No shame in PTSD

No shame in PTSD
Posted on 15 March 2012
By Rick Fahr

(Author’s note: This is the final in a series of commentaries on an illness that affects thousands of veterans, many of whom are not receiving the mental health care they need and deserve.)

For a long time, I didn’t know what was wrong. I just knew something wasn’t right. I finally found out, and it’s taken me 18 months to acknowledge it publicly.

I have PTSD.

I used to scoff at the supposed illness. It was a crutch some people used to get out of their duty or slack off from work, I thought.

Not anymore. I live with it every moment of every day.

After I got back from Iraq, living in an apartment not surrounded by guards and concertina wire, I couldn’t shake the constant fear that some unknown, unrecognizable person would kick in my door and kill me. I know. Doesn’t make sense. I can’t explain why.

I would sit at my computer desk with a 9mm on one side and a .38 on the other. I’d go to bed with a rifle or shotgun easily within reach.

Nighttime was the worst. Every hour or so, I’d wake from fitful sleep and I’d see this green figure standing in the doorway. No, it wasn’t an alien. The green was from the light in the smoke detector right above the doorway. The somewhat amorphous figure always wore a gas mask for some reason. Again, no idea why.
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