Call It What You Want: Dealing with PTSD

BY LARRY HARRIS

It used to be called battle fatigue or shell shock. The old guys from World War II or Korea didn’t talk about it much, or even acknowledge its existence. But I heard an uncle and a friend’s father scream out in their sleep. One of them talked about Japs in the caves. That’s not normal sleep.

I first heard about delayed stress syndrome. But I thought all young men were angry, aggressive, moody, depressed, abused substances, and were hypervigilant. Now this condition is called post-traumatic stress disorder. When I came back from Vietnam PTSD wasn’t dealt with. We were just sent home without even an “Atta boy” or “Have a nice life.” Nor did we expect any help or support. Vietnam was surreal and ambiguous. That just continued. “Strap it on” was the mentality.

To my surprise, I walked off the battlefield. Then I didn’t expect to make thirty. What I didn’t count on was being in my sixties and having to deal with all this stuff. The tables have turned. Now I am the one who needs help. 

It’s hard to deal with. I don’t mind being called old; I’m glad to have made it this far. Sometimes, however, I wonder if the ship carrying my dreams has sailed out of sight. Nature runs its course and the aging process becomes undeniable. So how do I deal with that and the effects and problems of PTSD?  I’m not sure, but I won’t just lie down and let it inexorably wash over me.

For forty years I avoided the VA. I managed my health care and coped with PTSD the best I could. Four years ago I started getting flyers about getting examined and tested for diseases and conditions related to Agent Orange.  I’d been exposed. I remember walking through tree lines desolate as the dark side of the moon. Charlie could see us, but they couldn’t hide there anymore.

I was lucky: A small Indian or Pakistani doctor informed me I didn’t have diabetes, Parkinson’s, skin disorders, liver or kidney problems, or anything on the laundry list of possible diseases. Great, I thought. Then he rocked my world:  “Mr. Harris,” he said, “you have anger issues.”

“You’re goddamn right I do,” I snapped.  “I’ve been here for over two hours. It was supposed to take thirty minutes.”  My inner voice said, “Same old military and VA bullshit. No wonder it took me forty years to show up.”

Then he said, “You go Mental Health.”

“What?” I crowed. “You’re not an American or a vet!” I stormed out like an irate shopper on Black Friday.

But I stopped at the reception desk on the way out. The nice young woman there told me there was a PTSD screening at Mental Health that day.  “What the hell,” I said, “I’ve been here a long time already, maybe I’ll go check it out.”

I did check it out. The testing room was very crowded. After you finished the screening, it was evaluated and a shrink took you to an interview room. They never called my name. I finally asked some lifer-looking jerk about it. He said, “We’re swamped today. Someone will be in touch with you.” Right: Same old Army BS. I had an anger issue again.

In about two weeks I got a letter to come in and talk to a psychiatrist. I went. She was professional and nice. I told the truth just like I had on the screening. To conclude our session she said, “I recommend you apply for a PTSD disability.” I thanked her and left. My head was spinning. Am I crazy or some kind of social deviant? Maybe I’m just a sissy.

Long story short, I saw a psychologist at the VA.  She prescribed something to help me sleep. That was the greatest thing ever. For years I had gone to work with too little sleep. It was a Catch-22 situation. I needed sleep but was afraid if I went to sleep I’d have those nightmares.

To receive help, you have to admit you have PTSD. That’s extremely difficult, like fifth grade is to a non-English speaker. Once I started to get some sleep, things improved. My depression lessened (yeah, I always thought that was BS, too). I was in the system and began getting my medical treatment and prescriptions through the VA.

Then I applied for disability. I met a wonderful readjustment counselor at the Vet Center who helped me with the process. I had to jump through a lot of hoops and re-visit some things that were painful. But I “strapped it on” and got disability for PTSD. They turned down my hearing disability claim but gave me a $5,000 pair of hearing aids. Too bad all this stuff wasn’t retroactive.

When I look back over the years, I recognize many instances when PTSD affected my life. When I first got back to The World, I went to a party. Someone dropped a quart of beer that smashed on the tile floor. I dove behind the couch. Kind of embarrassing.

One time I stopped at Burger King on the way to work. It was all Asians behind the counter. I couldn’t deal with it and walked out. Then it happened another time at Walmart.

Many vets have road rage and are often faced with the fight-or-flight response. An idiot at Home Depot wanted to fight me because he said I looked at him. I wouldn’t back down. Fortunately, someone stepped between us.

We vets think nobody does their jobs anymore and that no one understands our condition. They also don’t care. Okay, I’ve dealt with disrespect since they called us baby killers. Do so many people have to be rude?

I can go to a movie or restaurant and not be as anxious as in the past. But it is kind of humorous when my ROMEO group (Retired Old Men Eating Out) goes out for breakfast. Everyone wants to see the way in and out, sit against a wall, or sit at the end of the table. It took us a couple of months to realize we just don’t want to feel vulnerable or lose our independence.

I was able to teach Vietnamese students without much trouble. They were either well-behaved good students or incorrigible. Not much middle ground. Both groups are easy to deal with. I will help you succeed, or you can leave if your phone, dress, or attitude is more important than your education.

You’re never cured of PTSD. It’s not like beating cancer. But you can learn to deal with it effectively and mitigate some of the symptoms, including sleeplessness, anger, depression, avoidance, isolation, substance abuse, anxiety, inability to keep a job or stay married, a startle response, and hypervigilance. It is a daunting list, but if you learn your triggers, you can manage things better.

Many vets self-medicate, become workaholics, or ride Harleys. You don’t have to have been in combat to have PTSD. If everyone in a horrific accident dies except you, that could start the condition. Survivor guilt is a common PTSD issue. Your spouse or children can suffer from secondary PTSD.

You need to have a support system and the help and understanding of those close to you. Music, a smell, or a sound can trigger an episode, but you can get through it. PTSD symptoms don’t lessen with age. In fact, they can intensify with retirement, because you have too much time on your hands. I was fortunate because I had a good counselor at the Vet Center.

Just knowing you’re not the only crusty old guy with these issues helps. “Misery loves company,” an old cliché says. But you certainly don’t want a support group that just tells war stories and gets into pissing contests.

It feels good to finally be respected. I like it when someone says, “Thank you for your service.” A few years ago I wouldn’t wear a vet cap, put a bumper sticker on my car, or watch a war movie. I don’t feel that I have made an unsung agreement with political correctness, and I still believe civility is important. I’m lucky to have the support and understanding of my friends at the Sun River Creative Writing Group. If you are angry or feel strongly about something, write about it. You’ll feel better.

So if I’m ever on a commuter train and six young people don’t let me sit down, bury their heads in their electronic devices, and try to beat me out the door, I’ll just smile. They’re stupid and don’t know they would be living under the yoke of communism if it wasn’t for me. Then I’ll get off and go to Walmart.