By Wisconsin National Guard Public Affairs– April 26, 2011
It’s all a blur now — and from what I can remember, it was a blur back then. It’s early 2005, there’s snow on the ground and I am anxiously waiting for my commander and first sergeant to give us the “dismissed” for which I had been waiting the past 14 months.
“Report to Joint Force Headquarters next week at such-and-such time,” I remember someone saying. Meanwhile, all I can think about is driving a real car with my two best friends next to me and going out for some much-needed drinks. “You’ll get your last briefings and sign a copy of your DD 214,” they said. Ugh, more briefings. Great — that’s the last thing I want to do after spending a year in the desert and what I thought was more than enough demob time at Fort McCoy in the middle of winter. “Whatever,” I said to myself.
I proceeded to go out that evening and get completely annihilated. Nothing to worry about — I was home. I was a combat veteran. Nothing could hurt me now. And who would want to screw with me? Then a balloon popped in the bar. I hit the floor and instantly I was back there. I could smell the dirt and heat — I could taste it.
My girlfriend pulled me up and saw the sheer horror across my face. She asked if I was okay. I realized I was holding my chest as if I was having a heart attack. I told her I was fine, but no one had better pop another balloon in my presence again. Was this the first sign I needed help?
After a week of hard drinking and getting irrationally angry for no apparent reason, I dusted my DCU’s (Desert Combat Uniform) off and strolled into JFHQ. Saw my pals that I hadn’t seen in a week and talked about how stupid it was that we had to be back in uniform already. The six of us sat in a small briefing room and daydreamed about the alcohol we would consume after the “briefing” — meanwhile, someone was talking about what we “needed” to complete the de-mob process. I remember being handed a business card at the end of the four PAINFUL hours and hearing, “If you need anything, call this number.” At this point in time, I don’t even remember who or what the business card was for. It wasn’t like I thought I needed it anyway.
I stayed with my mom for a couple of months before moving back to Milwaukee to finish my degree. Mom would enter my room in the morning and gently touch my shoulder to let me know she was leaving for the day. Her touch would jolt me awake in panic, “fight” written across my forehead. I was startled every time she woke me from my sleep. She started leaving me little notes to say good morning instead. Those notes were followed with suggestions on what she would like me to do around the house during the day, since I had all this free time …Yeah, that went over really well. I would toss her a dirty look at the suggestion I even empty the dishwasher. Rather than pitch in for room and board, I had the mindset that I was home, and shouldn’t Mom be thankful for that? How dare she? I’m a combat veteran who just got back from war — I don’t do dishes. Maybe my second and third sign, but it would all probably just fade away eventually, right?
I moved to Milwaukee in April 2005 and started my junior year of college that fall. I drank every day during the summer, to the point where I was just asking for whiskey. No soda, just whiskey. I don’t know how many times blacked out. I once sobbed in the middle of a bar on the shoulder of a woman I barely knew. I met and tried to connect with a lot of people that were no good for me. I didn’t like to talk to anyone but the people I deployed with. I had gory and terrifying nightmares. I still have nightmares. All I wanted to do was sleep, eat and drink. My mom started telling me I was different, more reserved. My civilian friends didn’t understand what happened to me. I didn’t understand what happened to me.
The panic attacks had been happening for a while — I just didn’t know what they were. I think they began when my relationship with my fiancé ended while we were stationed in different places over there. The elephant standing on my chest, the blood pulsing through my veins so fast I thought they would burst, the knot in my throat, the anger hiding in a dark corner of my soul and popping out at the most random times — that was my version of a panic attack and somewhat similar to a clinical diagnosis of one, as I later found out.
Maybe this wasn’t normal. Was I supposed to be feeling like this? Surely I am the only one that feels this way. Should I care that my actions are completely self-destructive? Are they self-destructive, or am I just getting something out of my system? Does anyone else care or even notice what I’m going through? Was this the new “me?”
I didn’t know the answers, but I wanted to find out. So I decided to get an objective opinion on the matter and take it from there. There was no way I was going to the VA Hospital. That was for veterans — you know, the kind that went to Vietnam or served in World War II. I wouldn’t have anything in common with them, and I bet they didn’t know how to receive me.
That business card I had gotten months earlier was for the Vet Center — a readjustment counseling center for veterans. It was small, free and it wasn’t the VA. So, I went. Turns out, I did need help.
I spent the next two years between isolation and sorting out my thoughts and behaviors with a readjustment counselor. Turns out that panic attacks, heavy drinking, survivor guilt, angry outbursts and my other self-destructive behavior was common among combat veterans. Who knew?
I knew the possibility of getting deployed again was imminent. I toyed with the idea of getting out of the service to spare myself, my family and the people I was deployed with any more emotional trauma than I felt I had already put them through. But I re-upped during one of my “I-want-to-go-back” phases and felt like I could maybe teach the younger Soldiers some things. If only I had known how to deal with myself at that point in time, maybe I would have waited until I was emotionally stable to make such a huge commitment. But I stayed because it was the only place I felt like me.
Three years later almost to the day (Valentine’s Day — go figure), I deployed again. This time it was where I didn’t need to worry about being shot at or blown up, but it was still mentally and emotionally challenging — for me and for my family.
I sat in the courtroom where Khalid Sheik Mohammed, the self-professed mastermind of 9/11, was going through military commissions. How surreal it was to see the man that started it all. And he admitted it in court. I heard it — I saw the words come out of his mouth. Of course, at that time there was an effort to determine if he was mentally competent. What a mind-trip. My life as a combat veteran was coming full circle.
When I returned from that year-long deployment, I heard those words again, “Be here this day and time for reintegration.” Re-inte..what? WHY? Ugh. Not again!! You would think I would appreciate this part of the cycle by now, but nope!
Thankfully, we didn’t have to wear our uniform because once again I was done with it. I got my nose pierced. I walked into the reintegration like a civilian and didn’t care what anyone thought. To my surprise, “reintegration” was now much more than the first time around. I got to bring my mom, my biggest cheerleader. I wasn’t married at the time and you can bring your family and/or friends. We stayed at a hotel in the Wisconsin Dells. Mom and I got some quality time together. And the briefings were not half bad. It was a full day of different speakers from all the places you come to realize you need something from at some point or another after you come home. There were also activities and my friends with kids got a little adult time, because they provided child care. A far stretch from my first “reintegration.”
Initially, I didn’t want to be there. But then I realized — if I had known about these services my first time around, I might not have needed as much repair work in the years following that first deployment.
At times I heard “If this information doesn’t apply to you, then maybe it will to your buddy.” Well, I’m here to tell you that I am your buddy. I needed that information a long time ago and didn’t get it. Now I am so thankful for the Badger Yellow Ribbon Program. I got to see my friends from my deployment and learn how I could bounce back in a faster, healthier way than the last time. It was a nice weekend away from home with my mom, and I was getting paid for it. There were people there that wanted to help me if I needed it — and if I didn’t, at least I knew who to call. Those people also told me that it was okay to ask for help (unlike my first experience in which I pretty much got yelled at by my command for filing a claim for PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).
As a leader, I have been able to help my Soldiers and other service members find the resources they needed, because of what I experienced. Now, that ability continues as I am now a Yellow Ribbon support specialist with the Wisconsin National Guard Badger Yellow Ribbon Program. You will see me from time to time at your events — don’t be afraid to say hello.
And if you ever find yourself asking some of the same questions I did, call me or anyone on Wisconsin’s Service Member Support Division staff at 1-800-292-9464 (option 3).. I’ll be your buddy.
How has reintegration helped you or helped you help others?
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