Catharthis

As my leave continues, now on its down slide, I have continued to draw conclusions as to the future. I spent tonight with a dear friend of mine. Her and I have never been spectacularly close, we don't talk often while we reside in different states, we have different lives. However every time I come home I ensure I spend time with this wonderful woman. Tonight we spent 6 hours talking about a variety of topics, she allowed me to prattle on about my recent break ups, therapy, and the like. To be cliche I feel as if weight has been lifted off my chest. My life is hectic, difficult, and tumultuous. Without people such as S,C,K, J, and T I would be lost. Each of them provide me with immeasurable support. While they have supported me through bad relationships, Iraq, and therapy they now support me on the road to recovery. For this, I can never thank them enough. 

I also appreciate the 3 votes I have received on my poll! Currently Iraq/PTSD is tied with Anxiety for my next lengthy serious blog post. In other news my good friend "C" will be beginning a blog soon. While I write about personal issues and conflicts, he tends to venture more into the realm of philosophy. Possibly coming soon is a link to my friend "S" artist Facebook page. She is incredibly talented, I'm just awaiting her permission.In the meanwhile here is her store page, well worth the price for such work. She often puts anywhere from 25-50 hours into her smallest paintings. They're stunning! As far as I'm aware she'll consider custom work on a case by case basis. Share it with friends!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/sredisni

Justification

As I sit here on a Saturday night, I feel like, due to a certain circumstance with a tweep of mine, that I should justify my behavior on Twitter. Twitter is separate from my life, only two people in my actual life know of my blog, and of my Twitter account. In this detached identity I'm often extremely friendly, supportive, and attentive. I have a paranoid fear that some believe I behave this way in order to achieve secondary gain. My goals and desires are simple. I have sat, without sleep, depressed staring at a massive collection of pills, glancing at my cell phone, and feeling as if I have no one to call, no one to go to. Sometimes we can't talk to those close to us, for fear of shame or judgement. I know what its like I have been there. That being said, I'll be blunt. On those dreadful nights of loneliness, depression, sadness, or discomfort, I want every person reading this post to realize that you can DM me on twitter and I will answer. It goes directly to my phone. I'll listen without judgement, I'll answer if you want, or you can just vent and scream into the void. Each of us endures the human condition in our fashion, and each of us is capable of enduring, and eventually prevailing. Though sometimes we need support along the way.

Coming Home Written 11 NOV 12

It has been almost 9 months since I have come home to Florida. For good reason too, a very dear friend of mine left the military more than a year ago and coming home isn't the same without him. I come home to this town in which most of my friends have left, as I have, and what remains are often, but not exclusively the dregs of my high school class. My town is one of those where if you do not escape it, and quickly you will be 40 years old, middle management at Wendy's, smoking the same weed, from the same dealer you were when you were 16. This was all too apparent last night. I ventured beach side last night, a place of many good and bad memories,to visit an old friend of mine. She is working at the same diner she did when we were in high school, she works diligently on her families farm and is a very talented artist. I don't view her in the same light I view a lot of people in this town, perhaps its idealism because she is beautiful and her and I might of had something were it not for the perpetual and continuous bad timing. Sitting at the bar with her and her boyfriend I watched as 20 something's, and 30 something's trash talked about the decline of our nation, complained about their menial jobs. I watched the cougars stare at me with curiosity and the men nervously glance at my Combat Medic sweatshirt. Each looking to avoid, or consume, me for their own advantage. As I slammed my empty glass onto the bar, I caught the eye of a lady across the bar, I'd say she was in her early 30's, once beautiful, but now weathered and more pretty. From chatter I gathered she worked in the attached restaurant. With the warmth of liquor in my gut and the tarnished glimmer in her eyes I couldn't help thinking how easy it would be. I could work as an EMT, make decent money, we could have a nice respectable apartment, we'd never fight, spend our evenings at the same bar, come home and smoke the same weed. No medical school, no big wedding, no more nightmares, no more pain, no more betrayal, and most importantly no more guilt. It would be a nice simple life. Perhaps they're far more intelligent than I give them credit for. She turned her gaze back to her friend, I left a tip on the table, took one last glance, and stepped off into the breeze.

Confessions of a Victim

Tonight I write, not as the "survivor" I label myself as, but a honest and open victim of childhood sexual abuse. I'm a big fan of Law and Order Special Victims Unit, it doesn't really contain triggers for what I particularly endured though it has always prompted one particular thought I'd like to share with you.

Why do some victims become perpetrators, and others do not?

I've never had any sexual desire towards anyone illegal, I view child molesters with the utmost disgust, I've never contemplated perpetration or conducted it.

After many hours of contemplation, I believe I have found what saved my development, as I can only comment on my own situation. After a childhood rife with bullying, I had several violent outbursts once I moved away from my abuser. My parents taught me to internalize, that regards of what is done towards you, that you take it, keep your chin up, and move on. As with most victims, I have no "grey" area. Things are extreme, black or white. Naturally I took there guidance on internalization to the extreme. While I had no recollection of my abuse from the age of 8-16, the walls eventually came down. When they did I was forced internalize 8 years of pain and anomalies. The inexplicable incontinence from the age of 8-10, the bullying from 8-13. I was overwhelmed, reaching towards drug and forever contemplating suicide. I reached out to my girlfriend at the time, though ashamed to reach beyond that. I internalized.

I struggled with narcotic and THC addiction from the age of 16-19. Continued to cope, internalize the floods of memory and pain. The thought of taking my anger and pain out on an innocent child, or even a girlfriend, never crossed my mind. I internalized and eventually I began to escalate taking my anger out on myself. Cutting, the escalated drug use.

Though reduced it is a pattern I continue today. I feel embarrassed and ashamed to ask for help. As I often say, I would rather remain alone, cut, drink, abuse medication then call someone and vent.

I feel like a cage holding a beast within, and not a beast targeting children, just a rage consumed, spurned animal. An animal that would much rather slowly euthanize itself,  than destroy what innocence remains in this world.

Pine Ash

A forest of pine trees spread and spaced.

Standing proud, needles pricking at my feet.

As the sky descended, pine began to burn.

The crunching mechanical brutes trouncing towards me.

Inhaling deeply, smoke billowing against the innocence of my lungs.

I witnessed you walk towards me, leading the beasts.

The light gliding along the wind, melting with the oak of your hair.

The pines crashing under their tracks, as you saunter.

Your pupils dilated, locked with mine.

Drawing nearer, the heat wilts my body, nor my resolve.

The smirk crosses your lips as your pace quickens to the sound of crumbling nature.

My eyes look to the sky, searching for purity.

They found nothing but a rain of embers.

Vision blurring as tears track through my charred skin.

Chest swelling with anticipation of your touch.

My arms opened, back arched, eyes closed.

I feel empty as you pass through me.

Pine ash has never tasted so sweet.

Courage

I have faced bullets, bombs, bodies. Death, devastation and destruction. I have embraced therapy regarding these memories, it has been exhausting and tough but I have made strides. However the clock is ticking and the time is approaching where I will no longer be able to tip toe. Sooner or later I will have to delve beyond the surface of my childhood abuse. I was sexually abused for four years as a child. I have admitted it, I've moved from being a victim, to being a survivor. Rapidly approaching is the reckoning, where I will face far more than simple sentences of admission and perspective. I'm not sure I have the courage to do it.

The Bullet in our Shoulder Pocket

Tonight I was discussing suicide with a close friend. Not in the capacity of committing it, more of a philosophical contemplation of it's ramifications. I began to explain why I maintain an "out", how I keep a method of suicide readily available in my own home, at all times. A discussion I thought would be best shared.
The ability to take one's own life is a power that every person possesses. It is a power frowned upon and generally viewed as unacceptable by society. Suicide is devastating, to family, medical personnel, everyone involved, I'm not disputing that. In a sense the idea of it is empowering though, that regardless of what occurs during the day, however daunting and painful it may be...I have an exit strategy. The adult version of the proverbial baby blanket.

While on mission in Iraq, I carried 210 rounds of 5.56mm ammunition in 7 magazines. I also carried one more round...the bullet in my shoulder pocket. While I served while Iraq was calming down, the thoughts of death, injury, and capture were ever present. We often conducted patrols with the nearest help hours away. So in the event of a fire fight, and I ran out of ammo, I still had my baby blanket. 

The Man Without a Soul

I'm not going to bore you with a long flaccid description of Iraq, beyond the people the only thing worthy of note is the smell, diesel fuel, feces of all sorts, decomposing flesh, all simmering in summer temperatures ranging from 100 degrees Fahrenheit to 150 degrees Fahrenheit. Permeating into your clothes, your hair, your skin, it bonds to molecular structure. Regardless of showers, bleach, or any number of hygienic measures you remain tainted, encased in a layer of filth.

My first month encrusted in the grime was spent working night shift at the FOB (Forward Operating Base) medical facility. Simplicity at it's finest, I played computer games, watched movies, drugged insomniacs, consoled sexual assault victims, and fought an epic conquest against both malingering homesickness and drowsiness. Once the shock and awe of my responsibilities eroded, despondency set in. Awkwardly cleaning, sterilizing and suturing a female who attempted anal sex minus lubrication was not exactly the reason I had both joined, and volunteered, for a combat deployment. 

Nights turned to nights, and days wound into days, and my complacency grew. I no longer cared to remember the stories, cries, misgivings and rants of the liars, narcissist, and hypochondriacs that were my patients. Once burning feverishly, the light of my eyes, and the passion in my heart began to quell, no longer a roaring flame.

The radio squawked, a rare trauma call. A suicide bomber had driven his beaten Honda civic into the side of one our behemoth MRAP (Mine Resistant Ambush Protected) Vehicles. Fortunately the 300lbs of high explosive wired to his bumper failed to detonate, and he was ejected through the windshield head first into the the heavily armored side of the MRAP. My heart did not begin to race, and my alertness did not increase. Calls such as this were often handled by the team of doctor who slept in the back of the clinic, it was merely my responsibility to awaken them, brief them on what information we had, and stand by the emergency surgical/treatment ward to conduct menial tasks such as blood mopping, suctioning, and gaining IV access. The janitorial work of the medical field. I transcribed what information the Combat Medic on ground was providing, the patients vitals, heart rate, blood pressure, and temperature, were not too bad. I barely managed a stroll in waking the providers. The majority of them, unsurprisingly, waved me off and returned to the comfortable escape of sleep. Only two, Captain Matthew and Major T, arose to accept the patient. My shift partner, Eric, and I place the sign at the desk "Currently Occupied in the ER, Standby Unless Life or Death", to inform the usual midnight malcontents of our whereabouts.

Set up in the white and blue packaged sterility of the trauma bay, its walls lined in all manner of medical equipment, we each assumed our stations. No nerves, just apathy. I yawn, loudly, and the rest of the group soon followed. Standing there quietly, what was there to say? Another radio squawk. The double doors blocking us from the outside world burst open as this former suicide bomber was brought in hurriedly. The Combat Medic rattled off an impressive note, informing us of physical findings, vitals, and other such usually necessary information. Major T thanked him tonelessly as we buzzed into our choreographed routine. Eric slid in the Foley catheter effortlessly into the shriveled penis of our 40's something, excessively hairy, pudgy patient. Captain Matthew ensures the airway is clear and established, when stationed at the patient's head, I discovered the damage. I vaguely remember muttering some sort of expletive when my double gloved hand, palpating for exactly what I found, loosened the cracked bone of the bomber's skull. It fell pinging, off of the metal framework of the table. I explored more, visually now, and discovered a hole about the size of a coke can, right above the top of the spine. The brain, where we dream, where we learn, where our hopes and desires flourish and crest, was merely a gray mass. Unimpressive and underwhelming. The vitals machines began to beep, his temperature was 109 degrees Fahrenheit. He was dead, we all knew it at this point, I lacked the concern to bandage the gaping hole in his skull, we were breathing for him, and a collective sigh rose from the room. For the first time, I noticed the patients eyes, they had not moved or blinked. Deep brown, with flecks of hazel, unwavering, dilated pupils staring to nothingness. No light burning, and barely a heart beating. I didn't hate him, or even pity him. A complete and utter apathy. Not comparable to a lab animal, as those pluck at my heartstrings. This patient, this man, had nothing. Cattle led to slaughter have their final breath, the last look at a bright blue expanse.

Major T and Captain Matthew instructed Eric and I to practice on the sweating, for all purposes, cadaver that laid in life supported only by machinery. We exercised our skills completely, venous cut downs and surgical airways among a myriad of others. There were no patient reactions, no twinges of pain, or screams of agony. Just the same eyes, staring unending at the surgical lights above. As our practice concluded we removed our interventions and began to clean the patient, somewhat unwillingly. Major T gave us a solemn nod and returned to bed along with Captain Matthew. All the equipment was removed, I slowly removed the tracheal tube that provided the appropriate ventilation to ensure breathing. As the patient's chest stopped,the pace of his heart slowed, I stared into those steadfast windows searching for a glimmer of anything, whether it be pain of peace. Nothing, even as he crossed the threshold into whatever awaited him after his life.

After handing off the corpse, along with appropriate paperwork to the Iraqi authorities, I plopped down into my spinning desk chair, and resumed my computer game. "Do you think that man still had a soul when he died?" Eric's question caught me off guard. "Depends on your personal beliefs" I shot back, not even looking up from my laptop. I decided to expand, not wanting to seem unsympathetic, such philosophic questions were important to Eric. "When that man came into our ER, he was already dead, more a butchers side of meat than anything. You could even say he was a man without a soul, if that suits your fancy". Eric thought momentarily, and nodded emphatically, placing the headphones running from his portable DVD player back in.

Feeling that layer of encrusted filth intensify I headed to the latrine, giving my hands and face a quick scrub, I looked into the mirror. As I scrubbed away I stared intently.Deep brown, with flecks of hazel, unwavering, dilated pupils staring to nothingness, barely a light burning, and hardly a heart beating.

Revival

With encouragement from @GraceBellavue and @Jenna_C_ I have decided to revive this blog. I wrote one post, when I came home from Iraq, and I planned for this blog to chronicle my journey. On the surface it seems like a simple 16 hour plane ride with one stop along the way for fuel. However there are so many soldiers who emotionally have yet to come home. I'm not sure if I'm one of them. Perhaps I still remain a convoluted mess, issues from four years of childhood rape, compounded by schoolyard bullying, producing a self sacrificing man who would feed his last morsel of food to the woman that broke his heart. I suppose it would be far simpler, if I had returned a bitter, hardened man, in a way I did. I spent October 2010-August 2011, as a complete emotional fortress. No one in, no one out. I did not feel, I did not care to feel. I had nothing to make me feel. Now within the past two months I have begun intensive therapy for what I survived in Iraq, and perhaps one day when I sum up the courage, what I survived as a child. Every morning when I look into the mirror, I see a man who is not afraid of bullets and bombs, for he would much rather face those, than the emotional trauma of failure. Physical wounds are far easier to resolve.

I'll begin writing regularly, and I hope to attract any audience at all, veterans, survivors of childhood sexual abuse, and the good people on this earth who want to believe they are not alone. I write for you.