On PTSD & Moral Injury

The Gifts That Keeps on Giving

Howdy,

It’s been a rough week.

My daughter has been battling a stomach virus, leaving the lovely Charity and me to juggle childcare duties while simultaneously trying to get into a new rhythm in KC. (We’re all fine, by the way. We didn’t go to the parade.)

The more time I spend with my daughter, the more I realize how much my PTSD—we’re an item, yes indeed—affects my relationship. Thankfully, I don’t suffer flashbacks anymore. It’s been a decade since that happened. Those aren’t fun, let me tell you. I once dove into some bushes in DC after a car backfired, giving the lovely lady I was with —this was before charity (BC)—quite a startle. She handled it well, but there were no further dates (boy, did she miss out!).

Anyway, back to my daughter. When she cries, it triggers me. I hear the wailing of the Iraqi women ululating at the sight of their dead family members. Sometimes, getting her into and out of her car seat is difficult, which triggers memories of getting people out of HMVEES. I won’t get into those traumatic events. There are things I’m not quite ready to share—or maybe never will be—with the world.

Even changing a poopy diaper can be challenging.

Do you know what people do when they die? They often shit their pants.

Some days, it’s worse than others. And I know how to handle myself when it happens. I’ve been in and out of therapy—YOU DON’T SAY?—for nearly two decades. I do my box breathing. I take a break. I try to remember this is fine and that I’m having a normal reaction. It sucks. But my daughter deserves the best of me, which means I have to face these demons.

I’ve learned how to handle PTSD. I’ve endured combat PTSD since 2006. However, the Moral Injury is the real kick in the pants.

Moral Injury, for me at least, is infinitely worse. It is moral trauma to the soul.

The overwhelming majority of my moral injuries come from the Afghan retreat. Over the past week, despite my best efforts, a ghost from the past has come to haunt me. I’m now walking with him again. Before our reconnection, I hallucinated about him often (Yes. I’m fun at parties).

When that first started happening, I thought I was losing my mind. I didn’t even tell the lovely Charity about it.

Rule #1: Always tell the lovely Charity.

It wasn’t until I spent a lovely month in a looney bin—I get to call it that, so, you know, get over it—that I realized it was a perfectly normal reaction. I learned that I needed to have conversations with my hallucinations.

(Which, you know, is a life skill I never thought I’d have to learn)

Now, however, he’s back in my life. I don’t hallucinate about him. I’m texting with him again—and it’s truly awful. It’s opened a Pandora’s box of dilemmas I’m sorting through.

He’s not the only one, of course. Last night, I chatted with a relative of a slain Afghan. It was therapeutic for both of us but opened up scabs that had just begun to heal.

Over the past month, while I’ve grown my hair out — I’m bathing, Shirt, I’m bathing—the barriers I tried to erect to protect me have been repeatedly breached. Not a day goes by when an Afghan doesn’t seek help.

I usually advise them and tell them I’m out of the game.

However, with this recent ghost and requests from other dear friends, I’ve realized, with the help of the lovely Charity, that the war isn’t done with me.

Not a day goes by that I don’t weep over Afghanistan. I weep over the friends I lost and the Afghans we left behind. I weep over the choices I made, the parts of my soul that I left on the battlefield, and the betrayal my country gave me in return.

Moral healing will take the rest of my life. This will always be with me. The war will never be done with me completely. This is the new normal for the foreseeable future.

And that’s something that I have to come to terms with. I’m not alone in this struggle. My brothers and sisters-in-arms struggle with the same demons.

Afghanistan, Iraq, and twenty years of being on the go, executing, maneuvering, etc. Well, that has taken a toll on us, the 9-11 veteran generation.

And there’s a reckoning for the country, the military, and us that must be faced.

America might be done with “The Global War on Terrorism,” but it’s not done with us.

Until next time.