Grief and PTSD
In dealing with life events and the death of a friend, I found myself striving to conquer grief. I wanted to try to understand it and control it. But, unfortunately, I quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen.
But I realized something else about grief.
Grief is a huge part of the post-traumatic stress process that veterans seem to get lost in. We constantly want our “old” or “normal” way of being back. We grieve the loss of brothers and sisters-in-arms. But we feel that we can never let go of their death because somehow we would be letting go of our war or being dishonorable to their memory.
We grieve our life before deployment, missing it every day that we are gone and creating a story in our minds of what’s happening at home without us. Only to realize that the world kept moving forward while we weren’t there.
We miss the adrenaline of combat.
We miss living in crappy conditions close to our brothers and sisters. Knowing that we all understand something about the human need that most people will never glimpse, let alone grasp.
When we leave a deployment or leave the military, there is a tremendous sense of loss, an end to a part of who we are. And yet, no one acknowledges this transition as a loss. No one allows us a moment in time to grieve this loss of lifestyle, persona, and camaraderie. Instead, we are expected to celebrate being free of the military’s constraint and simply fit into the civilian world we are thrust back into.
I think that another massive issue in coping with PTSD is addressing our feelings of shame and vulnerability. Brene Brown talks about shame as fear, blame, and disconnection. That sounds like a spot-on secondary definition of PTSD in my opinion and experiences.
I feared the unknown of what I was struggling against. I feared not fitting back into society. I blamed George W. Bush, my commander, the Army, Iraq, and society for not understanding or being sympathetic to what I was experiencing. I feared being judged as broken or weak. To deal with this overwhelming fear and blame, I shut down. I disconnected from the world around me. If I didn’t let them in, then I wouldn’t be hurt anymore. No one could tell me I was damaged.
After a few years of being alone and severely depressed, I realized that I could not continue to live life this way. I had to change the situation that I had created. I had to be vulnerable and open myself up.
Though I didn’t identify it as vulnerability at the time. As I slowly let my counselor glimpse my self-perceived weakness, I was able to start regaining control in my life. By confronting the pain and rage and exposing my raw nerves to someone else, I was able to finally begin to heal.
15 years ago, I started doing a lot of counseling. Talking about all the gory details of my time in Iraq. Including spending several sessions going over every sight, smell, touch, and emotion from the night that I dealt with two dead bodies for the first time.
For years I had carried so much shame and so much fear that maybe I could have done more to save them. I used to lay awake at night and picture their bodies in the vehicle where they died. I couldn’t let that night go; I carried too much shame. But the more the counselor and I talked about that night, the more I began to see, and slowly believe, that I did everything I could have. But, unfortunately, there was indeed nothing in my realm of control that I could have done to save either man’s life. My heart still hurts for their families. I was finally able to let go of the shame and fear of that night.
Since those early sessions of delving into my innermost pain, I learned that my counselors didn’t think any less of me as a person. I was not weak, crazy, or unsavable. As I slowly shared my deepest fears with other veterans, I found out they felt the same things.
The moments I openly confronted my fears of being rejected because I was damaged were the moments I actually felt most loved and supported. I hated to cry because I felt weak and shameful for being vulnerable. But I learned that others see my vulnerability as a sign of my courage.
Recovery from PTSD is a long, complex process. To learn to feel “good” again, we have to face everything “bad” at its most raw and exposed level. We must let go of the shame, grieve the change, and be completely vulnerable to those we want to reengage with.
I genuinely believe all the years of exploring my own trauma head-on have helped me to steer my PTSD in a way that leads me to growth, empathy, purpose, and joy in my life. As painful, damaging, and unforgettable as those moments in Iraq were, I would never give them back. They have become the foundation of me.
