Author’s Note: This is the final in a series of commentaries on an illness that affects thousands of veterans, many of whom are not receiving the mental health care they need and deserve.
For a long time, I didn’t know what was wrong. I just knew something wasn’t right. I fi nally found out, and it’s taken me 18 months to acknowledge it publicly.
I have post-traumatic stress disorder.
I used to scoff at the supposed illness. It was a crutch some people used to get out of their duty or slack off from work, I thought.
Not anymore. I live with it every moment of every day.
After I got back from Iraq, living in anapartment not surrounded by guards and concertina wire, I couldn’t shake the constant fear that some unknown, unrecognizable person would kick in my door and kill me. I know.
Doesn’t make sense. I can’t explain why.
I would sit at my computer desk with a 9 mm on one side and a .38 on the other. I’d go to bed with a rifle or shotgun easily within reach.
Nighttime was the worst. Every hour or so, I’d wake from fi tful sleep and I’d see this green fi gure standing in the doorway. No, it wasn’t an alien. The green was from the light in the smoke detector right above thedoorway. The somewhat amorphous fi gure always wore a gas mask for some reason. Again, no idea why.
But the “episodes” were the worst.
Most folks would call them anxiety attacks, I suppose. Usually, these uncontrollable moments led to me getting in my truck and going somewhere, anywhere, as fast as I could.
In Iraq, I was a tactical driver. My heavily armored truck was my safe place. I held my life in my own hands when I was driving that truck. If I was going to die, it was going to be because of a decision I made.
And so it was on Sept. 12, 2010, that I had been out for lunch. I’d had a few drinks. Enough, I guess. When the door to my apartment slammed behind me, it sounded just like a door slamming on a hooch at Tallil Air Base.
I was back there instantly, and I had to get to my safe place. I turned right around and headed down the highway. The state trooper clocked me going well above the speed limit, and the rest of that embarrassing afternoon is history.
Then there was the anger. I’ve never been a patient person, but my impatience turned to anger. I would lose control at work, and my short fuse led to a couple well earned tongue-lashings by my corporate bosses.
I knew by then what the problem was, but I didn’t want anyone else to know.
I felt more shame than anything else - shame that I couldn’t always control my actions.
In the aftermath of these incidents, I sought medical help.
The civilian doctor told me what a VA doctor had told me just a few months before. I was suff ering post-traumatic stress disorder.
The civilian doctor, though, did what VA didn’t. She prescribed medications to calm me down and help me sleep.
A year later, we’ve managed to confine my episodes to occasional sleepless nights. On those nights, I listen to some of the music we listened to as we traveled the Iraqi roads, and I’m back there.
I can feel my gloves. I can hear the radio traffic.
I smell the dust in my uniform. Maybe now these times are cathartic rather than harmful.
Time will tell.
I’m not alone, trapped in this cage of fear and anger and distrust.
Tens of thousands of men and women who served overseas come home with the same symptoms and the same demons they can’t shake.
It took me nearly losing the career before I finally decided that I couldn’t fix myself. Thousands of my brothers and sisters in arms never make it to that decision. They take their life rather than deal with what feels like an impossible way to live.
The only way to get better is to get help.
Even the strong can’t survive with PTSD.
For long.
RICK FAHR IS PUBLISHER OF THE LOG CABIN DEMOCRAT IN CONWAY.
Opinion, Pages 13 on 03/18/2012