The Good:
-The sound of rain is still surprising.
-I'm no longer terrified of the metro. (Just don't add crowds.)
-I've remembered how fun it is to step on the really crunchy leaves.
-I will be home for the holidays.
The Bad:
-I still carry the tiny anti-anxiety pills. I hope I don't have a drug test any time soon.
-I have been awakened in the middle of the night by someone else's PTSD-related nightmares. More than once.
-I can tell when he's dreaming about Iraq, and I know when to wake him up.
-I don't know if I'm ready to face the not-so-supportive members of my family. I don't know if I can politely avoid talking about my issues and treatment.
The Ugly:
-A knock on the door makes me scream. It always startles everyone involved.
-He will not leave the room unless he has to after I go home.
-I'm afraid that I won't be able to go out alone after I leave.
-He knows what the roll of tape is for. I think it scares him.
26 October 2007
23 October 2007
Military Secrets
These are all postcards from the community art project known as PostSecret. People are invited to write a secret they have never shared and anonymously send it in.
The following are postcards that I either saw in the PostSecret books or floating around the web. They all are in one way or another related to Operation Iraqi Freedom or military service. My goal is to post military related cards as they come out, as PostSecret does not have an archive.
A note on two of the cards that share thoughts of going to Iraq and never coming back: this is more common than you realize. There are serious mental health issues in military community that never get addressed because of the stigma of getting help. Some seek help, but most do not. No one wants to be thought of as crazy. Not all commands know and understand mental health and treatments that are available. There are soldiers every day that at least think about crawling into a bunker, a port a john, or some other secluded spot with a loaded weapon and never seeing their loved ones again. And those are just the ones in theater. PTSD can kill someone slowly once they're stateside when they turn to alcohol or drugs to deal with it.
Help is available. All you have to do is ask. If necessary, demand it. Take yourself in. The only person that can take care of you is yourself.
20 October 2007
13 October 2007
coming to terms
In a way, I've come to terms with being in a psych ward. Yes, people have called me crazy both in jest and maliciously. My reply? I'm not in denial about it and am receiving treatment. Which is more than a lot of people can say.
My family doesn't know much about what brought me here. They know I was MEDEVAC'd. They know I'm being treated for PTSD and depression. They know pieces of what happened. I don't think I can bring myself to tell them the whole story and I'm not sure how long I can get away with that. For now they're happy that I'm coming home to continue treatment.
A few months after I start the treatment at home, someone in my treatment team will have to make a decision about my disposition. Do I get a permanent profile and go back to duty or do I go in front of a Medical Board to plead my case and possibly chaptered out? It's not my decision -- I really don't care how it goes so long as it's done in a way that I will never be deployed again. My normal drilling status as a Guardsman expires in late July, and after that I have two years of inactive status where I can be (and a lot of people are) pulled for deployment.
There will be no reenlistment. My Army career will end with this -- the hospitals, the doctors, the probing questions, the introspection.
Believe it or not, I'm okay with that.
My family doesn't know much about what brought me here. They know I was MEDEVAC'd. They know I'm being treated for PTSD and depression. They know pieces of what happened. I don't think I can bring myself to tell them the whole story and I'm not sure how long I can get away with that. For now they're happy that I'm coming home to continue treatment.
A few months after I start the treatment at home, someone in my treatment team will have to make a decision about my disposition. Do I get a permanent profile and go back to duty or do I go in front of a Medical Board to plead my case and possibly chaptered out? It's not my decision -- I really don't care how it goes so long as it's done in a way that I will never be deployed again. My normal drilling status as a Guardsman expires in late July, and after that I have two years of inactive status where I can be (and a lot of people are) pulled for deployment.
There will be no reenlistment. My Army career will end with this -- the hospitals, the doctors, the probing questions, the introspection.
Believe it or not, I'm okay with that.
10 October 2007
malicious acts
During my visit and all of our lounging around and being lazy, we spent time in Wolf's barracks. Two of the three nights I visited the barracks went just fine.
The third night, a Friday, didn't go so well. It started with someone knocking a broom around on walls and floors. When we stepped out into the hall and asked who did it, all we got were shrugs and "I don't knows". I caught the soldier messing with a broom, told him that I have PTSD and asked him to stop pounding on things. His response was "What's PTSD? Oh that post-traumatic thingy..." (We're all required to have training on PTSD so there's really no excuse to not know what it is.) The banging continued. It was making me jumpy so we made the brooms disappear. All was quiet for a few hours, probably because of the drinking going on downstairs.
Then someone came upstairs and pounded on the door. I screamed. Barracks went silent. No one came to check to see what was going on. Another long period of quiet. More banging on the door, another scream from me. I was beyond freaked out at that point. The banging progressed to someone just yelling up the stairs... and me still screaming. Hyper-arousal kicked in, and I was sitting on the bed staring at the door, straining to listen for someone sneaking up the stairs, and not really able to talk or move.
Wolf went out to investigate after each incident. He told them that I have PTSD, stop banging and yelling, and that I was freaking out so bad that he was afraid that it would take an ambulance to get me out of there. He also asked who was doing the banging, the yelling. No one in the group confessed. No one told. And I know they all heard me scream.
After I finally got out of the barracks (it took an hour and a half), we stopped by the staff duty desk to report what happened. A few of the people from the group downstairs had walked over as well. The sergeant on duty asked them what happened. Want to what guess their answer was? "Nothing." When what was really going on could have been marked up as harassment. And that was not even including the underage drinking.
I still can't believe that they would protect themselves and each other when they knew that person was being malicious to another person.
We weren't asking for much -- just for the banging and shouting to stop. We both thought that it was a reasonable request.
I hope that that night, my screams stays in at least one of their minds. I hope they think about what happened. And, as terrible as it is to say, I hope it haunts them.
The third night, a Friday, didn't go so well. It started with someone knocking a broom around on walls and floors. When we stepped out into the hall and asked who did it, all we got were shrugs and "I don't knows". I caught the soldier messing with a broom, told him that I have PTSD and asked him to stop pounding on things. His response was "What's PTSD? Oh that post-traumatic thingy..." (We're all required to have training on PTSD so there's really no excuse to not know what it is.) The banging continued. It was making me jumpy so we made the brooms disappear. All was quiet for a few hours, probably because of the drinking going on downstairs.
Then someone came upstairs and pounded on the door. I screamed. Barracks went silent. No one came to check to see what was going on. Another long period of quiet. More banging on the door, another scream from me. I was beyond freaked out at that point. The banging progressed to someone just yelling up the stairs... and me still screaming. Hyper-arousal kicked in, and I was sitting on the bed staring at the door, straining to listen for someone sneaking up the stairs, and not really able to talk or move.
Wolf went out to investigate after each incident. He told them that I have PTSD, stop banging and yelling, and that I was freaking out so bad that he was afraid that it would take an ambulance to get me out of there. He also asked who was doing the banging, the yelling. No one in the group confessed. No one told. And I know they all heard me scream.
After I finally got out of the barracks (it took an hour and a half), we stopped by the staff duty desk to report what happened. A few of the people from the group downstairs had walked over as well. The sergeant on duty asked them what happened. Want to what guess their answer was? "Nothing." When what was really going on could have been marked up as harassment. And that was not even including the underage drinking.
I still can't believe that they would protect themselves and each other when they knew that person was being malicious to another person.
We weren't asking for much -- just for the banging and shouting to stop. We both thought that it was a reasonable request.
I hope that that night, my screams stays in at least one of their minds. I hope they think about what happened. And, as terrible as it is to say, I hope it haunts them.
I really want to believe him
I survived the bus trip -- a very nerve wrecking solo event -- and made it there and back without a problem. I enjoyed a very lazy week, an expensive dinner, and huge pancakes with Wolf. We played lots of computer games, bought too many books, treated ourselves to goodies, and had several long conversations.
He said that I did very well. Apparently he was expecting the worst: unable to sit through a meal at a restaurant, overwhelming anxiety in crowds, jumping at every little noise, breaking down in tears.
My definition of doing well is different. It is not one that includes flashbacks or pelvic pain. There are no mad dashes for the car after feeling trapped in the commissary. There would not be an emergency bottle of tranquilizers in my camera bag. And I would not scream, yell, or jump when startled.
Wolf constantly reassures me that it will get better. I really want to believe him.
He said that I did very well. Apparently he was expecting the worst: unable to sit through a meal at a restaurant, overwhelming anxiety in crowds, jumping at every little noise, breaking down in tears.
My definition of doing well is different. It is not one that includes flashbacks or pelvic pain. There are no mad dashes for the car after feeling trapped in the commissary. There would not be an emergency bottle of tranquilizers in my camera bag. And I would not scream, yell, or jump when startled.
Wolf constantly reassures me that it will get better. I really want to believe him.
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