatred and frustration with everything around me. I used them to cope with everything and everyone. Without them, I would have snapped and ruined my life. So I took all the pent up emotions, and pain and resentment and I funneled them into a bottle. Glass, or stuffed with cotton. I grew cold and hard. I hated people on levels I am not even sure exist in this realm. Through it all, I thought all I had was my drink and my pills.

So for six long years, there are blocks of time that when I think back. Well, all  I can remember are the pills, and booze. I can't remember the loose women or fellow soldiers, or even the good times. If there were any. All I can remember is the pain and suffering I felt, and everything I did to drown out a fish that was more than happy to grow in the oceans I consumed.

I was tossing bottle and after bottle of painkillers, and narcotics feeding the whale of my eventual demise. I was drinking in oceans of alcohol trying to drown, a fish in the sea. I was the living proof of insanity is an exercise in futility.

All the while I hid this from anyone who could save me, from anyone who could have helped. No one knew who I was, the emotional wreck, the hedonist, the sadist. No one knew the real me.

Even I was oblivious as to who I really was. I still am I suppose, but I am learning.

Monday, February 16, 2015

Run away

One of the major symptoms and signs of PTSD is avoidance. Avoidance of memories, situations, etc. I have had my fair share of avoidance moments and periods in my life. Evan now as I write this I am avoiding the truth. Avoidance is a kind word, the truth is, I ran away and I ran away hard and fast.

I have ran away from things that I can no longer process or deal with, that I was once able to. I used to be able to deal with people, and the way they can be. I used to be able to deal with my family, and the particular and peculiar way they are. I am no longer able to, the frustration and anxiety is far too great.

It is hard to tell the ones you love that everything they do is rubbing you the wrong way. How they are is enough to trigger something deep inside that makes you want to yell and scream and fight. It's hard, for them to understand how you have changed how you aren't the same person they once knew. It's hard to express how they used to make you smile, but now you want to run away and brood.

And so instead of breaking the hearts of those you love, you disappear, and you run. You run and you run, and you run. You run til that is all you know, you run when you don't need to. You leave a trail of broken and battered piece of a life you wish you had back but are no longer able to reclaim.

The avoidance turns to isolation and isolation turn to desperation. Desperation leads to destruction and your world crumbles. You run, again. It's a cycle that repeats itself over and over again. The more you try to fix things the more you are tossed into situations you can't possibly handle. Then the running starts again, and your world collapses again.

When running becomes too great of a stressor for you, you explode and hurt everyone around you. Then the depression and self-hatred sets in. Once again you find yourself on a road you want nothing to do with, that leads to your own demise. So you disappear once more. You go missing, and the world forgets about you. Leaving you behind.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

What the VA learned from Povlov

If anyone has dealt with the VA you know the agonizing speed at which they get ANYTHING done. This efficiency that the VA claims to have is the root of a lot of veterans issue, I hear all too often: Why go to the VA they aren't going to do anything for me? And if they do, do anything, it'll take forever and they'll just jerk me around.

This deep rooted failure, and expectation of failure from the VA has lead myself, and others to either do nothing or seek care elsewhere. The private sector is not very different, the process is slow and laborious. Mostly because of the go-between, between the VA and your private health care provider. This process whether through the VA or your own care provider is mind-numbingly painful.

Having gone through this process more than once, I have developed a crippling doubt. The very thought of trying to get help, or the idea that help is available to me is enough to incite a fear and depression so great that I am frozen for hours.

Today in fact was one of those days, I had plans to go to the American Legion (http://www.legion.org/). I got up early, I got dressed, and grabbed my keys, I prepared to leave and the fear struck. I could not move, I could do nothing. Thoughts of doubt, endless fighting and making no ground made me want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

So many times I have built up the courage to start the process to get help, and too many times I have been defeated by the red tape. Too many times have I been told that I have to wait and see what happens, too many times have I sat there in the waiting room to be poked and prodded. Made to prove that I served this country because the VA had no records of my service.

Like Pavlov's dogs, I have been trained with endless defeat to fear the battle for help and to give up prematurely. Like a failed Russian experiment, I have been tortured into believing the lie that is VA healthcare, in hopes that my will and the will of the human spirit can be tested.

This is the seed of my crippling defeat. I will continue to fight, but that is because I have been conditioned to be defeated. I have been trained to enjoy the pain and suffering that is the search for help.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

The fear of stigma

I can only assume, due to the many talks I have had with PTSD suffers, that we all face an over barring fear.

Not the fear we deal with every day, the fear we get from the constant stream of ill-directed stigma. The fear we have that as we sit across from an interviewer that the think we are going to "go postal". Many a time I have sat across from those stone-faced questioners, everything was going fine, the walls were coming down, and I was making a connection. Then the questions started about my service and they lead to PTSD, that is when I was presented with a choice: Lie and have to keep my lie a secret, or do what is right, and be honest.

I am a TERRIBLE liar, so honesty is the path I take. And that is when the looks are exchanged. They think they are being slick with it. But they aren't, I see it. The looks exchanged between them, saying "can he be trusted not to snap", "not to kill us all when he goes crazy". That is the moment I wish I had the strength to get up and walk away, ending the interview on my terms instead of continuing the farce. I know as soon as those looks are shot around that I will no longer hear from them.

Too many companies interview veterans in hopes of getting those veteran tax cuts, and then use PTSD as a way of justifying their prejudices against something they know very little about. If anything at all. It is not right, it is unfair to those who do not have PTSD, and it is wrong, for those with it. Both groups of people are affected different, and equally. 

The fear of this prejudices is debilitating for some of us, it turns a college educated, skilled IT technician like me forget everything I have spent the last six years learning. I am literally unable to remember what jobs I've had, or how to troubleshoot a router. I know my job, I know my trade, and I am good at it. But what I am not good at is dealing with the stigma that is put on people like me. I am not a danger to you or your precious corporation. I am not a tax credit, I am not a safety hazard. I am a human being that has, and will continue to survive through tragedy because I am strong.

Do not look upon me with pity or guilt, or that sparkle of opportunity at saving a few dollars every year. Look at me like you would anyone else, look at me as if you had never met me before and have no preconceived notion of me or what I am.

I am just like you. Human, and I deserve to be treated as such, with the same respect and dignity that I bestow to you.  

Friday, February 13, 2015

This grinds my gears.

There are very few topics that truly get under my skin, but one in particular hits home, and grinds away at me.

The notion that people with PTSD are violent. Several studies have concluded that (we) are not. 

VA: http://goo.gl/vDFjP1
Police: http://goo.gl/wnQjx8

And so on...

PTSD does not make you violent, that's ridiculous. That's like saying being robbed makes you a thief. PTSD is caused by violence, it does not create it. In fact in some case studies it has been found that people with PTSD are LESS prone to violence because of the traumatic experiences they lived through. 

I am not, nor have I been a violent person. Before and after PTSD I am an advocate for non-violent conflict resolution. There is no one in this world I wish harm on, no one. I know that sounds crazy. 

But what about Kony? And that other fad that is burning through the interwebs any given day? 

Nope. And I'll tell you why, violence sows more violence. I can not condone that, or any other violent act when I myself have experienced such atrocities. Now I know some of you may be the "if they killed someone they should die" or "if they raped someone they should know how it feels" kind of people. 

An eye for an eye. I get it. I truly do. 

But that kind of thinking does not fix the problem, it doubles it. Cause now instead of one weirdo doing God knows what, we now have one weirdo doing it, and a system that is perpetuating it. 

That being said, that does not mean I am against the death penalty. That just means that I want no part in it. 

PTSD has made me see that violence is not only a destructive force, but a creative force as well. PTSD has created a whole slew of issues that I deal with on a daily, if not hourly basis. I do not, nor will I ever wish violence upon anyone. I truly believe that if we are to address issues with PTSD and violence, we have to stop the spread of it in our own lives first. That is why I say "I do not wish harm upon anyone", to cultivate thoughts of violence upon others is to internally say it is ok for violence to exist. 

I do not mean to change anyone's opinion, or start an argument. I am stating all of this because, as someone who is fighting the effects of violence every day, I find it highly offensive that you would think for a single second that I would wish harm upon another human being. 

Monsters hurt people. People do not. And I am no monster. 

Service animals

I am not a dog or cat, or rat or bat kind of person. I am not a fan of animals, in general. They just aren't my thing. I do not think they are cute or whatever word you use to describe you pet. Nothing against them, I am sure you love them dearly.

That being said, I have a confession to make. I truly believe service animals for people with PTSD works. And works amazingly.

Three weeks ago, it was 5am in the morning, and I was asleep. My girlfriend had left for work and returned less than 5 mins later.

"Baaaaaaaaaaaaby" - GF(Girl Friend)
"hmph, what?" -Me (not a morning person)
"bebe (pronounce Bee Bee, you know in that GF voice when they want something and they know you'll say no), there's this little puppy out in the rain, and it won't leave me alone."
"Ok, have a good day at work... zzzzzzzzz"
"No, bebe it's raining and cold, and wet, and she's starving."
"Ok fine, bring her in here and get her a bowl of water."

Next thing I know I have a 10 pound cocker spaniel puppy wrapped up in a blanket in my arms and I'm half asleep petting it, trying to get her to stop shaking.

Flash forward three weeks, every night as I write in my blogs to work through all of my fears anxieties, paranoias and issues. There's BB(it's a little jab at the GF for waking me up with her GF voice) sitting at my feet waiting for me to finish. When I am done, there she is, paws on my leg staring at me. She won't leave me alone until I tell her I am ok. Everything I have written so far has caused me mild panic attacks. I have even had an episode where I checked out. BB can somehow sense it and refuses to leave me alone til I scratch all of her favorite spots. Then she props her paws up on my leg and stares at me. That is when I know I have to tell her "Thank you BB, I am ok." if I am not she starts the petting session all over. And does this til I promise that I am ok.

As much as I try to post, some days it is harder to do, because of the fears piling up. But BB sits there at my feet, and when it gets truly bad she is the first to nudge me and bring me back. Her weird little bed head rubbing on my arm bringing me back. Her cold nose being that little spark of shock I need to spur my flight back home. And when I am back, she knows it first.

After each post I write, I take her outside, and we relax. She goes does her thing, and comes back and checks on me. Then goes off again. Her mild temper, and relax attitude is just enough for me to say this: I enjoy my dog. She is receptive, and calming. And my little friend.

I do not care what studies people do to try and justify the use of service dogs. I can just tell you, that for me, my dog is my service dog, and she has been there when things got dark, and she lead me back to the light. She found us, and she continues to lead me home.

I can honestly say that without the promise I made to my GF, and BB being my personal emotional first responder all of this would have died out before it began. I am still not a dog person or a cat person, or anything with four legs and fur kind of person. But I am a ladies man, and to my two special ladies, I thank you for pushing me, and pulling me back when I have gone off the deep end.




Wednesday, February 11, 2015

I just wanted to build furniture.

Upon my return, I was unable to drive. I remember leaving the airport, and my wife at the time drove me home, she rambled on and on in her own way about all the things she had planned and the things I had missed. I remember tuning her out, without even trying. I should have caught on then, but I didn't. I saw all the cars passing us, I saw buildings I had never seen before and missed ones that had always been there.

Here in San Diego we have a radio show that I had listened to since I was a kid. The DSC (Dave, Shelley, and Chainsaw http://goo.gl/h7hm2C). I woke up the next day, day one of my return, at 0500. I made myself something to eat and turn the radio on, I needed to find my routine. I needed to break the year long cycle of Iraq. I hadn't realized it yet, but I already wanted my life back before a year had been stolen from me. Before my life and my mind would forever be altered. I wanted it, whatever it was, I needed it back. I scanned the radio for the familiar chatter and banter of the familiar. I searched for the deep resonating voice of my past. The chatter and clatter of humor once there. I searched for Ruth. But could not find it.

It was one more thing that had changed. One more disappointment.

Frustrated I set to the chores I had been given, we had a lot to do in preparation for the little one on the way. I set to putting together furniture, shelves, and the like. We ended up being a few pieces short, so a trip to home depot was in the works. I grabbed the keys and shouted to the other room that I was headed out.

I locked the door behind me and walked to the car. I raised the fob and turned the alarm off.

<BEEP-BEEP>

My heart stopped, knees buckled. Right hand to my heart, left grasping the ground beneath as if life its self depended on it being real. My vision faltered, and my hearing rang with a ringing that has never left. Determination and rage fueled my recovery, I was not yet ready to admit that I had a problem. I stood and walked on, I reached for the door and swung it open, taking my place in the front seat.

And sat there.

And sat there.

And sat there.

I remember a hand touching my shoulder, and I looked up. I felt nothing, I saw but my eyes registered nothing. I heard nothing. I had frozen before my hands had grasped the steering wheel. My hand was grasped by tiny fingers, and lead me inside. The hand that led me inside pressed on my chest and I fell back with a thump I sat on the couch. I stared at nothing, I was consumed by nothing. My mind resisted everything, my body froze in the light of terror. The tiny hands were once again at work, caressing my face.

Words were coming at me, slowly at first, then like verbal fists rocking me to the core. I broke down, every syllable was like an RPG colliding with its target. I shook like a tree in the wind and cried. I dropped the fob and stared at it like it was a dirty needle prepping to spread its vile putrid sickness. That sickness had spread to me, I knew it. It had made me weak, it had made me soft. It had poisoned me.

It would be years before I would be ready to rid myself of that affliction.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Bridges make awful homes part 3

Walking north once more, abandoning the desolation and depravity that called me south. It was the weekend, I remember that much. I remembered the important things, the things that truly mattered.

On the weekends, I got to see my son, and I was going to keep that meeting. That was my peace, my son, would make it right. The one thing that I could trust was that he would be there, waiting.

This time I paid for my ticket and rode the trolley like a real human being, not a scared rat. Today I had pride, I had confidence, I had gusto. Today all my worries would fade, all my shortcomings would disappear, because I was going to see the one person who would accept me for who I was, no how broken I was.

I arrived early and hid my ruck under my bench, I couldn't risk it being spotted. And I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

My heart raced, was I there on the wrong day? Was I too early? Was I too late? I still had my cell phone at the time and turned it on. I sent a text. I called. I left a voicemail. I text. I cried. A beaten down man left that McDonald's that day. A defeated heap of flesh slothed out of those golden arches.

Through the tears the world began to spin again, rage boiled, frustration rose and fell with my breathe like the waves off the coast in a tsunami. Ragged, and short, and quick. Panic rose, tears and sweat ran freely, salt filled my mouth. The bitter taste of defeat was all consuming.

I walked.

I don't remember much after that, my world was once again confirming to me that it could not be trusted. It had built me up, let me feel like a real human again. And then instead of dashing my hopes upon the rocks of tragedy like all good stories do, it tore my foundation out from under me and hung my broken soul by my heart strings.

A shell of a man walked through the city of his birth unnoticed and unaware. If bystanders did notice it was to laugh and point. If that man noticed it was not apparent he had checked out.

I walked, and I walked. I walked until the pain in my feet stopped me, and I stopped only because I was physically unable to take another step. I found myself standing at a trolley station in a high-class mall. I remembered my friend would be eating pizza at the restaurant I was standing in front of, that every night. I checked FB, yep she had just checked-in.

"YAY Sammy's woodfire pizza with..." I stopped reading, I was not welcomed. Why would I be? I wasn't welcomed anywhere. Before the tears sprung forth again I gritted my teeth and moved on, I didn't get more than ten feet at a time before I would have to stop and rest. The trolley ran every 15 mins. It had gone by so many times I was seeing the same people coming and going. I felt blisters pop and crunch. I felt the way the skin slid around rubbing the raw painful skin below it. I felt the blister juices leaking and gave up. I sat down and decided that that was where I would stay til the pain left.

A daze took over my senses, I remember being kicked, spit on, I even had fries and shake thrown at me. I sat there disconnected from a world. Not my world, my world was not like this. This place was all wrong. I sat there as the world passed me by, only stopping long enough to spat on me as if it were my fault I was there. Was it my fault? Had I been to blame this entire time? It had to be my fault.

Shame overgrew the pain I was in, and I stood. My legs were covered in dirt and bruises. My feet screamed as the dried fluid, and blood tore at my skin as my socks ripped free from the dried blisters. I held on to a small wall as I limped farther down the path I had found myself on. The wall ended, I continued, bushes were all that supported me. I fell behind them and crawled to the green power box that was hidden in the bushes. There was a shirt, I remember it being an Alice Cooper shirt, tied off at the sleeves and the bottom. Stuffed full of grocery bags.

A pillow.

After everything I had been through, there was a pillow waiting for me at the end of the day. I slept, for a bit, and I remember think, that this wasn't such a bad place to be. I mean it did hand out pillows every so often. Even if it was under a bridge, behind a power box, and stuffed full of noisy plastic bags. This world had given me a place to lay my head, for the night. And I slept under that bridge, thirty feet from my High School friend. Miles from family. And light years from sanity.








To this day, I am still partial to my pillows.  


Monday, February 9, 2015

Bridges make awful homes part 2


Part 2

I headed south with no real goal in mind, but daydreams of living on the Mexican coast for the rest of my days in peace.

Peace, that is what I wanted. Real or not, I needed it.

I found the nearest transit station, I had to keep moving south. Maybe there, I would find my sanity once again. I had 300$ in my account, my VA payment would keep me from starving but I needed peace. Can you buy peace for 300$, of course not there's transaction fees.

I hopped on a trolley headed south and hid in the back. Trolley cops are still cops, and they write tickets. If I got a ticket I'd show up on some grid somewhere and they'd know where I was. I couldn't be found, if I was found I'd be dragged back to the Army. Or worse, I'd have to sleep with the rats again. Every time I saw the Trolley cops I got off and waited for the next trolley, I avoided the shops and outlets. They had cameras and they were watching. Always watching.

I went as far east as the trollies went and pulled cash out. From there I continued south, I had to get to peace. But could I find peace? How would I know it when I found it? Could I even trust it if I found it?

The trolley stopped in a town called San Ysidro, it's a town that is on the border of Mexico and the U.S. I stared at the border. My palms itched, my skin burnt, I knew I could walk across and disappear forever. But I would need supplies first, I needed water, and boots, at this thought I realize I had been walking shoeless all day. And once again I was running, which frightened me more, I was a shoeless man traveling across southern California. I knew someone had to be calling the cops.

I found a place that sold a little bit of everything and geared up. I had a ruck, a sleeping bag, food, water, shoes, a coat, a skull cap, and a bed roll. I had everything I needed to survive, I just needed a place to prepare. I got a cheap room, in a cheap hotel.

The room smelt of ammonia, and bleach, a smell from my childhood I will never forget. It burnt my eyes, and my nose and my throat. I dropped my gear, opened a window and left, I couldn't remember where I was. Was I home? Was I in Iraq? Or was I still trapped in that shit hole of a base in Mississippi? I walked to the nearest liquor store and got a bottle of jack, two packs of smokes, some pizza and went back to my room. The room still burnt me, my very presence was an affront to this place. I was not wanted, even here where no one knew me. I locked the door, slide the mattress off the bed and threw it against the door. I pulled the one chair in the room in front of the window and drank. And drank, and smoked, and drank some more.

I watched the window, peering through the lace curtains, I watched as the city moved by. People laughed, and played, drank their worries away. I watched them, the pink neon sign of the hotel flashed on and off all night.

Flash.

I was there death everywhere.

Flash.

I was in an unknown city, drinking to forget.

Flash.

I was back, men were rowing a boat out to an island.

Flash.

The clubs were filling up, I heard screams of laughter.

Flash.

The rowing stopped, and the men unloaded the gear. My hand rested of the button.

Flash.

There was music coming from somewhere. the room next to mine had guttural primal moans escaping into mine.

Flash.

My hand trembled, this wouldn't be the first time this happened, but that doesn't make it easier.

Flash.

People were oblivious to the reality of life, I drank more. And more.

Flash.

I pressed the button, and there on that screen, the scene I had seen play out every night replayed itself again. There was a group of men setting up a mortar, then there was a small streak of light from the top left to the bottom right where the men were. Then the feed went white, and a slow cool set in returning the image back to what it had once been. Minus the men on the small island.

Flash.

The music grew louder and louder. The moaning was feverish now. I snapped, drank the rest of the Jack and threw the bottle. It shattered, pink stars rained down in my room. Throwing light everywhere, forcing me to see everything all at once.

I attacked the room, with all of my rage, fury, frustration, and shame. I fought everything and everyone with everything I had. I began to spin and drift from consciousness. The last thoughts I had that night were, "great, I forgot to lock the top lock. Now when they come for my body it'll be easier for them to get in."

I woke up covered in my own blood, and vomit. I had spent the night crawling around on broken glass and throwing up where I collapsed. Packed my ruck, and left the room, after I cleaned up. I let my mind drift, and I walked once more.











Sunday, February 8, 2015

Bridges make awful homes part 1

Every day throughout this country, veterans drift outside the view of the people they defended. These men and women are dirty, filthy, alone, and losing touch with reality.

I was one of them, for a long time. Too long of a time.

Part 1

I will always remember the night I was abandoned, I remember the soft red glow of the brake lights as my brother and sister drove away. Leaving me on the side of the street. Confusion swam through my mind, I didn't know what to do. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I remember it being cold, and windy, I remember obsessing over how an hour before I got kicked out of a park by the cops. I had to keep moving, or they'd be back.

The wind picked up, I didn't have a jacket. I began to shake as I kept moving, the sun had set hours ago, and would be hours till it rose. I remember giving up on wiping the tears away, it only spread the water freezing my face more. The confusion grew, I was lost in my hometown, the place I had grown up. I stumbled behind a restaurant and climbed behind a dumpster, I shut the gates in front in hopes of blocking the wind. Huddled up against the back wall, and the dumpster I tried to sleep away everything my mind couldn't grasp.

I spent the night, shaking violently from the cold, lack of food and water, and the smell. I will always remember that smell. The smell of vinegar, olive oil, pesto, and rotting tomatoes. That sweet scent of rotting will never leave me. I barely slept, between the biting cold, the assaulting smell, and the rats attacking me throughout the night I was lucky to sleep more than five minutes at a time. With every cough from the burning in my lungs, I tasted the wretched foul smell in the air.

Morning came, what felt like days later. I stumbled out from behind the dumpster only to see cops pulling around the corner of the restaurant. I panicked and hid, I knew what they wanted. They were there to get me. I hid, and listened. The patrol vehicle popped gears and slide into reverse, I peeked and saw the nose of the cruiser slide behind the edge of the wall. I ran and hopped a short wooden fence. I heard the sirens 'whoop whoop' to life, and panic took full grasp of my mind and I ran. Through the tall grasses that grow up on the side of the San Diego river. Reeds and grasses and tree branches whipped and lashed my face and hands. The sirens grew distant, a small voice in my head knew they weren't after me. But my fear didn't let that stop it, I was the enemy in a foreign land and I had to survive.

I burst through the grasses and came upon a trail that runners used at the park I had been kicked out of earlier that night. I stopped and refused to move, the trail was dirt. The cops had to be taping of the dumpster by now, they had to have at least one imprint of my shoes, they had to be waiting for the K9 units to get onsite. I had to move, but couldn't risk being tracked. I pulled a palm leaf off a tree that was a bit off the trail and pulled the leaves off the center stem. I tried my best to make a weave I thought would cover my shoes. Confusion and frustration were my only friends once again. I got angry and tossed the makeshift covers out on the trail and hopped across. I ran once again through reeds and shrubbery. I could feel the sweat soaking my clothes and knew the dogs would be at my throat soon enough. I knew the river was close and changed directions I had to lose the cops, and their dogs.

The sun was high in the sky now, it had been hours since I had eaten, slept, or had anything to drink. The taste of dirt was filling my mouth, as I fell into the river. The cold water chilled me to the bone instantly.

My feverish panic was replaced with shock and a growing sense of shame. I had lost my mind. I climbed out of the freezing water and laid down on the rocks. I remember being lulled to sleep by the sounds of the water rushing by, and traffic as it passed over the bridge nearby. I woke several hours later, I was all but dry, and had my sense back.

I got up, hungry, thirsty, tired and cold once again I set out south. I still don't understand why I chose south, but I did and hiked for hours. Through a land, I didn't know. I was born and raised here, but I had spent so long away from it that it had changed on me and was no longer my home. I was in a foreign land, I was alone, and had no way of telling what was real or not. I no longer trusted myself or anyone. The cuts and bruises up and down my arms were proof I couldn't be trusted.

If I couldn't trust my mind, then no one could be trusted.





Saturday, February 7, 2015

There is no swag in personal courage

I have touched on triggers, and what they do to me. But I was asked what I do to cope with these things recently by a good friend. That is not an easy question because as service members and veterans we have been trained to deal with things and keep on rolling.

We don't deal with things like that, we don't "cope" we have them, we suffer with them, and we keep moving. Every so often I have days where every ounce of my being is screaming and kicking to curl up in a ball and fade away. But I don't, I can't, and won't. It's not in me, to give into those things. I spend my days in physical and emotional pain, all day every day, and I keep moving.

So my first answer to how I cope with things was "I don't" followed by my usual laughter to cover up the truth with humor. But the sad truth is I don't cope.

I have no method of coping. I was not trained to cope with PTSD, I was trained to keep going. I was trained to add PTSD to my rucksack of problems and keep on, keeping on.

Nowadays it seems like PTSD is part of your contract as a footnote at the end of an asterisk hidden at the bottom of your contract. With no promise of payment, treatment, or training on how to deal with PTSD. We are left to fend for ourselves in a world that has moved on without us. We have all the training in the world on how to become soldiers, killers, beasts of battle. But none to become human again. I make the joke that the off switch for the soldier was never included in the TM (Technical Manual) for us. But it is true, there is no section for us to learn how to deal with our training, and our lives after were out.

We have all the knowledge needed to mount a successful breach of fortified positions. We have all the skills necessary to survive, navigate, and traverse foreign terrain. All the laws of war are drilled into us.

But how do you quite the voices when all that training is useless. How do you calm the storm inside when all you have to do is clock in, and out. How do you stop the vigilance when you are no longer needed by your country. You can't clock out of Loyalty. There is no pill to make the symptoms of duty go away. There is no therapy for Respect. Selfless service isn't something I can wash away after a long days work. Honor isn't in the quarterly reports. Integrity isn't a double or single Windsor. There is no swag in personal courage.

So I'll continue to keep on, keeping on in a world that has moved on without us. In a world, I was ill equipt to deal with. In a world that values things that mean nothing to a man like me.

I'll just keep on doing what is expected of me. I deal with the fear and anxiety every second of every day. I walk on busted knees and broken ankles. I work, even though my hands that ache and strain with every movement. I take everything on my plate and put it in my ruck and mount up like I was trained to do.


I am so tired of it all

Every day my day begins with a quick scan of my surroundings if anything is out of place or moved from the night before I instantly am on alert, and my heart begins its race.

I pull out of my driveway and scan the road. I live on a cul de sac, but I still scan left to right, right to left. Over and over. Any new cars, I am instantly wary. On my street, we have seven cars whose license plates begin with 6, three cars that begin with "A" and a P, 0, and a 1. If there are any other cars I instantly memorize the license plate, in case I need to call the cops. I keep my phone on the seat next to me, I watch the cars behind me.

I park in the same spot every day, it's a spot that allows me to view six entrances to my office building.

I take different routes to and from work and home. I stop at the same spot in the morning so I am seen on camera, to create a time stamp.

I stopped drinking because I am afraid of the secrets I will let loose when drunk.

I keep my medication on me at all times, so they can't be tampered with. I don't take pills I can't verify what they are.

I am so tired of it all.

I am tired of the counting and the tracking vehicles that aren't actually tracking me.

I am tired of turning over in the middle of the night and having to check the door to my room.

I am tired of the restless, sleepless nights,

I am tired of always watching, never resting.


Thursday, February 5, 2015

Anti-Depressants, a warning for ANYONE with PTSD

I returned from Iraq like any normal homecoming, I was on a plane for a very long time. I stunk, I was dirty and tired. I hadn't shaved or slept since I was in Fallujah, I was on a straight shot home. Being recalled, I was attached to a national guard unit so there was no formal homecoming, but it was nice to be home.

I was fine for a few months. I had a son on the way, I was home, I couldn't find a job. But we had money saved up and I had chores to do.

And then things began to change, I began to change. I started to close doors, and be unable to rest if they were open. I would get up in the middle of the night and check all the doors and locks. Windows had to be closed, blinds drawn. I began to have issues driving, the radio stations that were there before were gone. Builds had been torn down and new ones built.

I had become a man out of time, with odd ticks and weird habits. My wife at the time made it a point to take me to the VA to get checked out.

The VA, after some time and some hassle, prescribed me some pills. And that is when the real adventure began.

I took them faithfully, and the blinds could be open. But other issues arose, darker feelings crept in and planted roots. Thoughts of suicide and death were always with me. I wasn't sleeping, I wasn't happy, and I was watching the distance between my loved ones and myself grow greater. I began to grow cold. Colder by the day, I became angry and frustrated. I was confused all the time, I would cry at random times or when I drank alcohol.

Alcohol made it worse.

I would get so mad that I would have to leave and go for a walk because I knew I was going to lose it. Over silly things like small married couple squabbles. I would shake with rage, as sweat would pour down my face. Thoughts of death and suicide would fill my mind, and it was all I wanted. All I needed.

One time, I found myself standing on a bridge. In the middle, I peered of the edge and watched as the cars zoomed under me. I stood there with tears streaming down my face, through my blurred vision I saw a way out. I saw a way past all the pain, and rage and fear, and confusion. I saw it all, and it made sense. I had to jump, I had to just walk off into the sun.

I reached for the sun as it set over the ocean, I swung a leg over and then the other. I sat on the warm metal railing, tears streaming, a smile on my face, and my last sunset warming my soul for, what I thought, was the last time.

My phone rang and rang, and rang. Slowly it drew me back. In a haze, I answered it and listened. At first I was motionless, resolute and at peace. My mind had given up, my body was willing, but the voice was insistent. It would not go away, it continued to pull me out of my own world.

It was my father, he was checking in on me, seeing how I was doing. I pulled away from the edge of the bridge, and drifted above the fog that had taken me. I stumbled home and went to the ER.

I was later informed that anti-depressants can actually make PTSD symptoms worse for some people. I was not a risk factor when prescribed because I had no prior medical flags.

Please use caution and seek medical advice if anything seems off if you start taking medication for PTSD. Do not become 1 of the 22.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

What was her name again?

Before I had PTSD I used to remember everything, dates, phone numbers, addresses, I even knew PI to 15 places.

Now, I'm lucky if I remember to pay the power bill. It's not that I don't remember I have to pay it, it's just that each time I go to pay it I forget what I was doing. PTSD has robbed me of my dignity, I need help doing things that I can't even remember need doing. 

Like a small child, I need constant reminders of simple tasks that need doing. I know I annoy people with this, but I can't help it. My mind is like a torrent of anxiety, fear, constant vigilance, and plans of how to escape if, for some reason, the government stormed my house to drag me back into the army. I know these thoughts are without basis, and grounded in irrational fears, but they are loud enough that they drown out my responsibilities and  cause frustration to those around me. 

I know that I am fighting through a fog in my mind, but I can no longer even remember the goal of that fight. On days, like today, I am frightened because I can't even remember the name of the woman I am with. It isn't her fault, I know I know it. I just can't find it. On days like today, I want to cry out for help but my fear keeps me from trusting those who would help me. 

I know it is hard to take care of grown child. I know it is difficult to be with me, when I am so broken. Hell, it's hard for me, to be with me most of the time. I forget my own stuff and get frustrated with myself.

I am still me, just lost in a fog that will take time for me to navigate. I fear that someday I will be abandoned because no one can stand the way I have become over the years. Many a time have I abandoned myself. I can not promise that I will not abandon myself again. I can only live each day as it was meant, anew, fresh, without ties to the prior. 

I will win this battle, even if I don't remember the victory.


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Monday, February 2, 2015

Therapy: Doesn't always work

This is a subject that to this day remains in limbo. There are more than 600,000 veterans with PTSD, you are not alone in this fight.

600,000 is a big number. It is a big enough population of people for me to safely say this: Therapy does not work on all of them. Myself included, for me the only this scarier than having PTSD, is talking about it. 

Since I got back, everyone always says, "You should get some help", or "You should see someone about that", and inside I am screaming like a small frightened child. My inability to talk about PTSD is so great, I can't even read my blog posts out loud. What people don't realize is PTSD is manifested and made real when you talk about it. Some, yes some, people can go to therapy and support groups and find all the help they need. But those of us that can't talk about, we need a way of connecting with others to know that we aren't alone, that we are just one more person dealing with things that make us human. 

This blog is my way of doing that. My friends who served with me, read this blog, and we talk about it. They are all the same, we are all the same. Lost, confused, feeling like monsters where a man once stood. We all feel like the world moved on without us like we were a cog that slipped out of place, and the world just ticked on by. 

Therapy does not help all of us, it helps some, but others are left to  fend for themselves in a world we no longer fit in, in a world we no long feel part of. For those of us that feel like this, therapy is a 6 letter word for hell on earth. Just the IDEA alone, of walking into a support group, with men and women with missing arms and legs, you know the real super soldiers who gave more than anyone alive. And sitting there talking to them. that frightens me to the core. Not because I feel I will be judged, they did way more than I ever have, but because I will be trapped in a room, forced to relive all those things I fight on a daily basis, in an unknown location, with people I don't know and don't trust. 

At least when I am home, I am in a safe place, a place I made safe. Full of people I could and can trust, to a degree. 

My words can be a poison on my mind, but when written down they become like an I.V. bag slowly dripping the cure into my lifeless heart reactivating the person I hope I am. Someday when I reach the end of this journey I hope to find out who I am really am, when I am not fighting this demon 24/7.


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