American Bad Boy(72)

I relax a little, realizing that there’s no spotlight on me right now. This isn’t like when I was awarded the medal of honor by the president. Hell, it ain’t even like sitting down with Cooper Sanders last month. These are my guys, we don’t know each other yet, but our shared experiences are enough to bond us.

“When I got home from Afghanistan, I didn’t have time to think about much. I was so doped up on painkillers and meds that I got the best sleep I’d had in years. But, once they cut back on the pills, I had time to think. I thought about the men I lost. How I let them and their families down. I was consumed with guilt and anger. Honestly, there were days when I wanted to give up. There were a lot of days I asked God why he didn’t just let me die over there too.” My voice cracks and I have to fight a lump in my throat just to swallow. I’ve never really talked about those dark days. When living felt like a worse option than dying.

I breathe in deep and push myself to keep going. No one said this would be easy. But nothing worth doing is. “One day I was talking to a pastor who lost his arm over there on a different rotation, and he told me that God had a plan for me and it wasn’t up to me to question it. It made me look at my recovery differently. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and put everything I had into healing. Into walking. Into making everyone believe I was the same guy I had always been.”

I run my hand over my beard and look around the circle of men sitting around the fire. Some of them are nodding, others look lost in their own stories, but each of them still has their eyes on the crimson flames.

“And what happened?” Jay interrupts my thoughts and gently nudges me back on track.

“I think I did a great fucking job,” I laugh. “You know, for a while there, I even had myself fooled.” My smile fades as I lower my voice, “but then the flashbacks started.” I look down into my hands, “that first one, it scared the shit out of me. It was intense,” I blink back tears and look over at Jay. I need to look into a friendly face to keep me in the present.

“Did you know what it was?” He prods me on.

“No. Well, I knew it wasn’t good. I’d seen enough movies about war and shit to know that much. You know, it’s funny though, if someone else had told me they were going through the same thing I would’ve had no problem identifying it. I would point at them and say, ‘oh, that’s PTSD. You should go talk to someone, it’s totally normal after what you’ve been through.’ But I couldn’t admit that shit to myself. I just couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Jay is asking me questions that make Cooper Sanders look like an amateur. I mull it over. Why couldn’t I see it in myself?

“It wasn’t because I didn’t know. The flashbacks, they got worse. And then, so did the nightmares. I knew what was going on in the back of my head, but I didn’t want to admit it. Honestly, I’m still uncomfortable.” I rub my hands together and look back into the fire.

“You know,” I continue, “if it was someone else, I would say there’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help and all that. But, for me, it wasn’t like that. It’s like when I went to basic and they talked about PTSD in one of the classes. Even then, they give the whole ‘there’s no shame’ speech, but there was something false about it. The tone they use, the eye rolls. It’s like they have to teach it because it’s a law or something, not because anyone really believes it.”

“So, you felt ashamed. Do you still feel that way now?” Jay pushes me.

“Yeah. I guess I do. I can’t help but feel like when you admit you have PTSD; those four letters hang around your neck in a neon sign that spells ‘broken’ to everyone else. You know?” I look around for validation. Guys in the circle are nodding silently.

“I just,” my voice breaks, “I just spent so much time trying to fix everything. I wanted to somehow fix what happened over there. I wanted to fix my leg so no one would know by looking at me that it was fucked up. I wanted to fix everyone’s lives that I messed up in one way or another. But, I couldn’t fix myself. I couldn’t make it go away…” tears stream down my cheeks and my throat feels like I swallowed a coal. “I couldn’t fix it,” I sob.

Tears fall down my cheeks and into my beard. For a few seconds the only sounds in the camp are the crackle of the burning fire and me crying.

“Thank you for sharing that,” Jay finally softly speaks. “I think you’re going to find that most of us in this group have felt or do feel that way too. You’re not alone. This is only the first step in healing, but once you’ve gone through the entire program I think you’ll find you’re stronger for admitting you needed help,” he explains gently.