Relating to Vietnam Veterans

It’s imperative for an artist to review other works to gauge an understanding of their own visual expression. With that in mind, I have been researching nonstop and just can’t seem to find enough material regarding the affects of war. I’m a sponge if I find something I relate to. A friend introduced me to the movie Born On The Fourth of July (1989),  which tells the story of a disabled Vietnam Veteran. While I may have seen it in the past I never soaked it in, likely due to a lack of an empathetic bond. Well, my eyes and heart were glued to the TV. Vietnam is similar to OIF/OEF with corruption and a general lack of necessary care for our Veterans, yet complete opposite (for some) in terms of the combat experience. It was humbling to be able to relate to the pain and corruption represented in the movie. I was thinking that a veteran must’ve written the script because no one else could depict the agony like it did. As it turns Ron Kovic, a veteran, wrote the book. I ordered the Kindle version immediately.

Mr. Kovic saw and felt unimaginable horror during and after Vietnam. My war experience can’t be compared to such pain, can it? He ended up paralyzed and saw things that I could not bare to see. He was treated in horrific hospital conditions.  So unalike, but so familiar… For ease of understanding I decided to make a list and abbreviate long-winded explanations of some similar views and experiences between Mr. Kovic and myself:

·      Re-experiencing the war at home, aka flashbacks

·      Not understanding how the war was corrupt until I got shit on which lead to my wake-up call

·      Realizing it’s a rich man’s war and we’re all disposable

·      Longing to feel normal

·      Resilient in the wrong ways (hiding from my pain with booze)

·      How my injury setbacks killed my resiliency

·      Visions of myself during a happier time and longing to get back there

o   Physical and mental

·      How my empathetic nature and will to do good was put on the backburner due to my injuries

·      ANGER – “I deserve to be treated like a human being”

·      Lost patience (want my normal back right the F’ NOW) making me angrier

·      The inability to ask for help – confusion over pride

·      Old photos of happier times are unbearable to look at

·      People assume you’re less intelligent due to memory loss, hypervigilance, etc.

·      Countless sacrifices didn’t have to be made; Saddam & Osama could have been dealt with in a much less costly way

·      “I served my government… they just want to keep taking… how could we win in a situation like that”?

·      Friends/family ignoring war discussions, in turn caused me to isolate even more

·      Loud noises… they all sound like gunfire (fear of the very holiday that celebrates our independence/freedoms because of the noise)

·      Don’t want to be pitied; just want people to “try” to understand and give a little compassion

·      The joy I feel when I’m around other Veterans/family members of Veterans – they just get it

·      I don’t feel like me anymore…

·      Feel like I failed because I got injured

·      “I’d give anything to feel whole again”

This list really doesn’t scratch the surface, but a more thorough observation is better served in a book, not a blog.

The Vietnam veterans are just NOW getting help (WTF). Now, while all the recent vets are coming home for help… The government didn’t plan this out well, did they? I’m limited on what I can say here…

It’s humbling and depressing to be able to relate so much with this movie. Sometimes the wounds only sting when you’re reminded of them. But they won’t heal unless you face what you think you can’t.

To all past, present and future Veterans: We must take a stand. Nothing is going to change unless we do.

Yours Truly

Procrastination or Anxiety? Likely a lot of both.

Tonight I should be diligently going through my journal from Iraq to produce “evidence” of my trauma from war. The evidence is for my VA claim. I feel as if there are two people living inside me. One says, “read the journal and knock this shit out”. The other, “I need a beer, to paint, a cigarette, run to Target, …”.  I’m pondering whether my anxiety mind is wining as I’m writing this post. Thus far I haven’t had a cigarette or a beer, but I am writing, even if it’s not the writing I NEED to do.

I feel as if my mind isn’t strong enough to read the journal yet, so I’ll write in my blog with hopes of getting through it in the near future. Actually, why don’t I post a couple journal entries here to knock out two (fake) birds with one stone?

17NOV2010 2145

As I get ready to crawl into bed, brushing my hair, I hear the dreadful alarm, “Incoming, incoming, incoming”; then the siren, then the C-RAM. I think again of what I might do if a mortar hits my CHU. Then I hear the loud bang (or pop) of the mortar going off. Was it the mortar, or the C-RAM hitting the mortar? The announcement goes off again, “there has been an indirect fire attack, I say again, there has been an indirect fire attack, remain under cover, remain under cover… command post out”. The announcement goes off several times.

BREAK

I’m now sobbing as I relive the fear… I check FB as a distraction and find myself responding to a friend re: their struggle with all this shit. What I say actually helps me: “Keep smiling sweetie, even if you have to force it”. As a woman of my own present words, I decide to force a smile on my face. I start to giggle at how ridiculous but necessary this all is.

02DEC2010 2300

Another sleepless night… The difficulty to this whole war game isn’t just the mortars or attacks, but also keeping your mind in check and distracted from the freedoms you miss. If you let the thoughts of enjoying your friends while sitting by a bonfire drinking a beer take hold of your mind, you will allow your weakness to take control. Embracing the experience and being strong enough to know it is only a matter of time before the tides change, is the true measure of your courage. Knowing your place here, and your place in the free world,… will change you.

BREAK

C-RAM

 

Okay, back to “real” work. *wink*

Thanks again for reading my blog. Stay tuned!

60 Minutes Special - The War Within: Treating PTSD

ATTENTION ALL VETERANS and Friends and Family members of Veterans - PLEASE take the time to watch/read this. It will be well worth your time.

It explains what I have been unable to say to those close to me. Also, I'm starting the same program on December 9th. 

http://www.cbsnews.com/news/the-war-within-treating-ptsd/

There are a lot of great resources in here too!

I'm here if anyone needs to chat. Keep your head up. Mindfulness can help put things into perspective and may even help you feel better. Practice makes almost perfect and almost perfect is a far cry from where some are at.

 

Loves,

Jamie

Iraq Journal Entires: Around Thanksgiving 2010

Going to war gave me many things to write about. The most intimate writing happened while I was lying on my bed in my wonderful containerized house unit (chu). I was lucky to have a chu and all that fit in it. I had a bed with a mattress, a TV, a microwave, and a little fridge. I was living it up. What follows are journal entries I wrote while in my chu around Thanksgiving 2010.

                        Inside                                                  Outside          

12NOV2012 2100

            I’m so emotional. For as long as I can remember I have been the quiet observer. The one who sits back feeling incredibly self-conscious and wonders what everyone thinks about me. This is a very unfortunate trait. Uncomfortable in my surroundings because I lack self-confidence; it’s hard to wrap my mind around it. At times I have been unordinarlly motivated and ambitious. Yet at the same time I question my value and hide behind a pseudo personality of who I want to represent. My personality shifts with the environment I’m in. It’s quite rare for people to be able to break my shell to where I'm able to let them in. Those who have, never leave my heart. Unless of course, I've been wronged. In which I case I struggle to tame the stinger of my Scorpio personality.

            As a child, I can’t recall anyone in particular who has been able to conquer such a mountain. In fact, the memories I have are of people who had the opposite effect on my character. This could largely be because I was so distant from the world. So eager to be loved, but so afraid to seek it; perhaps it was the eagerness that instilled fear. Fear that I never was, and never would be, equal. Fear that I was destined to be secluded from love. So much so that I would sit with a group of kids and envy their every thought and purpose. Why they were so much more than I could ever be wasn’t a question back then. It was envy. I accepted the lack of guidance, the worthless person I was. Yet, I still wondered what it would be like to feel more. To have a better understanding of what a family meant. I never understood why my friend's parents put so much effort into what they did. I mean, why would they care how school was, what they ate for lunch or did in gym class? Was the importance of these activities given more thought because their children were just naturally better people, better eggs? I was sure I was a bad egg and maybe the voice of bad eggs wasn’t important enough for anyone to pay attention to.

            While I felt this through much of my childhood, I eventually grew into a more resentful person. The first time I realized I could stick up for myself, that I wasn’t just a punching bag, my world changed. Rather than be the punching bag, I could be the one throwing the punches.

                                          12NOV2010 2030

            The announcement, with the distinctive male voice “Incoming, Incoming, Incoming”, halts every thought, emotion and feeing. I stay frozen, knowing there is nothing I can do. If a mortar hits my chu, it will hit. Better yet, if it’s my time, it’s my time –it just is. Fear races through my mind. I jump to the corner of my bed squeezing my teddy as the loud roaring sound of the C-RAM goes off. Hoping that it hits the mortar before it blows within proximity of my chu. The sound, I will never forget. It’s like a giant chain saw roaring right outside my chu. Tears form, I squeeze my teddy harder. As if I had my ruby slippers… more tears form. I don’t want to feel this place, this war anymore!

       

           Another announcement, which I can barely make out, is telling all personnel to stay away from XX Pod in H6 housing. I can’t make out which pod it is… I live in H6 housing.

  14NOV2010 2100

            So many things are racing through my mind. None of which seem to be gaining distance on the other. As I try to convince myself to drink some more NyQuil and end this emotionally draining day, I’m also trying to convince myself to stay awake so I don’t have to repeat it all over again.

            I question, now more than ever, the validity of why men rule this military world. Women are packed with sensitivity, care, and love for so many things. Men are content with simplicity and their ego induced personas. As a woman it becomes so much more trying to put emotion and passion on the back burner. Yet, for men, contentment seems to be all they need. That and their ego filled competitive values. That is exactly what you get when you put so many men together… a simple task where each try to show the other up to see who comes out ahead. Once the score is settled, all is normal.

            Now, take this world, ego drunken atmosphere, and add a formidable female and nothing is simple or content. Rather, it creates havoc. Men don’t know how to act around women, especially if she is intelligent and beautiful. Some try to undermine her character so as to try to prove they are better and stronger. Others try to show up their fellow men to appear dominant. Some try to dominate her. The ones who don’t have a clue, simply act like children and do childish things. All of this is especially challenging to live in. I crave good unbiased conversation but they are few and far between. I try to understand why it is so difficult for men to have conversations about real things and true feelings. Of course not all men are like this. However, when you have so many men in one place or environment, real conversations involving real feelings is very remote or null. “Real” men know that it's okay to show emotions. Because they are smart enough to realize that a human mind needs more than contentment and competition. The mind needs compassion, understanding, and acceptance. Neither of which are commonly found in a war zone.

Don't Wait to Find Your Normal!

My close friends will tell you that I’ve busted my ass trying to get my life back, or get back to the normal I understood prior to Iraq. I started seeing a shrink within two months of coming home. Within those two months I had successfully spent more days at the bottom of a classy whiskey bottle than not. After several months of writing over a hundred resumes I had finally found a job. At this point drinking had become my medication. I could bust my ass all day at work because I knew I had a smooth glass of Templeton waiting for me at home. It seemed to be working. Friends tried to talk to me about it, but I just didn’t see it. To me, I was doing just fine.

About a year and a half after returning home I snapped; partially due to a crushing breakup, but mostly due to a lifetime of trauma. This is what I refer to as the onset of PTSD. While I had symptoms prior to this (flashbacks, hyperarousal, avoidance, etc.) they were usually masked with booze. During the “onset” I began to lose hope in any and everything. All I saw was a cruel world and I was in physical and emotional agonizing pain. I couldn’t focus. My mind turned into a cyclone of endless thoughts of sadness. The world became dark. *Not sure I’m ready to dive into that.

A year after the onset I had stopped drinking, stopped smoking, stopped trying to hide my problems and admit that life wasn’t peachy. With that grew more hurt and pain. I began to isolate myself, feeling very alone and angry. How could a person go through so much fucking pain and just bury it without eventually snapping? This is the current world I’m climbing out of.

I’ve been fighting through all my sadness, confusion, anxiety, and rage by constantly seeking innovative ways to “get better”. Books, holistic, EMDR, DBT, you name it. It took two years and a serious demand to finally see an othro surgeon for my back. After surgery I’m excited to be feeling 80-90% better. Still, that was two years of being in and out of excruciating back pain. Now, I’m going to start a 12 week outpatient program that focuses on intensive cognitive therapy of sorts. Where you face your demons in an effort to move past them. I have endless conflicting emotions about this:

1)   The last time I did this it was for 3 wks. Worked wonders but everyone just assumed it was because I was a drunk, not because I was suffering from serious depression and PTSD. STIGMA ruined any gains.

2)   I fight feeling “crazy”. “I don’t belong on the short bus, WTF am I doing!!?”

3)   I have to face the fact that I need to continue to bust my ass to find “normal”.

I filed my VA claim on May 7, 2013. Mind you, it took me two years to file the claim out of pride. This only hurt me further. It’s been 6 months and no word in sight re: my claim.  I’ve been out of work due to this for months now… What angers me is that I filed my claim to get help, not a hand out. I need the benefits now so that I can get better and NOT need the benefits later! Unfortunately, that’s not how the system works.

The main point I wanted to address here is that I had to demand help. The military sure as hell isn’t going to help you re: medical care, and if you want help at the VA you eventually learn the only way you get there is by putting your foot down and demanding it. The only way a veteran is going to get help is if they actively seek it on their behalf. They REALLY must WANT to get help and be proactive and resilient. The longer someone waits to find their normal, the crazier they become, this is fact.

In conclusion:

- Fuck the STIGMA
- Everyone is a lil crazy
- You're NOT alone!

Get your normal back before it's too far gone.

Loves,

Jamie

Image Stole from FB. Author Unkown

Veterans Day

This is a day to reflect, a day when Veterans are remembered for their sacrifices and scars. I’m thankful for all those who stand by Veterans for those are the people that give them strength. Veterans don’t choose the wars they fight. The only choice they had was to make the decision to fight for the belief of our freedom.

When I enlisted (April 2003) I truly believed I was doing something good. We were fighting the bad guys and I had a chance to help. I hated the grunt aspect of being a Soldier, but I also loved it. As time grew, so did my love for the uniform and all others who were brave enough to put it on. The bond Soldiers share is the strongest bond one could comprehend. At any given moment you have to trust your life in the hands of those serving along side you, and in turn they must trust you. I see it as a human bond incomprehensible to those who haven’t served.

Of course my views are biased and based on an unfortunate past. I never experienced what a family was like, in the real sense of the word. The military and EDM scene were the only family I’d known. During war, and for the first time, I learned what a family is, or one with a bond I had never shared before.  As I write I can feel a deep ache in my chest, as if my heart were really sinking. I miss that bond and all those I shared it with.

With that said, today I’m struggling to find optimism. I don’t believe Soldiers are treated fairly or even humane. I believe the system has too many flaws and needs to be gutted.  “I used to know what we were fighting for, now I’m not so sure,” WWII Vet trying to see the memorial the day of the Gov. shutdown. Regardless of the system, I will always have the highest respect for those who have served. They are my family.

To my family:  Thank you, thank you for giving me something to cherish far beyond my comprehension. I love you all!

Short story from my past

An Experience As a Child: Child’s Point of View

            It is Fourth of July and mom, dad, Bobby and I are going on the boat to watch the fireworks. I’m afraid of the water and the monsters that live beneath, with the slimy ropes that try to pull at me every time I put my legs under there. I can hear them saying, “ Jaaaaaamieeee…. Jamieeeeee,” trying to trick me as they plot to swallow me up into their world.

            “Dad can we just sit on the shore and watch the fireworks”?

            Dad has a strong build and stands about five feet nine inches tall. I resemble dad the most, because we both have brownish-red hair and dark brown eyes. Every time I see Tom Cruise the actor, I think of dad, because they look so much alike. I love it when dad smiles, because you feel the warm happiness with every crinkle in his cheeks.

            “Ok Jamie, that’s fine. Why don’t you help get some chairs off the porch?”

            Dad doesn’t mind but mom, stubborn as usual, wants to go on the boat and she won’t have things any other way. Mom is getting really mad. She starts yelling at dad and me, “There is nothing in the damn water, and the boat I not going to tip over!”

            Mom has long strawberry brownish-blonde hair, which hangs perfectly straight just past the shoulders. She stands an inch short of six feet. Her eyes are bright hazel with a slightly sunken in appearance, but they are always hiding behind her thick lenses that she needs for her stigmatism. I have often wondered if her mysterious eyes are a symbol of a soulless body.

            “Kathy, Jamie’s scared; we can see the fireworks just fine from here”.       

            Mom turns to me with an evil grueling look in her eye, “We are going on the fucking boat you little whore, if you want, you can stay in the woods with the wolves”.

            “Kathy! Jamie is only six, she’s not whore,” dad say’s trying not to piss mom off.            But she usually just ignores dad.

            Her look is so scary; you can see her face changing into one of those slimy green polka doted brown bodied, red-eyed monsters.

Mom never seems to hear me when I talk, so I have no choice but to obey her. I usually cry when mom yells at me, because I am very sensitive and because I think mom might feel bad and hear what I have to say.

Mom insists we all start climbing into the tiny four-person row boat. It is so small that dad is holding on the boat so we can get in without it tipping over. As dad and Bobby start rowing out into the dark waves, things start to get worse. Mom and dad will not stop arguing. The more they argue the more the boat rocks.

“Look Jamie, Look!” Bobby points to the fireworks. They look like bright sparkling waterfalls drifting down from the deep darkened sky. One after the other like the beautiful flower garden that grandma plants. I wonder who planted the fireworks, maybe it was the monsters trying to coax me into a spell, they are trying to make me think they are good monsters,  but I know the truth, I know they just want to gobble me up into their underwater world.

Bobby often makes me think that he was put on this earth to protect me. If Bobby is around and situations get heated, he will put his arms on my shoulders and in a sincere and calm manner say, “Come on Jamie, let’s go play,” instantly making me feel safer and loved.

Mom is silent, bound by the fireworks. I wonder why she doesn’t like me. Is it because I’m younger, because I cry too much, because I’m a whore? Maybe someday mom will love dad and me, like she loves Bobby and the fireworks.

“Wow… look at that one Jamie, it looks like a star…. And and that one looks like a duck!”

I think Bobby is trying to distract me from the monsters. I know they are waiting for me to fall into the darkness. What if mom Is working with the monsters, what if she wants them to gobble me up? Then she wouldn’t have to look at me anymore. Look at me with those evil scheming eyes.

We are about 100 feet from shore when I spill my grape juice all over mom’s brand new white tennis shoes, “Oops…I…I’m sorry mom. I didn’t mean too”. Then, all of the sudden, “SMAK,” mom stands up, but not before she could back hand me in the face.

“You want something to cry about Jamie, well here’s something to cry about.”  While standing up, mom starts swaying her body back and forth. The boat is now rocking uncontrollably..

“How’s this, are you scared now, you think we are getting the monsters attention,” mom screams.

Now Bobby starts in, “Mom, you’re scaring Jamie, please stop!”

Then dad, “Kathy stop! You’re going to tip us over!”

Dad and Bobby start rowing us back to shore. Mom won’t stop yelling. I start crying again, but this time even louder.  My heart starts racing, I can feel the boat beginning to tip. SWOSH! SPLASH!

Franticly peddling my little legs and arms, trying to keep my head above the, I hear dad’s voice, “Jamie…. Jamie… I’ve got you! It’s ok, we are almost to shore”. I look up and see mom and Bobby swimming to shore. Dad has me securely wrapped up in his left arm and starts swimming us back.

I am still crying, and dad is panting trying to catch his breath. As we crawl our limp bodies back onto the slimy wet sand, mom says, “well that’s what you get you little slut, maybe next time the monsters will get you.

"Incoming, Incoming, Incoming... BOOM". Much like a mortar headed for your bunk, the only thing you can do during the onset of PTSD is hit the ground and pray this isn't the end.

A normal response to trauma becomes PTSD when you become stuck

"After a traumatic experience, the mind and the body are in shock. But as you make sense of what happened and process your emotions, you come out of it. With post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), however, you remain in psychological shock. Your memory of what happened and your feelings about it are disconnected. In order to move on, it’s important to face and feel your memories and emotions," http://www.helpguide.org/mental/post_traumatic_stress_disorder_symptoms_treatment.htm.

This blog is dedicate to my survival. The only way I'm going to make it out of this sane is if I face all the pain and hurt causing my misery. The stigma attached to admitting I have PTSD kept my sanity locked away for far too long. Sure I went to war, but why do I have "issues" when others who went through worse seem fine? There are a few answers to that question, but for me it turns out I was predisposed to PTSD due to a very traumatic childhood.

What follows will be my past, present and future experiences as I battle my PTSD mind. My hope is to spread awareness by sharing what I have and continue to overcome.

Thanks for the visit! Please feel free to comment!