at least I had a good holiday

Switching meds is not fun. The nurse wanted to try SSRIs again, which have been nothing but unpleasant in the past. I may or may not be allergic. We've started low and slow on one that isn't so nasty. It will be awhile before I'm up at an effective dose again.

In the meantime, life sucks. I am back to that "please let me be, I don't want to do anything" mode.

I wish the Army would hurry up and fire me.

not rock bottom

For all the writing I haven't been doing, you'd think I would be out and about in this world. There are four places I go to on a semi-regular basis: work, the pet store, the VA, and the Physics Department -- in that order. I'm beginning to wonder if my home has become more of a self-inflicted prison rather than a safe place.

I didn't think that going out into the world after Walter Reed would be a big deal. Sitting in the doctor's office is anxiety-inducing, and my Primary Care Manager looks at my knee bouncing up and down with a very concerned look. She has a hard time accepting that it isn't her that's making me anxious. The grocery store and most other retail places are outright uncomfortable. I go numb. I know where I am, I can talk to you, but I don't exactly feel "there". I move slow and feel weak, worrying that I will collapse. Without the dog, it's very difficult to be "there". My parents took me to a concert just last week. Dad checked at least twice to make sure my knee wasn't hitting the back of the seat in front of me. I don't go out with friends -- I haven't even met up with my civilian friends yet. Life is lived in "safe" places: home, work and the VA. And I hate it. I want my life back.

Wolf is incredibly patient, constantly telling me that I'm getting better. My definition of better is not being tweaked out and anxious about stupid stuff. His definition of better is how often I smile, how long I can stand to be in a store, how I interact with people, how much stamina I have -- not things like my current dosage of meds or how much a jump at a noise.

On several occasions, Wolf and I have had conversations about how bad it's been. He left the desert in March and he could tell that I wasn't doing too good then. Aramis left for another base in July. Before he left, he asked if I would be okay. I knew I wouldn't. I'm pretty sure he knew as well. We've never talked about it. Rock bottom was late July-early August. And I really do mean rock bottom. It was a very slow and painful downward spiral that was drawn out over several months, and we all knew it.

This is not rock bottom. I am not crying myself to sleep. I am not wishing to disappear. I am not keeping it all to myself anymore. Most importantly, I am not lying to the doctors.

This is not rock bottom.

Mental Health PostSecret

I did actually have both a Chaplain and a nurse tell me something very similar to that. They only made me cry harder.

changes, for better or worse

The things I wished had never changed:
-the ability to go out alone without worrying about my well-being
-thinking that it was impossible to jump at the sight of my own shadow
-trusting male senior NCOs soldiers, regardless of rank, without question
-the possibility of obtaining a pilot's license for myself

The things I'm glad I did change:
-ditching MeuExAmor
-going no-contact with several men that were once in my life
-my opinion about psych medication
-learning to stand up for myself

The things I want to change:
-having any kind of feelings for my nephew
-my fear and trust issues with relationships
-not jumping at every single thing that startles me
-convincing my brain that the world isn't all that bad out there

home at last

I've been home for nearly two weeks now. It's been a bit of an adjustment.

Until I'm done with the military or treatment, whichever comes first, I'm still active duty. My primary place of duty is the VA clinic in town for appointments. If I'm not there, I'm at the job site. No outside employment. Not allowed to go back to school full time. I call my platoon sergeant every single day, my case manager multiple times a week, and I'll probably be talking to the social worker about once a week. There was no more than a day off of working and appointments when I first got home. No travel outside of a 200 mile radius without putting in leave. And don't dare ask for a pass -- it's probably not going to be approved anyways.

I know that I shouldn't complain. I'm home, I'm still getting paid, and I am not spending a cent on medical treatment. It's just not the idea of home that I'm used to.

My family -- well, most of them -- have been awesome. There was a problem when my brother came to visit and our parents stepped in and dealt with it. The holidays are going to be a bit interesting, and not in the good way.

Going back to campus was easier than expected. Bossman was so happy to see me. Someone had mentioned that he probably was lonely, with most of the gang graduated or otherwise busy. One of the professors assured me that I was no different in the eyes of the department and that as far as most were concerned I did my time and came back. Which is always reassuring.

Even though I know it's not possible, part of me wishes that it was like how it was before I left. Life moves on. And that's okay.

The goal is to get better, not to roll back the clock.

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?