A Day with PTSD

[unhappycamper]

A Day with PTSD
by Craig M. Smith | Mon, 08/20/2007 - 1:57pm


Welcome Home

Looking out the passenger window of my truck, I had never seen such a mass of people before. Beads of sweat are dripping down my face, and fear is gripping my heart. I am clutching my M-16 rifle as if it is the savior of my life. A seeming ocean of faceless faces just look at me. They stare, as if they are contemplating my existence. In an instant, the faces vanish. Suddenly a terrifying explosion occurs in front of me. A fireball of the deepest orange soars through the sky. The smell of something burning is putrid, and now I am living in slow motion. Everything around me is burning, and I begin to prepare my soul so that I may face God. I want to cry, but I can’t. I want to escape, but there is no end. Children begin shooting at me; I know that I am going to die. I start screaming.

“Veronika! Help me!” I scream from the deepest part of my soul. “What is it baby?” my wife so caringly asks. I look up at the ceiling, and then I look around the room. Everything is quiet, and everything is calm. I hear the dull sound of the air conditioner running. As I look into the dark, I realize that my vivid experience was only a dream. My body is shaking, and I am also very surprised that I am still alive. My wife gently grabs the back of my head and begins rubbing my hair. Her warm caress reminds me that this surely is not Iraq. “Shhh, you are in a safe place, Craigy.” My wife’s comforting words gently glide into my ears. As I begin to lie on my wife’s chest, my muscles still quiver from the rushes of adrenaline that my body produced from the dream. I look at the clock; its 3 a.m. In 3 hours I will have to wake up, and go face a world that can never understand the war that is still raging in my mind.

A veteran of Iraq, I now face the challenge of living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, also referred to as PTSD. PTSD is a mental disorder that results from a very traumatic, or series of traumatic episodes. Upon my return from Iraq in December of 2003, we were greeted with great fanfare. When the excitement of our homecoming wore off, life began to become normal. As the normality of life increased, so did my symptoms of PTSD. Around the second month into my return to the United States, I began having very abnormal and violent dreams, anxiety attacks, exaggerated reactions to loud noises, and a paranoid approach to even the most modest of human tasks. The mental trauma experienced in combat continues, even though in reality, combat for me has stopped.

I am tired because I did not sleep well last night. I begin drifting between thoughts as I drive down the road. “Children shooting, God that’s a weird dream! Am I sane? Am I a man?” My day at work is over, and the lights of the city are beginning to shine. As I am driving down the road, the stop light up ahead turns red. I de-accelerate and come to a complete stop. It is nighttime, and a white SUV pulls up along side of my car. Glancing over at the SUV’s tinted windows, I cannot see the driver. My heart begins to race. My muscles tighten with every panting breath that I take. Explosions seem to come out of my chest; and my heart hurts from the impact of every beat. “Is his car going to blow up? Is he a suicide bomber?” My mind asks itself. “No, of course its not, are you nuts? Just turn up the radio.” I turn up my radio, yet I cannot drown out the shrieking cries of my primal instincts. Listen for gunshots, where is an escape route? Stay alert, dammit, stay alert! I slump in my seat, because I know in the deepest parts of my heart that the person in the SUV is going to shoot me, or detonate himself at any second. My heart beats even faster, I exhale, and brace for the shock of death. The stoplight turns green, and the white SUV simply drives away. The car behind me honks its horn, and I realize that I must finish my drive home. I loosen my grip on the steering wheel, shift into first, and begin to accelerate. I look at my watch and realize that only a minute has passed. Shocked and confused, I resume my drive home.

Later that night, my wife and I prepare for bed. “Sweety, are you going to sleep in our bed tonight?” my wife so curiously asked. “No, I think I’ll just stay on the couch,” I reluctantly replied. Lying on the couch, I begin staring at the ceiling. As I stare into the night, I begin to reminisce of days past. I think about how over the past two years, hundreds of people have told me that I am a hero, even to go as far as saying that I am their personal hero. I don’t feel like much of a hero anymore. I am a scared man, and I feel abandoned in my dreams. I can’t sleep; in fact, I don’t want to sleep. I quickly turn on the T.V. Seeing the light of the television reminds me that I am alive. Shutting my eyes will bring me back to death. As the time passes, my eyes begin to grow heavy. I wonder if my enemies of the past will visit me once again. The light of the room dims off and on. I fight as if I am trying to stay alive, only to be overcome by the human function of sleep. The day has finished, but for me, with PTSD, it has just begun.