the good, the bad, the ugly

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.

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.

the runt

I can't wait to meet you.

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.

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.

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.

Pour toi mon amour - Prevert

Je suis allé au marché aux oiseaux
Et j'ai acheté des oiseaux
Pour toi
mon amour
Je suis allé au marché aux fleurs
Et j'ai acheté des fleurs
Pour toi
mon amour
Je suis allé au marché à la ferraille
Et j'ai acheté des chaînes
De lourdes chaînes
Pour toi
mon amour
Et je suis allé au marché aux esclaves
Et je t'ai cherchée
Mais je ne t'ai pas trouvée
mon amour

at what cost?

-Why did you volunteer?
-Better me than someone that didn't want to be there.
-That's the best answer I've heard.

Even though I did end up at Walter Reed and didn't come home with everyone else, I still think I made the right choice. That I picked the right plane. That I gave it my all, that I did my best. I am not ashamed of being here -- I'm ashamed of what happened. But there's not much I can do about that now.

Sometimes I wonder if I would have stayed as long as I did if my sergeant had paid attention actually did something, anything. In retrospect, it was Sergeant Major that was trying to throw me a line, trying to help me. Always asking "Techno, what's wrong? Do you want to go home?" But it was not about going home. It was never about going home.

I wanted to stay. I almost made it. But at what cost?

being a good friend

I watched him have (what I think was) a manic episode last night.

Music pumping, he's bobbing around the kitchenette between cooking dinner and talking to himself. Out loud. Almost as if he was holding a one-sided conversation.

Later, he's playing a driving game on Xbox. Nothing about that is out of the ordinary -- he plays while laying in bed every night. Only he's standing on the bed, an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and yelling and pointing at the TV.

His thoughts are racing, his pupils are dilated, he's full of energy, he doesn't want to calm down. It's a rush.

After he pops some pills, as he's finally coming down, he slows... and shakes.

The next day he says that he doesn't think what happened was a problem; that it was controlled. It was barely controlled. I was waiting for the seams to burst.

Honestly, I was afraid. I wanted him to go to the ER. But no, there's no problem here, we don't need to go to the ER.

When I reported it to his Point of Contact, I was shaking. Anxious. I wouldn't have told her if I wasn't concerned about him. He needs to get well but he doesn't think there's a problem at all.
The tech thanked me, told me that he is lucky to have a friend who is so concerned.

I left wondering if my actions would put him back in the inpatient ward. Even so, he might just get the help he needs.

he's been inside the wire for too long

-Why aren't there any Burger Kings around here?
-I don't know. Haven't seen one yet.
-Oh wait! There's one on the FOB.
-*moment of silence*
-Did I just say FOB?
-Yeah, yeah, you did. Walter Reed is not a FOB. Walter Reed is not a f&%@ing FOB.

keeping in touch

I am going to take a bus to see Wolf. It's been so long.

Fuzz is complaining that I still haven't seen Nephew. He asked me if friends come before family. I don't think he'll ever understand.

Ky is back to three days off a week, the lucky guy. I'm glad that he's doing much better.

No word from Aramis. He doesn't know how upset it makes me. He also doesn't know the real reason why I was medevac'd. (I think I've stopped caring.)

Driver was busted for pot, two miles from home. If he had gone to Europe, would that have happened?

I may have not seen combat, but...

Wednesday I start to go downhill again.

Thursday was a day of freedom from the ward to sit through a ceremony doped up on anti-anxiety pills.

Friday the doctor asks if I want to go back to the inpatient ward. They begin to wonder if there is a PTSD component to all of this.

Well, duh.

this is your brain

On the right is your brain.

On the left is your brain on war.

Any questions?

stop it

-Stop it.
-Stop what?
-Scanning the metro car. Stop it.
-I can't help it.
-What are you looking for?
-Anything suspicious. Anything that doesn't belong.
-This isn't Iraq. We're safe here.
-*shakes head*

He nodded off on the way back, only to slip into a flashback.

our reality

Is it easier to accept a Wounded Warrior as one that is visibly wounded than those of us whose wounds can't be seen?

Is it easier to offer help to someone in a wheelchair compared to helping someone who is having a flashback?

Is it easier to understand the frustration of new limitations than fears of everyday things?

What will you do when we jump into the bushes when we hear fireworks? When we can't sit still, relax, let our guard down? When we say we can't go out tonight because we're afraid that it'll be too crowded? When we wake up in the middle of the night screaming?

This is our reality. Can you accept it?

panic attack

-I got you Techno, I got you. It's okay, it's okay. Breathe. Deep breaths. That's it. Where are you?
-My room.
-Who else is here?
-You.
-How do you feel?
-(no response)
-Techno, how do you feel?
-Terrified.

not the same person

I'm feeling a bit better. The shaking is mostly gone -- I can hold my camera steady again. I don't sway side-to-side and I'm not walking through the hallways afraid that I'm going to faint. Small things, but important.

They keep asking me if I feel like the medication is working. I have no answer for them. I take my medication like I'm supposed to, but how can I tell if it's working or not? A pill or two may make my brain behave or even help me sleep, but there's no pill to take the guilt and anger away, to make me stop missing my friends, to make me feel normal again. How do you answer a question like that?

All I know is that I am definitely not the same person that got on that plane.

feel so detached

I had a dream the other night that I was being MEDEVAC'd again. Only instead of going from Germany to Walter Reed, I was going in the opposite direction. Across the ocean, closer to the desert that had been home for so many months.

This doesn't feel real. The hospital, the daily meetings with doctors, the pills -- none of it. I think a part of me is still expecting to wake up in my tiny space etched out of the beehive of a barracks we were living in. When I look outside, it isn't a barren landscape of sand, scrub, Army-issue tents and drab buildings that greets me. Outside is green green grass, tall thick trees, and gray squirrels darting back and forth.

If this is what I had been missing so much, why do I feel so detached?

not a perfect world

A real friend is someone who walks with you to the hospital in the middle of the night just to make sure you're okay, without knowing what is wrong.

Not many people can do that.

Not many people have to do that.

No one should have to do that.

But this isn't exactly a perfect world.

(Thank you, even though it has taken me far away from you now.)

leaving them behind

The hardest thing about leaving the desert was leaving the guys behind. Although the reality of it was they were already gone in one sense or another. That happens when the Army dictates where you're going to work, when you're going to work, and what's involved in that job. Your life is in someone else's hands. Just a part of life out there. A part I don't miss much.

I think of them often, regardless of where they are now. Is Driver still having nightmares of his convoy being attacked and his friends killed by insurgents? Will his driving in the States be rather eventless? Has the base where Aramis is stationed been mortared lately? Can he sleep with the jets taking off constantly? Who has Ky's back now? Who is going to be his shoulder to lean on? Do they even think of me?

It's funny how three flights and three weeks changes your world completely. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, but it's for the best.

Here's the question that bothers me the most: is it harder to be seperated but in the same time zone as Wolf and my mom or to be an ocean away from Ky and Aramis?

I'm still trying to figure that one out.