I just read a beautiful tribute to Robin Williams by the singer James Taylor, who posted it to his official Facebook page. It was about the gifts that he shared with everyone, and lamenting the fact he couldn’t realize the joy coming back to him. It left me wondering why this death struck me more than “just another celebrity committing suicide.” In the past I have been quick to criticize people who took their own lives in an oddly cruel and cold way. I would voice how they were weak, and had nothing to worry about, and why couldn’t they just keep on marching? I was very cold. I have been to funerals of people who took their own lives and always felt strangely detached from the circumstances and surroundings leading to such a permanent decision. But I never knew why. I realized that my criticism was rooted in the despicable lie I was living. My hands shake as I type this….but I have PTSD, suffer from depression and social anxiety. Even with watching the key strokes type those words they still seem foreign to me; that somehow I am really talking about somebody else. My PTSD is severe…..and when I say severe I mean Godzilla meets King Kong severe. Over the years my brain has been banged around inside my gourd and it simply doesn’t work as well as it used to. Yeah, I can remember the names of the guys on “Hogan’s Heroes,” but I can’t remember where I am going, or why I entered a room sometimes. Things I used to take for granted I have to construct an operational plan to accomplish. The depression jumps on for the ride and is like the cartoons where the little dog keeps telling the big Bulldog what to do, you know the old, “Hey Spike, hey Spike” routine. The anxiety comes from my body and instincts not being able to adjust to not being under a threat 24 hours a day, going into public and looking for where the attack could come from and what are my escape routes, the hair always being up on the back of my neck, and being unable to control the uncontrollable. So in short I suffer from “Mental Health Issues,” and the irony is not lost that it took me this long to say those words. I knew I dealt with things differently than others, but I was always able to deal with them. I would just need to retreat into the darkness of my room, lick my wounds, and emerge healed and ready to move on. But the battle that is waged within the darkness of your own soul and has you clamoring for the light is only fought by the weak, or so I told myself. And so I wrapped it up, and stuck it deep down in my pocket. It was my problem and I would handle it just as I always did; too embarrassed and ashamed to let on that I struggled. Never breathing those words or admitting, even to my wife, that I have mental health issues. It still makes my skin pallor to say that out loud. I am extremely luck in that I have a tremendous psychiatrist therapist duo, six brothers that would line up and go to battle for me, and my sister who has been an Angel on my shoulder. What makes me different than others suffering through the same things are that I am blessed with a support network that is like a Whitey Herzog bench-deep and specialized! I have friends that care about me, keep me busy, and provide selfless support that is given freely and without reservation. I have my kids……my wonderful, infuriating, goofy, loving children. They are my sustenance and they nourish my spirit, and without fail are a reminder of what is good in this life and what is right. For these things I am very, very lucky. The trick for me was seeking and asking for help. It wasn’t happening easily and I continued to live with the lie that I could heal myself with a little maintenance from time to time. I was working overseas for months at a time, returning home for short periods intended to re-charge my batteries. In the beginning I looked so forward to coming home and the family trips and activities we would engage in. As time wore on I began to feel less and less “at home” at home, and less like I belonged. I slowly and gradually stopped checking in with friends while I was home, and there were periods when people didn’t even know I was home. It seemed that the minute I hit the airport here I was already looking to get back over there. I was short, and argumentative, judgmental, critical, emotionally abusive, and angry. But at nothing in particular, other than the manufactured reasons I would use to justify my outrage. I was providing for my family and couldn’t understand what else anyone wanted from me. What they wanted was what I was unable to do, and that was allow them to love me, appreciate me, and spend time with me. I couldn’t do any of those things because in my tortured psyche I was undeserving of any of it. When I came home for good my self-worth stayed overseas. I looked for work in a half-assed way thinking that with my credentials any company would be lucky to have me, but still feeling inside that I wasn’t good enough for this world anymore. I was on an island and there was only one way off. I began to see my doctors in an effort to gain some traction and stability at home, and I saw my neurologist when things that were so simple to me before became grueling exercises in futility. I guess really I was scared and I didn’t know how to feel that way. Hope began to trickle in because of the perseverance of my therapist who both scolded and cajoled me into accepting the fact that I was suffering. I was suffering just as if I took a round to the chest, wounded just the same. She described what was going on as being akin to having a Vitamin D deficiency, only my deficiency was another chemical-or two. This was not a swift evolution by any stretch but slowly, and little by little a flicker of light was turned on. The war may have changed and my battle space may have changed, but this was something I had to fight as well. The help I am getting is allowing me to realize that I don’t have to fight all the time, but rather understand more. To accept help from those that love and care and realize that people do things because they want to, and not because they have to. I used to gain self-worth and feel good when I could do something for someone, and it began to become necessary for me to so I could hold on to my sliver of self-esteem. The weakness and all the bad things I thought about myself would subside for a while if I could do something nice or good for someone else. Reading over this it seems to be a bit rambling when I wanted my message to be simple. This isn’t a story about me, but about people like me who suffer because they feel ashamed or don’t know how to ask for help. My reaching out for help began on a Sunday morning after a friend asked me to go to Mass. We sat on the lot of his business drinking White Castle coffee in the sun. He asked me what my mother would think of me. It was a simple and complex question all at the same time. It knocked a log loose in a jam that had been building for a long time. What my friend did was help me to realize that I could feel safe asking for help, and that it was arrogant of me to think I didn’t need any help. Everyone needs help from time to time. I guess I want people who read this to not feel alone. To not feel as if they have nowhere else to turn, or nothing left to give. You do, you always do. To those that really know me I have not changed and am still the same person you have always known. I am not broken, or damaged, or worse for wear. The thing that really has changed is that I can remain happy and joyful even after I leave you. When I am by myself at home I can feel the same warmth and joy that I feel when I am around those closest to me. I take medication for sure, but it doesn’t make me a zombie or make me different than someone taking extra Vitamin D because they need it. It is gauze stuck in my gaping chest wound and it is helping me to heal as best I can. The “Outlaw Josey Wales” said that, “dying aint’ hard for men like us, it is living that is hard…..” well I am doing my best to make life not so hard to live. If you ever need someone I am here and will do my best to be like my friend who extended that hand even when I didn’t ask for it. God Bless Robin Williams who brought so much laughter to military personnel all over the world.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 04:02:21 +0000
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