The day started off so well. My wife and I took my daughter down to a local mall and we walked outside and enjoyed the weather, ate at Red Robin, and my daughter played with the other kids in the fountain next to the Starbucks. No really, she did:
I feel relaxed. I am enjoying the day. In the mid-afternoon, we get in the car and head home. When we get there, I very quickly fall asleep in my recliner...and wake up choking on my own bile from a nightmare. I bolt out of my seat and start gagging and puking up bile into the sink in the kitchen. My daughter saw the whole thing happen and it's a first I could have done without. She is scared out of her wits and very worried about her daddy. I stay as calm as I can since I am still gagging and trying to clear my wind pipe and my wife is a champ, explaining that daddy's ok. I did my best to reassure her that I was ok, but she wasn't satisfied until my gag reflex receded and I was able to pick her up.
Caley: "Daddy, you cried."
Me: "Yes I did, bear bear."
Caley: "It's OK, Daddy, It's OK" (hugs me fiercly)
Me: "I'll be OK, Caley. Daddy just had a bad dream."
Caley: "I love you, Daddy."
After that exchange, my heart melted into my figurative boots. Caley asked to be put down and went back to playing in the living room and I was left to reflect on my nightmare. It was about the death of an Iraqi translator that was killed for working with the US. He knew it was dangerous but worked hard to ensure the safety of our troops wherever he was. He wasn't the only Iraqi to die protecting us. The Kurdish Peshmerga (Special Forces) guarded our safehouse in Khanaqin. Many were murdered after they returned home to the Kurdish North for disobeying orders and staying to protect us while we got set up in town. These are not isolated incidents. These men were believers in what the United States stands for and died to protect our troops. They paid the ultimate sacrifice too, but you will never see a monument to their courage and selflessness. The men and women have always been there in any war - the forgotten heroes. The locals who believe so strongly in us that they protect our troops and sacrifice themselves for our cause.
I don't know why I had that nightmare in the middle of a wonderful day. I think I may actually be grateful for it. All of us are mourning the loss of those we served with who didn't make it home. All I ask is that you take a moment to reflect on the nameless ones who never expected to be remembered. Take a minute to praise and give thanks for those who have selflessly sacrificed themselves to ensure our troop's safety in a hostile environment and paid the ultimate price for their efforts.
Because, In My Eyes, They Were All American Service Members, Too
I knew I had been anxious about my first group therapy session with the new doc. I just didn't realize how anxious I really was. The two nights before the session, I didn't really sleep much. I was a bit of a hot mess. I arrived early as I always do. It gives me a few minutes by myself in the room to collect my thoughts.
Then the doc and the other veterans showed up and things took a turn for the worse for me. It became very clear early on that doc was going to work out. She's competent and runs the group well. She involves everyone.and does a good job directing conversation. The new doc was never the issue.
I kept on looking up and expecting to see Doc Casagrande. I kept on looking over the where he had habitually set up shop in the corner of the room. He wasn't there and it hurt, knowing he would never be there again. It's one thing to grieve on your own timetable. This was not. I had to force myself to move on and pay attention to what was happening in group. I didn't want to yet but I wasn't given a choice. It hurt like hell and I suffered for it all last night and today.
I kept on thinking, if grieving was this hard for my doctor, what the hell was going to happen to me if something ever happened to my wife or daughter? The fear intense, palpable. I have never been so scared of losing something in my life and I didn't know how to handle it. I ended up rocking and holding my head like someone kicked me in the groin. It wasn't continuous. Every time I would catch myself after a little bit and force myself to stop. It wouldn't take long before I was rocking again, unaware that I was doing it.
When I woke up this morning, my emotions were still raw and I was anxious as hell about everything and nothing, all at the same time. I kept on taking doses of my anxiety medication until it made a difference. Then, off to work I went, hoping and praying that I could make it through the day without verbally decapitating someone.
Somehow, I have made it through and it is something I am very grateful for. My wife has been worried sick about me and was concerned that I was starting to regress back into a hole. While I haven't regressed, I had to explain to her that what I was mostly feeling was grief exacerbated by my PTSD. I was just grieving. That's all. It just goes to show that, while I have gotten closure on Doc's death, being reminded of that loss can still be profound and emotionally distressing. I haven't felt his loss as keenly at any other time. It is still difficult to explain to you the depth of the loss I feel and it has overwhelmed me for the past two days. Now I have to work out all of the jumbled mess that is my thoughts and see if there's anything else or any revelations hiding in the murk.
I went out to the cemetery today. I had learned late Thursday night that Doc does have a final resting place and it was less than a half hour from my house. Needless to say, after spending Friday getting everything sorted out with the VA (that's another post for another day), I was exhausted and couldn't make it out the to cemetery yesterday.
So I went this morning. Talk about surreal. There I was, not a soul in sight anywhere. I was standing in front of his grave marker, solemn and contemplative, head down. No cars drove by the cemetery in that moment and the snow started to come down very heavily. It felt like one of those moments you read about in books or in serious dramas. Yet this was real life. This was MY life and, for some reason, it just felt right that I should have solitude and quiet in that moment.
And then it passed and the emotional pain hit like someone ripping off a Band-Aid. Intense, searing, yet short lived. I was left with the dull throb of missing someone I would never see again, but being there - seeing Doc in his final resting place - gave me the closure I needed desperately to fully move on. I didn't realize how badly I needed it until that moment. It made me wonder why I needed that closure, that finality, so keenly.
I thought about it on my walk back to the car, on the ride home and a good portion of the early afternoon. And then, it hit me. I needed this because I never got closure for all of the death and violence I experienced over in Iraq. It made me think about all of the other veterans with PTSD that were suffering just like me and it made me realize: If there is ONE THING that can trigger us and bring it all back into our consciousness, it's having someone close to us die and not getting the closure we need to move on.
In retrospect, I recognize now that a lot of the anger I have felt for the past few days was not anger felt but, rather, anger remembered. Grief. Not felt, but remembered. Helplessness, intensely remembered. I recognize now that this event, the unfortunate circumstances surrounding Doc's passing and the way in which I was informed, has been a blessing in disguise. It may take it a while for me to fully accept that, but I know I eventually will. What I have gained from this experience is how losing someone I care about will affect me in the future. It also equips me to support my fellow veterans if they find themselves in the same position.
So take heed. If it is in your power, do everything you can to provide adequate closure for veterans with PTSD. Don't blindside them. Do what you can to be compassionate and try to leave them feeling like they are in control of the situation and how they choose to grieve.
VA Admin, ARE YOU LISTENING?
After everything that happened yesterday, I needed to find answers. I was in no condition to work but tried anyways. I made through a little over two and a half hours of my shift before I couldn't hide my grief anymore. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted. I left work and I headed straight to the VA and asked to speak to the Patient Advocate. I was ushered into his office and he asked me how I was doing and what he could do for me.
I told him about the past month and the way that I had been treated and that I was very upset with the manner in which I had been informed of Doctor Casagrande's passing. He responded without remorse that he and upper level administration had decided the best way to handle this 'situation' was to not allow non-clinical personnel to say anything and to keep mum until the vets came in for their next scheduled appointments. At that time another doc would be waiting to (sarcasm here) 'blindside' an unsuspecting veteran with this horrible news. I was stunned. I told the advocate that I don't have scheduled sessions with Doc Casagrande and that I was only in his group CPT session. The advocate responded, "So many people come and go through the groups that we didn't bother." Again - stunned. I told the advocate it would have been easy to see, if he would have bothered to look at the rosters that I had been at EVERY session for the last six to nine months. Remorseless, he deflected my comment with something along the lines of what's done is done and 'gee, we're so sorry you found out this way.' I followed up by telling him that no one offered me grief counseling, nothing. He very quickly offered, :"would you like to talk to someone now?"
It was at this point that I realized that the administrators had no flipping clue how to handle these situations. This advocate, along with administration higher up, put hundreds of behavioral health patients at risk with their approach to dealing with the doc's passing. I wondered if the disconnect flowed into the care side, so I said I would like to talk to someone. I was introduced to a clinician (I don't remember if she was a doc or a nurse or a social worker) and talked about how messed up I was from all of this and it became very evident to me that she was distressed at how distressed I was. She told me that every veteran that she had seen in connection to Doc Casagrande's death had reacted EXACTLY the same way I have. She also mentioned (although I don't think she really meant to) that there were still veterans that didn't know because they hadn't been in for their scheduled appointments yet. She told me, "I know, after everything that's happened that you have no reason to trust us, but would you at least talk to one of the docs tomorrow who is taking over Doc Casagrande's patients?"
I could sense her frustration with the whole situation. This was an utter mess and Doc's co-workers were just as caught in this storm as I was. I said I would meet with someone tomorrow and I scheduled my time to meet.
After I left and was on my way home, I thought about the whole situation and it made me incredibly disgusted. That patient advocate was to advocate for what was best for the patients. Either one of two things explain his decision: He was lazy and didn't want to put in the extra work and due diligence to make sure every one of the doc's patients was informed as quickly as possible OR he was put in the position to make this decision without any knowledge of what WAS best for us. The VA needs to understand how much danger they put the veterans in. If I was any less stable than I am, I would have done things I would have regretted (become a danger to others) or done something I would never be able to regret (committed suicide). Every veteran should have been afforded an equal opportunity to grieve and should have been told in enough time to attend the memorial services. The way they decided to handle this situation was reprehensible and inhumane.
So, I stand by what I said yesterday in my post. The VA needs radical change. And it needs it now. No longer can we continue to put our nation's heroes at risk due to the ineptitude or apathy of bureaucrats. I will fight from now until my last breath to make sure this change happens. Come hell or high water. I have had people tell me the system is too big to change. I respond with this. Bullshit. When the people you are designed to serve are forced to go elsewhere to ensure they receive quality care and compassion, you have failed to meet the most basic of requirements for your continued existence. I will not bear the legacy costs of a broken VA when those legacy costs are paid for with the blood of my fellow veterans who have lost hope and take their own lives. The time for change is now. Let's be heard, folks. Don't stand silent and condone this with your inaction. Fight for the change we all deserve.
I try to keep the tears from hitting the keyboard as I write this. I found out today that I lost a man who held a special significance in my life. In his honor, I want to share what I knew of the man.
Read His Obituary Here: Dr. Joseph Casagrande
I never even knew his first name. We just always called him 'doc'. I didn't even know him for very long, but Doc Casagrande had a huge impact on my life. About a year ago, when I was out on short-term disability and learning how to cope with my PTSD, I found out about his Cognitive Processing Therapy (CPT) Group and asked to join it. That's when I first met him. We met one on on and he asked me pointedly whether I was committed to learning the tools I needed to learn to better my life.
That should have been the first clue that this doc was different. I went to my first group session two weeks later...and my life was changed forever.
Over the course of the past year, I have taken control of my life. I still have horrible nightmares, I still get triggered. I still have to fight the depression, the anxiety. The difference is that I have acquired, through emotional growth and a considerable amount of emotional pain, how to better cope with these symptoms of PTSD. I learned these skills in my CPT group and at the direction of Doc Casagrande.
He was an amazing man. He never wore his heart on his sleeve but his passion for helping veterans came through in his straightforward attitude and brutal honesty. He told us what we needed to hear, no matter how difficult. This was his gift to us, he taught us to look at our behaviors and beliefs unflinchingly, to never back away from a problem. Doc always knew what we needed to hear and talk about the most and directed group discussion. He didn't drone on and monopolize group time. He asked pointed questions and, throught his direction and the support of the other veterans in the group, each of us learned more about ourselves and what we could do to make changes for the better.
Four weeks ago, Doc wasn't at group. Neither was anyone else. When I asked where everyone was, I was told that Doc was out sick. Concerned, I let it ride. Two Wednesdays ago, someone else was leading the group, a clinical social worker (for more about this group session, click here.) By this time, Doc Casagrande had already passed away. No one said anything. When I asked about Doc, the social worker evaded the questions with 'I don't knows'. Growing more and more concerned, I went to group today and noticed that the room was empty again. I didn't wait around. I left and drove around for a little, thinking. In the end, I came back just after the group was ending and I ran into another doc that I have worked with and asked him for a no-bull explanation as to what was going on. The doc stared at me, stunned. The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know but the doc said. He passed away. I found out that Doc Casagrande had passed before the last group session that I had been to and I felt the lights grow dim. My world took on a much more threatening glow.
As I said in my previous post, 'The VA Screwed Up, Big Time.' I was angry and very distraught. My grief was eating me alive. As I have had many times in the past when I have worked with Doc Casagrande, I felt a moment of clarity. The grief is still there and still profound. The fact that I never got the chance to say goodbye, to have closure, will haunt me for quite some time. What that moment of clarity gave me was resolve - to continue to do the work he would have wanted me to in order to make the most of my live. And to make a difference for others. That moment of clarity showed me that, while I was robbed of my right to honor the man after he died, I could live my life - the live he had made possible - in his honor. To live my life as he lived his: with compassion, honesty, integrity, and unflinching resolve to do the right thing.
It is with this in mind that I share with you my vision. I want to take what he has taught me and make a difference for veterans with PTSD. As I move forward with creating my non-profit, I will be needing a physical location. In his honor: It will be named the 'Joseph Casagrande Center'
I ask for your support in making this a reality. Please help me and others that knew him honor his memory and his mission.
So I go to the VA for my CPT Group therapy and I see doc's not in there again. Feeling angry, I track down another doc I know and ask him what the hell is going on. I demanded to know what was going on with Doc Casagrande.
The doc I confronted looked at me, stunned. He had that 'oh, God, you don't know' look on his face. He told me that doc had passed away over two weeks ago. Yep, that's right over two weeks ago. The social worker in the room two weeks ago KNEW and didn't say anything, didn't address the subject or the grief we would feel. To the deepest core of my psyche, I felt violated - emotionally raped.
***UPDATE: They got the date of his passing wrong...It was AFTER my last group session. They never contacted me and no grief counseling was offered when I did find out.
I stood there stunned as I felt the floor fall out from under me. I asked about memorial services - already been held. Could I visit his grave? - Cremated. I asked about a few more things at the desk and then stumbled out to my car.
That's when the anger hit. The most furious and hell-bent anger I have ever felt. I was shaking. I thought, "THEY ROBBED ME OF MY RIGHT TO SAY GOODBYE, TO FIND CLOSURE". I got in the car and started driving home. All the while I was thinking:
Our veterans deserve top quality care. The dangerous actions (or, in my case, inaction) of the VA endanger the veterans they so strongly profess to care about. The VA proved to me today that radical change is needed. They need to be replaced with a system that is patient first, bureaucracy second. Enough is ENOUGH. This is to all of the politicians who want to sit around and squabble like spoiled brats. ENOUGH! You claim to have your constituencies' best interests at heart. Put your money where your mouth is. Your petty partisan politics have continually put funding for the VA programs at risk, making it impossible for them to make long-term plans for improvement. This, Congressmen and Senators, is YOUR dishonor. Prove to me that you are worth even a fraction of the sweat and love that Doc Casagrande gave to the veterans he served. Let his legacy be the standard to which we, as veterans, hold you accountable.
I arrived home and opened the door to get out of my car. As I closed the door to my car, I felt the anger blow away in the crisp spring wind. As quickly as the anger was there, it was gone. Blown away by my resolve to honor the man who had made such a huge impact in my life. Stay tuned for the memorial piece, being written now.
When this first happened, I wanted to write something immediately. I felt compelled to write from the heart on this, but I waited. This incident devastated too many lives to be written off the cuff. I decided to look into some background information so substantiate my views and in the course of doing that research became more and more disturbed, more and more concerned for the direction our country is headed. So, here goes.
The proliferation of firearms in the United States has reached critical mass. Industry lobbyists in Washington have worked tirelessly to pave the way for almost anyone to be able to purchase and own firearms. While I believe in the Second Amendment, I think it's time we actually looked at what the Second Amendment actually says.
"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed."
Well, this seems pretty damn black and white to me. 'If this criteria is met, then this holds true'. Is the United States general public now considered a 'well regulated militia'? Is owning an automatic rifle 'necessary to the security of a free state'? Unequivocally, NO. We have local police, state police, the National Guard, and more. There is absolutely no reason for assault rifles to be available to the general public.
Before any NRA sycophants get on here and rant, you better think carefully about what you say. I fought to protect the ideals of this country, so don't you dare impugn my intentions. You want to argue your 'right to bear arms'? Last time I checked, this right is an AMENDMENT. First and foremost we have a duty to uphold the core tenants of the Constitution. Let's visit the core tenant of that wonderful document:
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of Happiness."
It is not a coincidence that Life takes the spot as highest in precedence. When others' rights to bear arms encroaches on another citizen's right to live a life in pursuit of these three basic tenants, I draw the line. No parents should have to live in fear of sending their children to school. They shouldn't have to fear a phone call telling them that their six year old was murdered in cold blood by an assault rifle toting psychopath.
I thought deeply about the philosophy that 'guns don't kill people, people kill people.' While semantically true, this is a delusional rationalization. Yes, guns don't kill people. Someone has to pull the trigger and we, as a society, have made that insanely easy to accomplish. It's time that we held ourselves to a higher standard.
Special Interests and Politics:
While the above incident is horrible, it is a symptom of a deeper malady - a cancer that has spread insidiously into every facet of National Governance. Special Interests, working to promote specific agendas have taken our political system hostage. Special interest groups have taken over policy making so completely in Washington that the average politician can't get elected without taking money from these groups and offering policy reciprocity in return. We supposedly elect these politicians to office out of a belief that they will do what is best for their constituencies. Now, campaign platforms are empty words designed to keep power-hungry 'public servants' in office. Special interest groups are the ones that facilitate this. Their money buys influence and power in Washington, drowning out the voices of the average American who doesn't have millions of dollars to throw at corrupt politicians. The firearm special interests and the NRA both tout deep and abiding beliefs in God. Unless God is now synonymous the almighty dollar, these folks and the politicians that support them are the most profound of hypocrites. Last time I checked, avarice was one of the seven deadly sins. The firearm industry and their cadre of bought policy-makers have sold the lives of our children out of a desire for more money and more power. So I say this to those policy-makers and lobbyists - HOW DARE YOU.
It's time that we take back our power from these elitists. I didn't go to war to protect and uphold the Constitution of the Unites States just to watch it be slowly subverted to fit the greed and need of a select few.
Ultimately, it is these lobbyists and policy-makers that have supported lax firearms policies that I hold accountable for what happened in Connecticut. If I had my way, they'd all be brought up on charges of Negligent Homicide. Take what you will from this, but my stance will never change. Policy-makers are given their power by us. We can just as easily take it away. It's time they start advocating for us and not the special interests.
Mental Health Care in the United States:
Since I was diagnosed with PTSD, I have taken a keen interest in the state of the mental health care system in our country. Bluntly, it's embarrassing. So little education is out there about mental illness, mental disorders that those with these issues are viewed by many as second-class citizens at best and a danger to the general public at worst.
News Flash: My name isn't Rambo. I will not go on a murderous killing spree because of the horrific things I witnessed in a Combat Zone.
PTSD, Depression, Bi-Polar, Schizophrenia. People hear these words and become fearful. Thousands and thousands of people never come forward for treatment out of fear of being shunned by a society that holds no place for them. Whatever happened to compassion for our fellow man? Not surprisingly, those sufferers with the most understanding families that actively support their treatment, that show them unconditional love are substantially more successful in mitigating the effects of their illness/disorder on their lives. It's time that we, as a nation, worry more about others again. Where is our heart? Our nationalism? Our pride in what it means to be truly American? Since when did ignoring or marginalizing a portion of our population become acceptable?
The only way to fix this is to get rid of the vast bureaucracy that overshadows our efforts to provide for our citizens with mental illnesses and disorders. In the case of Veterans, the system is so cumbersome that they have to file with one organization (the VBA) in order to be provided with free health care from the other (VA Medical). It takes days, months, and sometimes years to get the help we need. And the first solution given by most psychiatrists? Medication.
There's another special interest that disgusts me. Pharmaceutical Companies. The FDA approves these drugs when the side-effects are worse than the malady they are addressing. I saw an add for Cymbalta on the TV in the work break room the other day. The first 15 seconds were about what it addressed: Depression. The last 45 seconds addressed all of the possible side-effects. By the end of the ad, I couldn't even remember what the hell the drug was for until they flashed the name back up on the screen.
Do you know what has been most helpful to me in coping with my PTSD? The compassion of others and finding therapists that help me learn to identify and cope with my symptoms. It took me EIGHT YEARS to finally find this kind of help. And I'm one of the lucky ones with a supportive and loving family.
So, have I gotten your attention yet? Please don't let this issue pass you by. I hope to hear from everyone on this issue, for and against the view I have presented. Discourse is the only way we can get to where we need to be. It's a topic of discussion that hasn't been addressed in way too long. Let's find our hearts again. Let's work to hold our public officials to a higher standard. And for Pete's Sake, get these weapons out of the hands of the general public.
A good friend of mine asked me to address this question. He recently made the realization that he may have crossed over from acceptance to giving up on himself and having a good life. As a result of this, I wanted to very carefully address this (unfortunately) all too common occurrence.
One of the most important steps we, as veterans with PTSD, have to make is accepting that what happened was not something we could have prevented or changed the outcome of. As Rod Deaton says, we veterans are 'intensely intense'. Most, if not all of us, feel that accepting what happened means that we stop fighting the guilt that it is our fault. Here's the hard part:
The instinct to fight is what also keeps us motivated to continue fighting for a better life.
Many of us (myself included) have tried to accept what happened. What we were really doing was feeling guilty that what happened was out of our control. We end up surrendering to the guilt. It can feel a lot like acceptance, but it is not. It's insidious. What has really happened is that by surrendering to the guilt, we have given up fighting and we convince ourselves that giving up on having a good life - it's just something else we have to 'accept'.
When I made this realization about myself, I felt even worse about myself, knowing that the last thing that I wanted was to give up on myself. It was back to square one with the idea of acceptance. In short, I hadn't actually accepted anything. I just gave in. That's what made me feel worse about myself.
So there you have it. I hope this makes sense.
This question was a serious gut check this past weekend. After my last blog post where I explained my struggle to stay motivated to get healthy, I talked with my mom about it. She said that one of the things she has always loved about me is my gentleness. I only become a fighter when absolutely necessary. While I don't entirely agree with her assessment, it did turn a different light on:
I can fight for a cause. I can fight for my loved ones. I will fight for ideals worth fighting for. But me? Am I worth fighting for?
Yeah...as is said, gut check. I realized immediately that survivor's guilt had a big role to play in this story. The guilt eroded my self-confidence and self-esteem. I have a very low opinion of my self-worth. On top of that, I have stumbled and fallen down a lot as I learn to effectively cope with my PTSD. I think that I am afraid to even try most of the time because I am afraid of failing again. My lack of confidence turn this fear into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
So how do I get past this? How does a person learn how to value himself again? I should have a better opinion of myself. The PTSD has tried very hard to destroy my life and my family. Yet, I have persevered and held it all together. What I realized is that I thought THEY were worth fighting for despite my inability to fight for me.
What a mess. I literally hate the image I see when I look in the mirror and I wonder how much of that hatred stems from my guilt for having come home from Iraq when other I knew didn't. Am I punishing myself? Is that what's going on here? I don't know. I do intend to figure it out. This may take more hand-holding than I thought, though. The only way a person can truly improve their self-image is by having their worth validated regularly by those who love and care for him.
I don't want empty compliments and platitudes. I need the people that love me to demonstrate to me why I am a good person. Maybe I should talk to my parents, my sister, my wife, and others about having them write letters to me. The idea would be explaining to me why they love me. What they love about me. That way, on a down day, I could pull out the letters and remind myself of how my family views me each and every day. Hmm...
July 30th, 2003. The day the course of my life irrevocably changed. The day that I remember every year with trepidation, sorrow, guilt, anger, and gratitude. It made me question everything I believed. It shattered my psyche, shredded my soul.
Quite honestly, I am surprised I survived long enough to make it home. Every day after became harder and harder to bear. The horrific scene that haunted my mind, the smell and taste of blood...
Yet here I am, writing about how that experience and others that followed after changed me. I don't want to remember what I experienced, yet I am afraid to forget.
Change the date and any veteran could have shared this. The scary truth: Every veteran with PTSD I know has an anniversary. A day that makes them pause, unwillingly, and remember horrific experiences. A day they can't reconcile with physically, mentally or spiritually.
I have had many people ask me why I mark this date on the calendar. They don't understand why, when it is so horrific, that I am forced to remember. The answer I give them is always the same - Because I still am unable to accept what happened. That, to me, accepting it would feel like a betrayal of those that died. After almost a decade, I still feel this way. I feel this so strongly that you might call it conviction.
My answer leaves many people shaking their heads in incredulity. They ask me why I punish myself this way. The answer: I don't know. Is it self-imposed punishment for surviving to talk about it when others never had the chance?
I'll make you all a deal. When I figure it out, I will let you know.
As I continue my life with PTSD, I will share my challenges and discoveries on this blog.