Tag Archives: adventure

Memories and Afghanistan

My memory is horrible. It has been for a while. I missed my most recent appointment with my psychologist because I forgot what day it is. Forgetting what day it is happens to me frequently, but missing an appointment, or even being late, is absolutely not normal. It’s not just days, but also months and years. I sometimes have to confirm what year it is because I’m not sure. Not long ago I was at my kid’s school filling out a form for one of them. I filled it out, signed and dated it, and gave it back to the lady at the desk. She looked it over, handed it back, and asked that I correct the date before she put her notary stamp on it. I looked at the date I wrote and asked was it not the 21st? She said, “It’s the 21st. It’s just not September.” It was February. I had no idea why I thought it was September.

I’m not sure why, but I can remember things like numbers, movie lines, songs, years that something significant happened in history, baseball statistics, directions (most of the time), and a bunch of other trivial nonsense. I would make some money on the game show Jeopardy. But other things in my memories seem to escape my mental grasp. For some things it’s like a blank slate. It annoys me, but I’ve gotten used to it. It has become part of my new normal.

In the last meeting with my psychologist I remembered something that I had previously completely forgotten. The memory was triggered when we were discussing an event that happened between therapy sessions. An event that had me pissed off to the point that I almost got into a physical altercation with someone. I wanted to. I really wanted that guy to get out of his car and give me a real reason to get out of mine. I would have likely done permanent damage to the individual. I just needed him to start the physical aggression. He had already started the verbal attack. But I didn’t let myself get baited into it, even though I really wanted to. Short of the story was this guy was trying to exit a one lane, one-way, entrance only driveway to the school, as school was ending. Imagine the traffic piling up on the road behind me as I had no place to go. It was getting chaotic, especially in my head. Being trapped like that isn’t the best scenario for someone with PTSD.

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The memory that was brought on by this event was something that happened in Afghanistan. I was in Kabul, going from my base to one called Phoenix with the USFOR-A chaplain team (my unit eventually stopped letting me go on missions with them, but that’s a whole different story). I was in the front passenger seat of an up-armored NTV (non-tactical vehicle). It was only me and the driver in the lead vehicle and two others in the rear vehicle. The driver and I were having a normal conversation like we usually did. Probably talking about going to Green Beans or Pizza Hut. Our base didn’t have those kinds of things, so when we traveled we always talked about what we were going to treat ourselves to. Here’s how the conversation ended up going:

     Driver: “Shit, we took the wrong road.”

     Me: “Maybe this one comes back out where we can get back on the other one.”

     A few second go by as we come around a curve to a pickup truck in the road with 8-10 pissed-off-looking dudes in the back with AK-47s.

     Me: “Turn around, man. Turn the fuck around!”

     Driver: “I’m trying, there’s no spot.”

     Me: “Make one!”

     The men took notice of us, although they made no aggressive moves. We immediately made a place to turn around. They probably thought we looked stupid and laughed after we left the area.

     Driver: “I don’t think they’re going to bother us, they would already be coming after us by now.”

     Me: “You think they’ll give us directions?”

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I had completely forgotten about that event until my therapy session a couple weeks ago. I wonder what else is trapped in my head that I don’t remember. It was a weird feeling to have that memory come back like that. I clearly remember that day now, but for the last couple years it’s like it never existed. It’s not uncommon for most of the Afghans to have AK-47s. But to see a group of men in the back of a truck that looked like they were organizing for something and ready to go, on a road we weren’t supposed to be on was a bit unnerving at the time. It certainly can lend some explanation to me feeling uncomfortable in stand-still traffic. As long as we’re moving, I’m ok. But long stops with a lot of other vehicles around makes me nervous. That’s what happened with the jackass going the wrong way out the entrance, I felt trapped.

I have thoughts in my head that I’m not sure sometimes if they are part of a memory of an event or part of a dream I’ve had. Maybe both. But I know I miss my memory. Well, I think I do. I guess I don’t really know, do I? LOL. I make a lot of jokes about my memory not being so great anymore. I can’t remember shit sometimes, but at least I can laugh about it. I’ve rescheduled my appointment with the psychologist for next week. Don’t let me forget.

Thanks for reading. Good day, God bless.

Dave

Helicopter Ride

I’ve had two deployments, one to Iraq and one to Afghanistan. Those two deployments could not be more different from one another. My Afghanistan deployment (2013-2014) was exciting, dangerous, and filled with travel all over the country. My Iraq deployment (2008-2009), on the other hand, was relatively boring. I spent the majority of my time behind a desk or visiting with troops on the base. There was very little excitement at Camp Bucca, which at the time was the largest Theater Interment Facility in the world. Besides going home on leave for two weeks about half way through the deployment, I only got to leave the base on one mission. Only one. It was a boring deployment, but in some respects that’s not a bad thing. And only once during my time in Iraq did I think that it might be possible I could die over there. Here’s that story.

I was on my way back to Iraq, returning from being home on leave for two weeks. I was delayed in Kuwait for two or three extra days waiting on transportation. It wasn’t the best place to be stuck, but it was almost relaxing to be able to recover from my time off before having to get back to work it in Iraq. I slept a lot between checking with the travel team responsible for getting people from Point A to Point B. If I remember correctly, we had to check in once a day at a certain time. If there wasn’t any transportation to where I was going, I would go back in 24 hours. Boredom set in pretty quickly, but that was cured with naps.

Finally, after a couple days of waiting, I had a helicopter flight going to Camp Bucca. It was actually three CH-47 Chinooks, which we affectionately called Shithooks. All three helicopters were filled to capacity with personnel and gear.  All of us were going to the same place, a direct flight. I was in the last helicopter of the formation. We took off and headed north. I love flying in helicopters. It’s one of my favorite things I’ve done in the military.

The helicopter I was on didn’t seem to keep up with the other two. I could see the other two flying higher. I could feel mine ‘slipping’ like it was not wanting to stay in the air, like it would drop a few feet then go back up. I watched the tail gunner leave his position, talking to the pilots through his radio. The tail gunner opened a side panel above a passenger across from me and looked inside. He fiddled with some gadgets and reported to the pilots over the radio. All the while I could feel the helicopter doing its best to stay in the air, slipping and climbing, slipping and climbing. The guy next to me was fast asleep.

The tail gunner then moved to the center of the aircraft, climbing to the top off all the duffle bags and opened another panel in the ceiling. He banged on some pipes and fixtures with his fist, shook his head, and kept talking to the pilots over the radio. I could see just the slightest concern in the tail gunner’s face, but nothing alarming. I could see the other two helicopters were considerably higher than mine. I guess the good news would be that we would not fall as far from our lower position. The bad news would be that we were in closer range for small arms fire if there were anyone out there that wanted to take a shot. I watched all this, taking it all in, repositioning my body so that if we did have to make a hard landing or crash, my spine might not be broke in two. All this while the guy next to me slept peacefully.

Eventually we made it to our destination, the helicopter I was on did land somewhat hard, just short of the landing pad, then rolled up on to it. We gathered our gear and exited out the rear of the Chinook. I had to wake up the guy next to me and let him know we arrived. The other two helicopters took off after  being emptied of passengers and gear, but the one I was on stayed on the ground. It would be there until the next day when a repair crew could take a look at it. I don’t remember the exact statistics, but I do remember that most U.S. military deaths involving helicopters in Iraq during that time were due to malfunctions, poor maintenance, or weather, as opposed to enemy engagements. I’m glad I didn’t get to see that play out.

I wasn’t worried about dying, but I was aware that I was in a position that it could happen, even if only remotely. It didn’t bother me, it was more surreal than anything, watching the tail gunner lose a little confidence in the aircraft. This is actually one of the stories I like to tell, probably because the rest of my deployment to Iraq was so boring. The one thing I kept thinking about during the flight was whether or not I should wake up the guy sitting next to me. If we were going to crash, would he want to know in advance? Would it freak him out? Would he be upset if we crashed and I hadn’t woken him? Yep, those are the things that went through my mind during the time that it was possible we might fall out of the sky. It’s kind of weird, right? Would I want to wake up in that situation? Would you? I feel like that situation for me was more of a moral dilemma than a life or death situation. Did I have any kind of duty to the guy next to me to wake him up? I still don’t know the answer to that. But that does remind me of a funny story of being at Bagram, Afghanistan, in a tent, half asleep. In my groggy state I heard a whining generator or truck or something along with large shipping containers being moved and banged around. I woke everyone else up in the tent thinking we were under attack again. False alarm.

My different doctors and counselors over the last 9 months agree that my PTSD most likely started in Iraq, but I am certain the helicopter ride is not the genesis of it. There were other things far worse in Iraq than that helicopter ride that I can trace my PTSD to, images that sometimes are front and center when I close my eyes, even though I try to not remember them. Then add to that all the excitement from Afghanistan. I spent years denying I suffered from PTSD. I know now how bad that was for me. Bad for me that I wouldn’t admit to suffering from it. It almost cost me my life last year. I wouldn’t say I necessarily embrace having PTSD, but I definitely embrace the freedom I feel from talking about it, writing about it, and accepting it. I can’t change it, I can only learn to live with it and continue to tell my story.

Thanks for taking the time to read Story of My Life. Good day, God bless.

Dave

Rest In Peace, Billy

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. I have been trying to figure out what to write about and as I finally have it, it changed. My step-dad passed away this morning. It was not unexpected, he had been sick for a while. Last weekend when I was visiting him and mom, he told me he was ready to go, ready to move on, ready to die. He told me that he had done everything he could to prepare for this and make it as easy as possible on mom. I guess he was satisfied with his preparations, he left this life, on his terms I imagine. That’ how he lived, I’m guessing that’s how he died.

I have mixed emotions when it comes to death. I’m not insensitive to it, I just don’t get all wrapped up in it. In this case, he is in a much better place, so it doesn’t seem too bad to me at all. He lived a long, productive life and will be missed. I just don’t really have the emotions any more when it comes to people dying. I think this might be what my psychologist referred to in one of our recent sessions when he said I show signs of being dissociative. I do tend to detach myself from things. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel it, I think it just means that I don’t let it affect me. The hardest part will be helping my mom. But I’m in a good mindset now to help.

Five weeks ago, or so, I would not have been able to help. I was a wreck in my own mind, not well. I was trying to salvage any sanity I had left at the time. It was five weeks ago that my step-dad began his final journey to the end of his life. He had been in and out of the hospital for years, but this was to be his swan song. Once or twice the last few years it appeared that he might be the end of life, but he was stubborn. He would only leave on his terms. And five weeks ago it was apparent that he was going to die sooner rather than later. And five weeks ago I would have been worthless to my mom. I know it sounds weird, and maybe wrong, but this is much better timing than five weeks ago. I can actually be of assistance. I feel like a dick for saying that, but I know some of you will understand.

See, the thing is, if I know I’m not in a good place to be able to help I shouldn’t be there. If I can’t function, how am I supposed to help anyone else? I know it looks bad to some, those few that don’t understand. But I have become well enough now to be able to say ‘No’ if needed, if I need it for me, for my own mental health. It’s not selfish, it’s reality. I can honestly say that now, today, and for the foreseeable I am much better and can be there for others as needed. It’s all a process, and I’m making it through it. It took a long time for me learn this: I have to put myself first sometimes to be able to be there for others. I make no apologies for that anymore.

A quick obituary. Billy was born in West Virginia in 1935. Died in Alabama today. He was a veteran of the U.S. Army, serving four years in the 1950’s. He was very active in coaching and scouting baseball for many years. He was captain of the deep sea fishing boat Lady Tina and a respected member of the Destin fishing community. The last decade or so Billy spent his time in the collectibles business, frequenting auctions and finding treasures. He is survived by my mom. He is also survived by many other family members too numerous for me to mention here. Rest in Peace, Billy.

To the rest of you, Good day, God bless.

Dave

The Cage With Prison Bars

I’ve met them all and put them in their respective places. I know each of them by name. We’ve come to agreements that, quite frankly, don’t benefit anyone involved, but there had to be agreements, whether they mean anything or not. I can’t make them leave, they are part of me and who I am now. I can get along with every one of them very nicely. Except one, except the one that wants to kill me. I keep him locked in a cage with prison bars. They are all my demons and I have them under control.

I entertain them occasionally, just to make sure they know I’m in charge, if I am in charge. Except the one that wants me dead. I won’t let that one out of the cage. But all the others come around once in a while, and if I feel like it I will pet them and send them on their way. They are free to roam because they have learned the rules and boundaries. Except Suicide. That one stays locked up. Behind prison bars. That one cannot be tamed like the others. That one does not play by the rules. That one scares me, even from behind the bars.

When all my demons ran wild and controlled me, it was chaos. I locked myself in that cage with prison bars to stay safe. But that didn’t work. They poked and jabbed through the bars. They laughed and made fun of me and threw things at me. And Suicide was the worst of them. That one won’t stop until you do. And I believed them for a while, every word. And they were right, they convinced me anyway. Except that they were wrong, I learned that later, after it was almost too late. It was hard, but I put them in their places, even the one that tried to murder me. Especially the one that tried to murder me. That bastard is behind bars now. But that one still scares me. That’s the only one I’m truly afraid of.

I look over my shoulder occasionally from time to time to make sure my demons are staying in their places, where they belong. They are for the most part, even the killer that is locked in a cage with prison bars. When I look over my shoulder at that one, it smiles calmly, not bothered at all about being locked up. That one knows that even from the cage it can get me if it wanted to, if I let it. I have all my demons under control except that one, which is befuddling to me since that’s the only one locked up. In a cage. With prison bars. No freedom to roam. Suicide stays quiet in the cage making plans for a reunion. I have no intention of showing up to that party.

But if you have demons of your own, maybe we can get them together for a play date party.

Immortality, A Little Fiction For Your Enjoyment

[I decided to take a break this week from writing my story directly. Here’s a little fiction I’ve been working on. It’s part of a larger work I’ve been putting together. Except for the poetry I mix into some of my posts, this will be the first fiction I’m sharing here. Enjoy, share if you like, and let me know what you think. Thanks for reading]

He lived his life in such a way that his only regrets would be the adventures he did not pursue, the things he did not try, and the words he never spoke. His life seemed exciting to him for the many ways and times he cheated death over the years. He knew most other men would not survive the life he’s lived. Not because he was boastful or proud in a condescending way, but more in wonderment. He couldn’t understand why he was still alive after all the near misses. But certainly, no regrets.

As he contemplated his life, he fell into his own mind, searching for answers. The maze of memories was hard to navigate. He did not recognize all of the memories that were flashing through his brain. He wondered if all the memories were his. He wondered if it were possible to have someone else’s memories. He wasn’t sure if he had even really lived the life he remembered. All the countries he visited, the people that he met, the good times, the bad times, the food, the colors, the smells, the animals, the mountains, the rivers, the cultures, the wars. Were they really his memories?

He dug deeper into his mind. He didn’t like what he was finding. He started to doubt his existence. He started to believe that he wasn’t the person his memories portrayed him as. It occurred to him that he might be just be a figment of someone else’s dreams or thoughts. This bothered him. He felt used. Why would someone else create him and this exciting life just for it to be a farce? There is no pleasure in life when you find out that you don’t exist. And he knew that.

He was perplexed. He pondered his options. He wanted to find a way to escape from whatever or whomever it was that forged the memories in his mind. He wanted to prove that he existed. He wanted to stop being a pawn. None of this was helping his sanity. He knew he was losing his mind, but couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or if it was under the control of someone else. And then it hit him. What if he was the one creating his own memories that weren’t real or familiar? And where were his real memories? All of this compounded his feeling of being either artificial or insane.

He came to the only rational conclusion that made sense to him. He would have to die. He figured if he didn’t really exist it wouldn’t hurt or matter. He figured if he wasn’t really who his memories say he is, it would simply be for the best. Either way, he was certain that being dead was the solution. He no longer wanted to feel artificial or insane. The only question he had was if he died, would this work? Certainly if he were insane it would work, but he wondered if he were just someone else’s made up existence with fake memories, would that work? He wondered if the person who made him up would even know that he died. There would be only one way to find out.

So he did it. He let himself die. He ended his life by his own hand. Afterward, he just lay there. Nothing seemed to change. He tried to figure out if he were dead or alive, real or imaginary. He felt no pain or emotion. But that’s how he felt before he died. He was confused. He wasn’t sure if he had done it right, or had even done it all. But now something new was happening. He could hear a voice. He could hear a second voice. He didn’t recognize them. He couldn’t see them and he couldn’t tell what they were talking about. He wondered if they were talking about him. He wondered if they could see him. He wondered if they knew who he was.

He tried to move. This made the voices he was hearing more excited. He knew they weren’t just voices in his head, they were real. He knew they could see him, but he still couldn’t understand what they were saying. And he still didn’t know who they were. And he couldn’t see them yet, he couldn’t see anything. He was starting to regain some consciousness, but still couldn’t open his eyes. Even so, everything was becoming more clear. Most of this had been a dream. He could now remember his memories. They were all his memories, it was indisputable now. He had tried to kill himself in his reality, in his real life. He remembered. Now he couldn’t figure out why it didn’t work. His memories were real; he had in fact cheated death a number of times throughout his life. And suicide didn’t work either. There could be only one explanation. He was immortal.

He imagined that Heaven and Hell got together, sitting across a table from each other and argued which one would have to take him when he died. He guessed this meeting happened every time he was close to death, dozens of times in all. Heaven and Hell could not come to an agreement, so he was forced to live on as immortal. This made the most sense to him. Some men might think that immortality would be good. However, in his case, he still aged, he had pains that wouldn’t go away, and he most certainly lost his sanity. None of these dreadful things should come with immortality. He could find no benefit for him to be immortal. He wondered what he would have to do to be able to die like a normal man.