I assume that everyone has someone that they just seem to get along with. Someone that without knowing anything about them, they just know that they are of a kindred spirit. It's really a wonderful thing, especially for those that have certain scars that they carry with them.
I have several individuals that are just like this. Most of them seem to be from an older generation, but they carry the same marks as I do. I don't know all of their stories, I don't know why they carry their marks, and I really don't care either. I know that they've seen/done things that at the time were the only options available to them. They stared some kind of life altering decision in the face, and made their best guess. They've then lived with that same decision, wondering what the alternative choices may have become. Of how they might have been able to do something more, even though, they probably exhausted every option they had.
I'm probably romanticizing my memories of my Great-grandfather, however, I remember him as always being someone that tried to help others. He was always there for others, and was cheerful about helping out. I aspire to be like that. Some of you may have heard the name Chief Wiggles. I've known him for quite a while, although I don't know how remembers me, I will always remember him to have had the utmost strength of character. I would dare say that he's one of my heroes.
The first time I realized that Chief Wiggles was one of my heroes, I was at an EPW camp. It was my job to sort out people, the good from the bad, and the others... whatever they might be. I had recently dealt with US Army releasing a group of guys that we knew were bad. They were bad enough that they actually had books published by the previous regime bragging about their deeds. During the same time, I had an almost perfectly innocent boy/man, allowed to die in front of my eyes because bureaucrats, were unsure if releasing him would be a good idea.
Chief Wiggles saw the burden I carried. After all, I was pretty young for the amount of responsibility I had. (It seems that it's always been that way though.) He took me to an area of the camp where there were people who were honestly trying to make a better life. Many of them had been helping the US since before the invasion. See, what a lot of people don't understand is that the US became obliged to assist Iraq over 20 years ago. During the Bush Sr years, the US government helped to start a civil war in Iraq. They made certain promises to groups that they would be there to assist and support a democratic state. After the liberation of Kuwait however, the international community decided that Iraq should be left as it was. The US of course, with all of its promises and obligations followed suit, and allowed for the Iraqis to take care of themselves.
A lot of my time in Iraq was learning about the Entifada. I learned about locations of mass graves, who were involved, why they were involved, and how the graves came to be. The first time I saw a child being shoveled out of a grave, I thought I saw the face of the devil. I couldn't believe that a woman holding a child would be dumped in a grave like they were. Stories from the local populace said that many of the people buried in the graves weren't even dead when they were buried, but rather some were shot, and some were not. Most of them were in some relation to the freedom fighters of the Shia people in southern Iraq. Others though were victims of rape from Uday and Qusay Hussein. They buried, because they dared to speak against them.
Those who weren't destroyed during Entifada, continued to hold onto the hope that one day they would have the opportunity for a better life and the overthrow of the Hussein dictatorship. When the US finally did arrive nearly a decade late, they immediately began preparations to help overthrow the regime. These men sacrificed so much for the hope of a better future for Iraq. They were and are the cornerstone of what will be a better Iraq if that time comes. Meeting them, and hearing their stories, about their history and families, and their sacrifices made the work that I performed so much easier to tolerate. I don't know what happened to this group of men. I don't know whether they were released, or sentenced or if their families made it through the war, or even how the current terrorist like activities affect them now. I do know that the marks they carried felt just like the marks that I carry.
Sometimes there are individuals that share this bond even when you don't know each other well. You can live hundreds and even thousands of miles away, yet, know that there's someone else out there that feels the way you do. This is especially important when it comes to PTSD. Knowing that you're not alone, that others fight the same fight as you is really important. It builds morale. Recently I lost one of those pillars. I realize that it's long since been time for him to return to our creator, to return to those loved ones that left before him, but I'm selfish, I'm greedy. I used the knowledge that he fights alongside me to boost my morale. Without him, I know things will be harder for me, but I also know, he has a chance now to meet with our creator and discuss the marks that he carries to finally be healed. I am grateful for knowing him, I'm grateful for the strength he was to me, and I'm grateful that whatever sufferings he had, they are now laid to rest.
RIP Airman... may your journey be pleasant and filled with the renewing of your spirit and family.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Time Heals?
It's interesting to review the last several years. I've done terrible with maintaining this blog, and have even forgotten the login at one point. However, I don't know that I've changed much. I started this blog as a way to cope, a way to make comments and share feelings that at times I feel would alienate me from those around me. I failed miserably. Nothing seems to be able to control my mouth. Years of discipline and trying to maintain a PC (PG) version of myself have failed to keep me from as my wife would say, sharing too much.
Years ago, we moved in to a small quiet neighborhood. The neighborhood was mostly low income, mixed minorities, families just starting out, and the occasional should be retired, but just can't afford it couples. It wasn't a slum or anything, in fact it's one of the places I've most enjoyed living. Everyone seemed to have their own issues, however, they dealt with them. They didn't argue about whose problems were worse, nor did they brag about how much better they were doing than their neighbor. This was the first time I believe my wife told me I was no longer allowed to share my experiences with others.
It seems though that over time I've gotten worse. Not only with my inability to control the things I share, but, at times, how I share. There are certain people that have a strong affect on me. I have a friend that when we hang out, we often get out of hand. We share things that few understand. Our experiences although not the same, have similar underlying facets. Our reactions to how each other handled their specific situations is of course quite similar. The problem is, that as we share that bond, we also lose control of our 'filters' our underlying emotions betray us and take over the vocabulary we use.
It's been over a decade since my PTSD started. It's weird to think about it. When I first went through the event, I wanted to forget about the people involved and the situation in general. However, after more than a decade, now all I can remember is the guilt that I feel, and the image of a face as it left this world. I can still remember some details, however, I've forgotten his name, I've forgotten where he lived, and I've forgotten the events leading up to and after his death. It's like I've lost a month of my past. 10 years ago, I would've thought that this is what I wanted, however, now I wonder. After all, I used to be able to console myself that I had done all that I could in order to try to save him. With the exception that had I been smarter, I probably could have saved him.
I've spent the last several years learning about emergency medicine. I have improved my skills and focused on how I can help others. That still doesn't seem to be enough though. I've volunteered at a number of places trying to help as much as I can, however, I don't ever seem to fit in. It seems that there is a mark that others can see. They don't know what it is, or why it is there, but others notice that it's there. It's a small thing, but it's still something that is off.
I guess when it comes down to it. I won't know the true measure of my guilt until after this world is over. I hope that when I go before my maker, that he will find me acceptable, and will forgive me as well as help me to forgive myself. It seems that sometimes time doesn't heal so much as it festers...
Years ago, we moved in to a small quiet neighborhood. The neighborhood was mostly low income, mixed minorities, families just starting out, and the occasional should be retired, but just can't afford it couples. It wasn't a slum or anything, in fact it's one of the places I've most enjoyed living. Everyone seemed to have their own issues, however, they dealt with them. They didn't argue about whose problems were worse, nor did they brag about how much better they were doing than their neighbor. This was the first time I believe my wife told me I was no longer allowed to share my experiences with others.
It seems though that over time I've gotten worse. Not only with my inability to control the things I share, but, at times, how I share. There are certain people that have a strong affect on me. I have a friend that when we hang out, we often get out of hand. We share things that few understand. Our experiences although not the same, have similar underlying facets. Our reactions to how each other handled their specific situations is of course quite similar. The problem is, that as we share that bond, we also lose control of our 'filters' our underlying emotions betray us and take over the vocabulary we use.
It's been over a decade since my PTSD started. It's weird to think about it. When I first went through the event, I wanted to forget about the people involved and the situation in general. However, after more than a decade, now all I can remember is the guilt that I feel, and the image of a face as it left this world. I can still remember some details, however, I've forgotten his name, I've forgotten where he lived, and I've forgotten the events leading up to and after his death. It's like I've lost a month of my past. 10 years ago, I would've thought that this is what I wanted, however, now I wonder. After all, I used to be able to console myself that I had done all that I could in order to try to save him. With the exception that had I been smarter, I probably could have saved him.
I've spent the last several years learning about emergency medicine. I have improved my skills and focused on how I can help others. That still doesn't seem to be enough though. I've volunteered at a number of places trying to help as much as I can, however, I don't ever seem to fit in. It seems that there is a mark that others can see. They don't know what it is, or why it is there, but others notice that it's there. It's a small thing, but it's still something that is off.
I guess when it comes down to it. I won't know the true measure of my guilt until after this world is over. I hope that when I go before my maker, that he will find me acceptable, and will forgive me as well as help me to forgive myself. It seems that sometimes time doesn't heal so much as it festers...
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