Thursday, June 30, 2016

I have moved on.

This Blog is no longer active. I have moved on to other things.

I would like to take this time to thank everyone for the support during my time with this blog. The support was life saving. Thank you again.

If you would like to follow my current projects check out my links below.

Here I post updates for my projects, and connect with people who enjoy my work.

This is my new site, I have a blog running, and post other writing of mine.

Here is where most of my poems, and proses get publish, I also engage in writing challenges with other writers.

And last but not least is my Patreon site, here I will be posting, either weekly, or monthly aditions to an on going story, as well as Patreon only content. If you feel like you want to support me, please do so, it would mean the world to me.

Again THANK YOU SO MUCH for the support. You and every read here is why I was able to move on to bigger and better things. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2016


I trust so few people, this is a fact. An unfortunate one.

If I were to meet you in the street one day, my first reaction would be to assess you. Your physical presence, your emotional state, your vocabulary. Anything and everything that makes you, you.

I would see how you stand, how you move, I would listen to your words, and the words you use. Not just the words you use, but also how you use them.

I would watch your hands, the adept nature with which you use them would tell me more about you than you ever could.

All of these tiny cues would tell me exactly who you are and what you are capable of.

But none of that could ever tell me if you are trustworthy. So by default, you would not be trustworthy.

Now I know that this is not healthy, or wise. But it is necessary, in the mind of someone with PTSD. The survival mind is not one of logic, or reason. But of one of self preservation. I write because of self preservation, I talk about my thoughts and feelings because of my need for self preservation. I distrust the world because of this.

My logical, grounded, reasoning mind tells me not to do that. It tells me to trust those, until proven otherwise. But I retreat, and I watch. I watch you until the evidence says I can trust you. I remain silent. But when I determine that you can be trusted, I test the waters, and I open up.

Everytime I do this, it feels like I am walking into the gates of hell. My body flushes with heat, pain radiates in my muscles and bones. I feel like I am going to die. All of that, just to tell you my name. In my paranoid thought process, every bit of information you have on me, is enough to ruin me, and my way of life.

So when I was asked how someone without PTSD, gets someone with PTSD to open up, the answer took time. It took time for me to think about it, and finally admit it to myself.

Trust, and time.

But time for the one with PTSD, they have to accept that it is time to open up. They have to trust people, not just those around them. But people in general. If I trust you, I can talk to you. If I don't trust you, I won't talk to you. At ALL. Ever. 

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

What I'd like to say, but can't

I would like to tell you that I have been busy, writing. Blogging, and discovering myself, and a way to deal with PTSD.

But I can't.

Yes, I have been writing, and blogging, but I haven't been posting. I write up posts and then my own fears and doubts manage to move the cursor to delete instead of publish. As the days marched on since my last post my world has grown cold, and dark.

My PTSD, or my event, was not caused in War. War did not help it get better. It in fact made it worse. The main event, the very second I remember my life changing, I was in South Korea. I was drunk, and I was lost.

I tried to find my way around, I was alone, I shouldn't have been. I had no idea where I was, or how I'd gotten there. The blackouts were coming like the tide. It was dark, I remember being in an industrial part of some town. I remember getting out of a cab, and walking away. I remember the lights not fully on, like they were warming up to turn on. But they never came on, the street lights just hummed, a slow warm off yellow color. Enough light shown for me to see the streets, but no definition. No detail. It was either that, or I was far more drunk than I remember.

I remember walking, slowly sipping on the Soju bottle I had gotten from one of the blackouts. I remember seeing a red door, not movie red. Where it is painted in stark contrast to everything else, so your eyes are drawn to it. No, this door was faded, if had a blue sign on it, Korean letters were painted across it. I couldn't read it.

I remember thinking it looked like a cafe in the town outside where I was stationed. I thought if it was that same cafe I knew the owner and I could get a cab. I opened the door, and I walked up the stairs.

Ah, it was nice to be on familiar grounds again.

I crawled up the steep steps, hands on both walls in the slim hallway, up the stairs I went. I reached the top, and I smelt smoke. The bitter stench triggered my hands, and they went for my own pack in my pocket. I lit a smoke, and stopped for a minute. This was not my cafe, I did not know anyone here.

There was a table in center of the large room, a young man sat behind it inspecting clothes. To each side of him there were four rows of tables with sowing machines. Children stood behind the tables, working fabric into the machines. Boys on one side, girls on the other. Boys wore stained white underwear, no more, no less. Girls the same, but they were allowed small tank tops. With every child's head shaved it was the only way to truly tell them apart.

Dead eye glazed over crept up at me, cigarette in my mouth, bottle in my hand. Back down the eye slid. Back to work they went, scabs inched up their legs, like the lines of a ruler. The man at the table looked up, and said nothing. He picked up a cane leaning on the table, and smack it hard against a table on his right. The children flinched, their little hands quickened. The cold staring man, went back to work as well.

I was nothing to him. These children were nothing. He felt nothing.

Around the corner came a second man, a man of equal threat to these children. They noticed his entry, but showed no sign of slowing their work. With him he held the hand of a young girl, hair had been let to grow out, it was still shorter than normal. Tears streamed from her face. She held up her underwear with the other hand, blood flowed between her shaking knees. Her top was ripped, and shout at me, it told me what had happened moments ago.

The man, rather slender and tall, smiled and greeted me. Dragging a small puff from his cigarette, he twisted and leaned into the small child. Blowing smoke in her face as he tried to kiss her. She fought and screamed. Crying, she fought this monster. His tongue flicked out, lapping at the smoke and her small face. He enjoyed the pain and misery he spread.

My body shook, my cigarette dropped, never once being puffed on but all ashes. I dropped my bottle, it shattered. The slender man, slapped the small girl away, blood flowed freely from her mouth. Angry words in a language I didn't understand flew everywhere.

This is where in movies the hero comes to his senses and fights to save the day.

I wish I could say that, but I can't. I remember reacting, and everything going blank. I remember hearing the bleeding girl scream once more. Than I don't know.

I tried to find that red door once more. I tried to remember the blue sign. I tried to save them after I came to, I tried. And I failed. I failed to save anyone. I let them be hurt, and exploited. My inability, my intoxication, and my inaction has caused me to dream of the small girl getting raped, and beaten every night. The slender man laughing and breathing smoke in her face, all while the cold eyes of the undead children watch on in unchanging empty emotion.

The two men uncaring, so much so, that my very presence wasn't enough to alarm them. The casual nature with which they handled the entire situation left me empty.

Friday, September 18, 2015

Russian Nesting Dolls and PTSD

PTSD can be overwhelming, anyone with it can relate to that. What I think the hardest thing to convey is the world we all live in now, after our event, or events.

Since I started this blog, I have tried again and again to explain that. This time I want to try and explain the inner storm.

The easiest way for me to convey it is, as the title states, with Russian Nesting Dolls. Here is a link, in case you don't know what those are. We as human beings are the outer most layer, the layer everyone see's and understand.

That is the layer we show to the world. That is the layer we are proud of, we show emotion with. We experience life with.

But below that is a layer that is similar to the outer, but it is a raging storm, formless, racing, and bottled chaos. It is the layer we were given with our events. A nice parting gift. Now unlike a nesting doll, PTSD and the emotions that come with it, are not always the same layer.

Your inner layers switch between all manner of feelings. Anger, rage, frustration, depression, guilt, fear. Not fear as a state of mind, but as an emotion. Fear brought on by a conscience memory. Fear as a fully invested feeling.

Anger so hot, and boiling you can feel your face on fire and forget all sense of self. Anger that has no real target, no real end goal. Layer upon layer anger is fueled by guilt, guilt spiraling out of control because of grief, and sadness. Memories flashing, spinning, raging.

All the while the little nesting dolls sits there, maintaining. On the outside it's finely carved edges shape the whole, its purposefully painted lines draw the eyes away from the seam that is quickly growing.Outside is you, a work of art. Inside is more beauty, but hidden by the darkness of PTSD. All the beauty inside is darkened by our inability to open ourselves up and share the pain.

Instead we stand by, waiting and watching as others pass by, unaware that we open up and have many layers within. We spend so long waiting to open up, that when someone comes along and is curious enough to follow that seam. To crack the seam open, every layer within bursts out.

P.S. I have been traveling for work, so I promise, promise to reply to comments asap.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015


I haven't posted in awhile, and for a reason, not a good one, but there is a reason none the less.

September is a rough month for me, and I imagine it always will be. My sons birthday is in September, from Sept 1st to Sept 30th, I am reminded of his birth. That is a day I will never forget. For an entire day, I rode the high of holding my son in my hands for the first time. If you're a parent you understand this feeling.

For an entire day I was normal, I was proud, and I was relieved. My son was born healthy, and happy. I have not seen him in years. I love him more than ever, but my heart breaks every day. Everyday I miss him, and everyday I think of him. He is my son, and I am his father. For an entire month my head swims with the what-if's.

What if I wasn't like I am, could I change things?

What if this isn't my fault? It doesn't matter if it is or not I will blame myself.

What if he hates me...

I am forced for an entire month to battle my own demons, and the fears I harbor. I grasp onto hope with an abandonment of my own life. I cast my thoughts of anything else aside, because I can process no more than the pain I feel at my lost.

My son is alive, and I hope all is well.

The funny thing about PTSD, and I say that sarcastically, is that it does not mix well with postpartum. When my son was born, my ex-wife displayed symptoms of increasing severity over the following weeks and months. As the high of having a new child wore off for both of us, we began to mix in the cauldron of our eventual undoing. It was neither of our faults, and I hold no grudges, as I hope she does as well.

But we were poison, I freshly back from deployment, she freshly on the rehab train from the rush of hormones and chemicals that it takes to make a human being. Both of us in withdraw. My withdraw will follow me until the day I die, I have accepted that. Her's got worse before it got better.

All of these are things that run through my mind, that weigh on my in the month of September. There are things I sometimes wish I could change. There are things I wish had never happened, and there are things that I know that had to happen. But all of the logic and all of the reasoning can not make things better. All of the hope in the world can not fix your problems.

All hope can do is light the way to the problem at hand, and show you what you can work on.

I am still working through all of that.

I will now, and always love my son. And in a weird way I will always love my ex-wife. In a weird way I have to love everyone. If I can not love people, how can people love me. If I can not ask for forgiveness, and give forgiveness, how can other do the same for me.

September is a month of dwelling on the coulda-been's and the what-if's for me. But it is also a month where my soul cries out for the ones I love, and the need for the love of others.

Remember, remember the 5th of September.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Disappearring Act

After my last post, the big one, zero, zero, I did something I find myself doing when life gets rough for me.

I dove into work.

I dove so hard I missed entire days, maybe even a weeks worth of my medication. Huge blocks of time went missing from my mind. I still can't remember them. I forgot important things. All while coming off my medication.

Our water got turned off. Not because I didn't have the money, but because I forgot that that was a thing you do as an adult. Now someone without PTSD might ask "How do you forget to pay your water bill? It is due every month." and they are right, it does happen every month. But PTSD knows no bounds of  time, this earth or the next.

As stress increases, and the thoughts and memories claw up from the deep below, time has a way of rising and falling like the tide. Not physically, but perceptually. You may know for a fact that it is Tuesday at 8:42 A.M., but have literally no idea what time it is. You can look at your watch, or your calendar, even your phone, and instantly forget where, and when you are.

I know when I get like that, I am trying everything I can not to break down in tears. It takes all of my physical strength to just stand there, and not buckle. While others ridicule me for letting my water get turned off, as they scoff, and judge me, I am knee deep in a battle within myself. A battle I have fought countless times before.

Now my automatic response to all this stress, and loss of time and space is to dive into the one thing I have always known. Work. I work longer and longer hours. I force myself to drive forward, as an almost physical expression of my inner struggle.

Well it back fired, and forced me to slow my roll. Literally.

I dove into work so hard, I forgot a whole bunch of stuff. Like car's aren't meant to be driven as hard as you think they can. I blew the engine in my car. I ended up "working too much", as my boss put it. I drove too much, I worked too much, I forgot too much, and I missed too much. All the signs were there that I needed to stop, but with a helpless abandonment I drove forward. I fought the exhaustion, I fought the pain, and I fought the memories.

And life kicked back, like a mule.

Now, when that kick to the chest finally comes, and it comes a lot in life now. Time has a way of getting as thick as oil. Dirty, used oil. All that time you thought you didn't have comes back, and gives it all back, letting you remember all the things you did wrong. Reminding you of all the mistakes you've ever made.

My engine blew, my water got turned off, I got in trouble at work, and I neglected those telling me to stop and breathe. I lost track of my life, I lost track of time. I tried to out run my demons and failed. Even those of us that write, or talk about it everyday can forget that. We can not out run the demons within. We can not out run ourselves, or our shadows. My pain is as much a part of me, as my own breath. It gives me life, it gives me strength, it fuels me.

Sometimes in the wrong direction, and for the wrong reasons.