PTSD Story

True to my word (more them less me)here's story of a friend and poet just returned from his second tour in Iraq as an infantry officer.

Tomorrow will be friend two, aviation commander two years after Iraq.

SO here's the deal, friend one today, I'll call him Z. I got an e-mail from Z that really bothered me. He just wanted to "Hey I'm back, alive, writing my ass off and still hiding in a bottle but less than I have been." He's a great guy and a very talented poet and budding screen writer. We met in between tours and because of a shared military skill set and that whole Operation Homecoming thing, hit it off right away. I missed being able to communicate more but you know how sporadic comms are from Baghdad. Needless to say, it was more random than not and we missed out on a lot of what we've been doing for the last two years.

Z was an Army Officer, Infantry to be exact and very good at it. He also managed to get lucky and when his time was up, the Army managed to accidentally let him go (An extremely unusual thing for a one block company grade infantry officer - OK for any Infantry Officer with a pulse and less than a major felony). He went to Texas, to be in an affordable place where he could be by the beach, write, drink, and see the world go by - preferably in bikinis. I think he deserved it.

For those of you who are not intimately familiar with the military, everyone who signs on the line, owes a minimum of eight years. Now, in most cases - for Officers, this means six years of active duty and two years of IRR (Individual Ready Reserve. During your time on the IRR, you are subject to recall at any time.

Z was just shy of his 8th year when he opened his mail slot to find the letter. I call it the letter because to call it anything else would be to make it seem like normal correspondence - "Dear Z, Ed McMahon is on his way. Please wait by your door" or "Dear Z, if you don't pay your bill, we will disconnect your water on Friday."

Despite being more than a little pissed off about being invited on a long date with Uncle Sam, Z showed up at Fort Somewhere, did his month of training and went merrily on his way to Iraq for twelve or more months in a somewhere shitty kind of place.

Z could have dodged the bullet. He was definitely suffering from PTSD among other crap you carry home with you from the big sandy but he is after all an Army Officer. He did not believe he could say no when so many others were still walking in harms way.

The Z who came home this time is different from the friend I knew when he came home last time - his writing is angrier, when he can even make himself write it down, he drinks for the drunk not for joy of a little fun with good friends, and he seems sad. He is not my dog ran away sad. He is fuck the world, I shot my dog on a street in Baghdad sad and I can't sleep and I don't really want to anyway sad.

He said to me recently that he doesn't understand why it bothers him so much this time. He saw much less death and every day was not a sphincter clenching I will die here today kind of day. It was actually pretty damn boring this time aside from the mortars and the odd Baghdad fight but it feels worse. (Poetic license here) Some guy bumped into me in the bar and I beat him until it dawned on me that he was unconscious on the ground and I couldn't tell if the blood was coming from my hands or the mess that was his face.

Good news - Z was rushed out by a friend and didn't go to jail.

He asked me about BBG and how she's doing and how she's dealing with her PTSD. I told him honestly that some days are good and some days suck but more are better now. I reminded him that shortly after she got out of the hospital and I finally let her drive that she forced a woman in a mini van off the road for driving too close to our vehicle. (sadly no poetic license here)

Good news - BBG had no weapon so she did not disable the woman or her vehicle.

I said to him the same things I have said to BBG and to my other friends with PTSD. You need help. You need to go to the VA and wait until someone sees you - even if takes fourteen hours, two days or a week. You need to get into a group with other OIF/OEF combat vets and talk about it. You need to get off the booze or that friend who saved you from jail will fade away and you will be alone. Most of all - talk with friends and know that you are just like tens of thousands of others. If you work through it, it may never go away but it will dull with time.

You have to be open to help and know that without it, you will lose yourself in the rage and the pain and in the middle of the night, if you have no one, you can call me.

He hasn't called and I haven't heard from him lately. (probably because I suck and got wrapped in my own whine for soooo long that I forgot about a friend.)

I hope to god its because he's out doing things that us married guys only dream about.

TIA

Earl