In His Own Words - Part 1

I’ve always believed people have three faces. Who they think they are, who people think they are, and who they really are. It takes a great deal of trust to let someone strip away the first two faces to find the real core of a person. It also requires a person to let down their defenses and be open to knowing themselves, scars and all.

From the day I met Chris I strove to really know him. He has a depth I was drawn to, but I’ve always been drawn to deep water regardless of the rip current. I think listening and knowing him is the key to helping him regain himself and find freedom from PTSD.

We’ve discussed his experiences in Iraq many times, but I approached him a short while ago about asking him some questions and writing a series of pieces about his time in theater. While I was writing a fictional novel based on PTSD and him, we discussed Iraq thoroughly, but this was different. This was asking for him to open himself up to strangers. I felt it would offer a little insight to those searching for it. I wanted to paint a personal picture about his life in combat, but more I wanted to show what a civilian – me – draws out as important details.

I told him we would do it interview style and stop when he needed to.  I also told him we could end the series whenever he wanted. Chris agreed reluctantly and I am infinitely honored he would trust me to share his story.

This is the first interview. It’s rough, but it’s real.

Did you have that puffy chest I’ve seen on so many of the other guys who haven’t been there yet?

Yeah, I had that.  Of course.  I was going to use my training.

When did it sink in?

As it got closer to me leaving it got realer and realer.  But when the door shut on that plane, that’s when the possibility of this being a one-way trip hit me.  That was a sinking f—king feeling.

I bet it was. So that plane took you to Iraq?

No, no, we went to Kuwait first.  We lived in tent city for a while ramping up to go.  It felt almost like when we were in training.  Decent food, movie tent.  They tried to make it comfortable.  In the sh-t you had to do that for yourself.


They took us to the airport on a big air-conditioned bus with a TV playing a local station.  Soap opera.

Chris imitates the language and makes a dramatic gesture.  I’m glad I don’t watch soaps. He’d probably laugh quite a bit if I did.

They offloaded us onto a C1-30. That was a scary f—king flight. My first combat landing into combat.
He smiles wide and begins to tell me a story I’ve heard several times.

Across from me was a Marine and next to me was Army Airborne. It’s not like in the movies when you see these guys sitting on a C1-30 talking like normal.  No you have to lean in and yell.  The Army guy, I didn’t catch his name, I wasn’t going to see him again anyway, said he’d flown on a C1-30 hundred times but this was the first time he’d landed.  He’d always jumped out. This was all while the Marine across from us was booting into his Kevlar.

Problem with that is one - your Kevlar is round, so it splashes everywhere and two - we were landing in the combat zone and he needed that helmet on his head when we offloaded.

Chris has described to me many times what a combat landing is so I didn’t feel the need to have him describe it again.  My time is short during these discussions so I glossed over some things in an attempt to get further.

My description may not be exact but a combat landing begins with the plane descending aggressively, think stomach in throat quick, where it then begins evasive maneuvers which consist of series of S turns with the tips of the wings pointing almost to the ground with each bank.  The plane groans and screams as it comes in at a 90 degree bank.  Once the plane is on the ground they are offloaded onto another bus, this one is not air-conditioned and does not have a TV.

[I often read these articles to Chris if he’s ready to hear them and he many times clarifies details with additions]

This hot f-king kerosene smell hits you as soon as the door falls which is seconds after that b—tch is on the ground and you better being grabbing your sh-t because she’s going to be back off the ground popping flares before they start lobbing crap.

So when did the puff come out of your chest?

First time rounds came flying over my head.  Soon as we hit the ground we were in the shit.  No easing in.  Get off the plane, get the f—k off the plane - Camp Victory was lighting something up…

Chris imitates the artillery in a way that I can’t get across in this medium. He has very specific ways to describe every big gun, from mark 19s to howitzers, and every other weapon used over there from mortars to small arms.  He imitates them well, which speaks of how ingrained those noises are in his head.

From here I stopped asking questions and Chris talked about how the insurgents created ways to kill his men. Always ‘his’ men.

At first they had the big guns, but eventually all they had were mortars and RPGs. They could carry them around easily and hide, f-king [derogatory term]. There were thermite RPGs and what they do is burn into a tank then send the explosives inside.

[They] would take them apart, remove the thermite, and fill them with anything they could. Washers, nails, rocks… when they shot those things off they would rain destruction down on anything made of meat.

Chris got up at this point and looked in the fridge.  He stood for a few moments pretending he wanted something to eat. 

I can’t do this.  I can’t talk about this anymore.

We had to stop at this point.  I never push Chris past where he’s comfortable talking.  Though I’ve heard these stories many times before, I felt it was important that someone else hear them.  He’ll be distressed for the next few hours, but it’s worth it for him to talk about his time in Iraq.  He needs to get the stories out of his head so they don’t hold so much sway in his life.    


Chris was an Air Force combat medic and he served in Iraq from 2003 to 2004 at Camp Sather and at BIAP. 

Enable Happiness

“Every day, you walk a tightrope suspended between two skyscrapers with no net.  And there I am, on your shoulders.  Somehow you keep your balance.  You walk that wire and adjust every time I lean to one side or the other.

“And when you do lose your balance, we hang onto that wire and we hang on to each other. You never let go and you find a way to get back up there.

“You maintain balance against unbelievable odds.”

We built a front patio and it has become a replacement to our patio at the old apartment.  It is where we talk.  Tonight, Chris and I were talking about a piece I wanted to write about being an enabler.  I’ve been struggling with what I wanted to say for about three weeks.  So I asked him and he offered me the above analogy.  His voice cracked when he described himself as being carried.

“There are two kinds of enablers - enablers who let someone get away with destructive behavior, and those who enable others to live. You enabled me to live, because let’s face facts: if you hadn’t found me, I’d be either of two places – dead or standing on a street corner homeless.”

When Chris and I met, he was in a pretty low place. He drank excessively, stayed home constantly, and slept never. So when I was asked why I allow him to drink or hide or sleep well into the afternoon some days, basically why I would be an enabler, my only answer was, "Walk in my shoes."

He drinks and he smokes. This is his choice. It was also his choice to curtail both. He says because of the environment I created he made that choice. See, I wouldn’t have asked him to stop drinking.  On the flip side, I wouldn’t have lived with him spending every day drunk.

However, I understand on some days, when things get to be too much and he doesn’t want to take one of those pills that knocks him unconscious, he needs a drink.  I am not enabling him to abuse himself, I am giving him a place where he can be safe enough to make the choice himself.

That place, he explained, a place where he is not judged, where he is safe, where he is not defending himself against anything or anyone, is a place where he feels the ability to make clear choices. He dismissed that I might possibly be an enabler.

“What behavior do you allow that is destructive?”

I don’t believe that what I do is ‘allow’ anything. He is a grown man. He has choices and it’s up to him to make them good or bad. One thing however, on the subject of physical abuse, whether or not it’s accidental during a flashback - this I would not allow. But Chris has never once made any sort of move causing me to believe he would take that direction.

He does, however, have bouts of anger. Sometimes, they go too far and he breaks things. I tolerate a certain amount, but in the end we both end up laughing. My focus then is about defusing the situation. Last year, he broke the vacuum cleaner during an argument. In the end I told him he needed to break his own toys and not his playmate’s. We laughed, cried, and made up. The other day, he kicked my printer because it was out of ink. I still get that funny feeling I get when I’m about to laugh over the whole scene. It was and still is comical and it was easily defused even though at the moment I was red hot mad over how ridiculous he was acting.

I tolerate, but I do not enable his anger. In the end, I give him a place where he can make choices.  We’re lucky because we’re at that point.  I know many couples are not.

“You are the most selfless person I have ever met. That’s the key. You don’t think about your own emotions, you think about me. About how if you indulge your anger it will create a situation where I can’t control mine.”

I don’t agree that I’m selfless. I want him to get better because I need him. I need him in my life and I don’t want to be alone. As the solar lights came on lighting our newly built patio he said the clear thought I couldn’t get out of my pen.

“You give me a place where I can live almost normally. You make me happy.”

Short and sweet - enable happiness.