This is a story I never thought I would tell. I’ve never wanted to share the events of the first half of 2005, because I’ve never desired to give credit to the woman who warped my mental health and fractured my recovery (not withstanding my own obvious part in my self-destruction) from the trauma of war. I will change* the names as I relate this tale. I’ve moved on, but I can’t deny that the pain still lingers.
When I returned from combat a few months before that year, I was still seeking battles as the daily order of my life. After serving in Fallujah and on the Syrian Border of Iraq (and another tour a year before), there wasn’t much else that I knew – there wasn’t much else that felt normal.
I did my time, finished my second year long orders to active duty honorably, and then went back to the odd world of the modern day Reservist: the impossible shift from combat to the real world. Or, in my case, the incomprehensible change of going from Fallujah to Chili’s. I can’t honestly say what my issues were back then because I was too stubborn to ever get checked out or seek mental care from the government or anyone else.
But I knew I wasn’t happy. I knew that for some reason I just couldn’t cope with the life I had dreamed of so many months ago in the desert. I knew nothing of the way I felt made any sense. I felt numb, depressed, and prone to explosive anger; I welcomed anything that would make my adrenaline race again, like the way my pulse had raced when I operated a gunner’s turret in enemy territory. I know now, these were all classic symptoms of PTSD and survivor’s guilt.
Capping my anxiety – or whatever else psychologists would say about my wild mind back then – was the cold reality of an unmanageable debt, incurred upon me by the overwhelmed Defense and Finance Accounting Service. They only staffed four people to deal with the tens of thousands of final travel claims of the activated Reservists who served all throughout Iraq, Afghanistan, and other places, and always kept returning to be deactivated. They owed me thousands. I never saw that money. (In fact, at some point they decided I was overpaid, which, when working for the government, is an undisputable claim. I received no compensation for my last year and a half in the Marine Corps Reserve. Uncle Sam kept that money.)
I was aware enough to know that I needed some time off after surviving war. But I wasn’t granted that peace.
So, I went back to my restaurant; same corporation, different location. I had already ruined a relationship with the love of my life at the other store (a hostess at that location, after she wrote me every day in Iraq and supported me fervently, my self destruction and anger upon returning home scared her away). I just couldn’t face her anymore.
After serendipitously encountering a former manger who coaxed me into actually starting up at work again (I would have rather been drinking and destroying everything I owned – no possessions, no bills) I began to show up for six or seven days a week. One time, I worked 20 days in a row just to be able to manage my finances. 1,000 dollars of rent is especially hard to pay off when you spend all you made all day at the bar. Red Bull and vodkas were my favorite. Just five or six would induce anxiety attacks in between periods of rest after blacking out. I thought if I consumed enough one night, those drinks might eventually kill me. I’d wake up in my bed with a combusting chest and hopeless despair. I’d clutch my hands over my heart and cry. But, when they brought me to the edge, I at least felt alive...
To be continued.
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