This is Our Mountain

Chris wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close. Over and over he told me how much he’d missed me while he was gone. Trouble was, this wasn’t some tearful reunion after a long deployment. He’d been right next to me having a flashback.

It starts with a trigger. Thunder, a car door slamming, a jackhammer. Chris’ eyes go distant and he “fades” as we have come to know it. If I’m lucky and recognize it, this is the easiest point to snatch him back.

Flashbacks are like being dropped back into the war zone.

It’s hard for Chris to talk about his PTSD; he’s embarrassed. When I first began writing about this journey, I didn’t write his name. I didn’t allow a picture of myself on this site because Chris feared people would know.

“Know what? That you have PTSD? That you went through some unbelievably traumatic events which left your brain scarred? That you’re human and war affected you?”

They’ll know I’m crazy.

How I hate that word now. Crazy.

Sometimes, I know this reality, this life, exists and I need to get back to it, but other times, I’m back in the war and I’m just doing my job.

Chris doesn’t always remember his flashbacks. Most of the time he wakes up with no knowledge of what has happened. Worse yet, large chunks of the previous days are missing. Usually only one, but sometimes three or four depending on the severity of the flashback. When Chris lived alone, he would lose days. We have since come to the conclusion he’s suffered from regular flashbacks for the better part of five years.

I would think how can it be Thursday, what the hell happened to Tuesday and Wednesday?

Sometimes, months pass for Chris while I’m looking at him in a semi conscious state on this side. For me, and though it feels like an eternity, only moments pass. His flashbacks can last from five minutes to a couple of hours with him “fading” in and out. Those are the worst, the long ones. They are the flashbacks that cause me to worry.

My worry is born from his fear that this life is not real and the flashbacks are truth. I hate when he talks like this, I worry for his health because I know the mind is a brilliant work of pure art and sometimes, pure fiction.

Not too long ago, during a flashback he clutched his chest and curled in pain. He said he wanted to die over and over. Said he'd lost his men. They'd all died. They were all gone.

Let me die.

I went with it. Told him we had his men, they were all being evaced. That he was next and a doc would see him right away.

“You're going to be ok, Sergeant,” I said to him, holding his hand.

It took a long time, a very long time to wake him from this aspect of his flashback. We went round and round, him fading in and out of consciousness. Where are my men, I'm hit, tell my mother I love her, let me die.

Then he stopped breathing. I waited, counting. I got to ten and leaned over him to listen closer. I was sure his mind had gotten the best of him and had convinced him he was hit. I didn't know what to do other than beg him not to go.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

And he gasped for air. I jumped. He gasped again. I saw it as my chance to grab him back. “Chris wake up.” I shook him, patted his face, and finally I yelled at him. “Chris WAKE UP.” He jumped. But he was not here. He was still in Iraq.

Recently, while reading a political forum I frequent, I came across a post talking about a woman who’d been kidnapped and kept for 18 years. The poster spoke of how she would be fine if she just got past it. I was taken back once again by the callous nature of the general public. Their insensitivity is due to being uniformed or worse, ill informed.

Getting past is a phrase I have stopped using because I have started to view this as a mountain, ever changing and always challenging. We do not however simply, get past or go around our mountain. We climb it. We scale it.

We conquer it.

At the top, is understanding. Once there, the terrain can be viewed from an educated standpoint. Still dangerous, climbers can descend the mountain a little safer, but not completely so. Mountains are not constants as anyone who has climbed one knows. They can change in the blink of an eye and force your path to shift. Being ready is the key.

Chris’ flashbacks have become less and less frequent. Triggers can be avoided at times, subtle changes in stance, expression, mood can be noted giving a loved one the chance to stop the waking nightmare. Through careful observation, information can be gleaned and used to help a PTSD sufferer cope with their flashbacks while they climb.

This is our mountain. And our ability to climb it depends on information.