mTBI, PTSD and Stress (Catch All)

[MikeF]

Everything I have is now free, so we can all heal

To Yahweh, for carrying me when I could not
To Taylor, so that you may know your daddy
To my walking wounded, so that you may learn to live
To my fallen paratroopers, I love you, and I’ll see you one day on the big drop zone in the sky
To the children of Iraq, that you may one day know peace
To my fellow citizens, may you find the truth
To Major Aziz, my brother in arms
To Katy, for loving me irrationally
Inshallah

[MikeF]

PROLOGUE

You never really know what is going through another man’s mind or the path that he walks. For veterans, the path is more obscure. He could be your grandfather, uncle, brother, or husband. He could be the homeless guy on the street. He may be the smartly dressed businessman in your office or the art collector downtown. On the surface, he tries to act like you wearing a mask to hide the horror and rage deep within his soul. He strives to be normal in American society, but his heart is numb. Normal is juxtaposed with the pain and suffering he has lived. He does not want his family to know what he has done. He suffers in silence.

I never thought I could heal. After all the killing and violence, I felt that I had a penance to serve. I felt condemned to a life with hope forlorn, faith no more; a life without purpose and without love. I was a shell of my former self drowning in an alcoholic sorrow along the river of the Sierra Nevada Pale ale. Sometimes, I wished that I had died in Iraq. At least then I would have had a hero’s burial.

Instead, I waded through an insufferable purgatory walking through your world but living in Iraq. I would stare at you on the street wondering if you could ever understand. I saw you everywhere, but you never saw me. You were distracted by your IPod and cell phone: measures of self-medication that provide distance from thinking about your soul, purpose, and nature. That is the American condition I suppose. We are so blessed, yet we are so cursed at times. I was angry, and I deflected my anger onto you.

Yes, I am gifted with exceptional intelligence, but so what? My anger thwarted any attempt to be productive. I was emotionally bankrupt. My process was skewed- all goal focused. I did not, could not live. I tried to fit into your society; I tried to conform. I tried to wear a mask of the good soldier, the good student, the good husband, and the good father. It did not work. I thought of running away to homelessness or hiding in an office being nobody. It did not work. I forced myself on a path to resolution. I would either heal, or I would die trying.

After my fourth combat tour and six years of perpetual war, I spiraled out of control. I searched for hope and love, and I found nothing. I tried to eat, love, and pray. I tried yoga. I tried the church. I thought that maybe all I had to do was get smarter. I tried to expand my creativity. I tried painting, poetry, rock-climbing, mountain biking, surfing, and hiking. I found nothing.

I found temporary relief with alcohol. Drinking 30 beers a night, I could forget for a bit. For a few precious moments, I was not haunted by the genocide, the burning villages, my soldier’s faces destroyed, or my soldier’s brains deteriorating. I found relief. I spent several nights in jail for public intoxication, and I kept falling.

The Army was very patient with me. They tried to give me space to sort through my grief, but it did not work. Finally, in a last ditch effort, they sent me to Kansas. What the hell is in Kansas?

In Kansas, a transformation occurred. Magic and miracle are the only words to describe what happened. I watched old, crusty Vietnam Veterans break weeping like young children. I let go. I am not angry anymore. I am alive!!!

Nancy understood. Once, she had walked in my shoes. She knew that I saw the world differently from most. She reminded me I have one of three choices to make: conform, walk away, or voice truth to power. I chose voice. I understand the implications of my decision with regards to the Army. With my voice, I am walking away. I will now be considered too rebellious, too different. I am okay with my decision. Furthermore, I made a decision to pursue my new life with the same audacity that I once pursued al Qaeda. This is my story.

After years of endless trauma, Ralph Waldo Emerson emerged anew. He produced definite works in American literature that defined the American spirit of self-reliance for a century. He challenged us to,

“Be not a slave of your own past. Plunge into the deep waters, dive deep and swim far, so that you may emerge anew. Return with renewed experience and deeper understanding.”

Let us tackle his challenge. Let us strive to be the next greatest generation. Let our children live. Follow me. I will share my story. It is raw, real, and true. It is interesting and important. It is a tragedy, but it is mostly a story of hope, acceptance, forgiveness, validation, and love. As the president proclaims, “The audacity of hope must transcend.”

Thank you for reading this. I am not sure if you are ready to hear it, but it is time. God bless you, and God Bless the United States of America. Tomorrow is a new day. Let us not forget our past lest we are forced to repeat it.

[MikeF]

CHAPTER ONE: ALL ROADS LEAD TO ZAGANIYAH


“Osama, baah! Osama is not a product of Pakistan or Afghanistan. He is a creation of America. Thanks to America, Osama is in every home. As a military man, I know you can never fight and win against someone who can shoot at you once and then run off and hide while you have to remain eternally on guard. You have to attack the source of your enemy’s strength. In America’s case, that’s not Osama or Saddam or anyone else. The enemy is ignorance. The only way to defeat it is to build relationships with these people, to draw them into the modern world with education and business. Otherwise the fight will go on forever.”

-Pakistani General (Ret) Bashir
Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Mission to Promote Peace…One School at a Time


"Mike, they're miscreants. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less....You call them jihadists, and you don't understand what jihad means. You've just infuriated 2 billion Muslims and given credence to their cause. They’re simply miscreants." -Pakistani Infantry Officer


[MikeF]

The False Beginning

March 19, 2003. In the beginning, we believed that all roads led to Baghdad. The quiet weeping of the survivors’ mourning echoed from the ashes of the twin towers across the Atlantic through the vast expanse of the Kuwaiti desert. The time for retribution had come. It seemed so right, so just. Finally, we would dismantle Saddam and the Baath Party and show the world what happens when the gentle giant is disturbed. It was time to demonstrate the full might of American Power on those that would seek us harm. We conducted the final inspections of our seventy-ton war machines, wrote our final goodbyes to our families, prayed to the God of Abraham for protection, and stormed through the breach.

Hundreds of miles to the east, the sun’s rays pierced through the darkness in yet another display of its endless cycle, and a young boy was awakened by his father. Today would be different for him. He would not work in the fields. Instead he would attend the madrassa for schooling, one of thousands built by Osama with Saudi Arabian oil money funneled under the guise of charity while the rest of the world slept. Unbeknownst to him, his indoctrination into an ideology of hate, a sick, twisted interpretation of Mohammed’s works, would begin. Today this cancer would continue to spread across the Muslim world.

Two thousand miles away, locked deep inside of his basement, a burly American forced himself to sort through the countless pile of correspondences that had accumulated; however, his thoughts drifted on how to tell his story, raise the money, and educate the children. He is not one of us. He is a different breed.

In the beginning, Pandora’s Box was cracked, civilizations clashed, innocence was lost, and everything unraveled.
In the beginning, we were wrong.

[MikeF]

The Americans are Coming

With shock and awe, we stormed across the desert seizing Talil Airfield and destroying the 11th Infantry Division. In the aftermath, LT Aziz assembled his men and launched an early morning dismounted assault against insurmountable odds towards our mechanized forces. His men perished, and he retreated to fight another day.

In Mukisa, young men prayed their morning prayers, said goodbye to their families, collected their blood chits, and moved south to join Saddam’s Fedayeen.

In Zaganiyah, Mustafa followed his family as the Zuharie tribe gathered. Sheik Septar called the meeting to announce that the Americans are coming. He determined that the Zuharies would wait to greet them. All is well. They would wait it out. In time, the wealth would flow as they secured contracts for their trucking company that transported goods to Jordan.

In Janazeer, Sheik Adnon prepared his household for the Tamimi meeting at Sheik Raad’s compound. The Tamimi tribal network successfully collaborated with the Americans across the Persian Gulf from the transportation companies to the dining facilities. Soon, Saddam would be gone. Soon, fortunes would be made. These preparations were essential.

In Baghdad, a truck driver we will call Ali huddled with his family as an artillery unit from the Republican Guard established firing positions in their neighborhood.

In An Nasiriyah, an unknown man we will call Haji was stuck in his shop downtown. He did not know that the Americans would come today, and he stayed in his shop as the bombardments began. He worried constantly over the fate of his wife and three young children.

Eventually, our worlds would collide.

[MikeF]

First Contact

March 20, 2003. I established my blocking position as ordered along the main road west of An Nasiriyah. My mission was simple- no one is allowed to pass. I had not slept in the past seventy-two hours. I lost my voice screaming during my first night of actual combat. I was embarrassed by my actions-I had lost control. My ankles had doubled in size as the blood flowed down from the endless vibrations of the march north. I struggled to walk. I was a shell of my former self. The year in the desert had taken its toll, and I lost forty pounds. I was thoroughly exhausted both physically and mentally-further than any football, rugby, or wrestling match had ever taken me. I finally learned my lesson. If I was to lead my men, then I must rest and take care of myself. I would never again lose my wits under fire. The ghost of the Long Grey Line whispered in my ear ringing tales of “duty, honor, and country.” I could not fail lest they haunt me for the rest of my days.
I calmed myself reverting back to the breathing techniques taught to me long ago in scuba school. I found my happy place. I had to control my mind in order to control the chaos naturally embedded in war. Anything extraneous was rejected, and everything else was compartmentalized. I am stubborn man, so I was learning through blunt trauma instead of mindless repetition. My thoughts drifted to the future. Would we face a nuclear, chemical, or biological attack in the Karbala Gap? The odds seemed likely. Would the resistance increase? Surely it would; in retrospect, last night had been a joke. I understood that I would probably die in combat, and I accepted it. I vowed that I would do my best to take care of my boys. I became focused. I became emotionally numb.

That morning, Haji conferred with four of his neighbors who worked downtown with him and were stuck as well. A temporary pause in the fighting occurred, and they decided to attempt to venture home. Hopefully, the Americans would grant them safe passage. They crammed into the tiny sedan and began to travel west.

I was taking a short nap when the radio traffic picked up. A car was approaching from the east travelling at a high rate of speed. Since I was hoarse, I whispered to my loader to send instructions to acquire the car and tell the gunners to proceed with caution. If the car attempted to breach the concertina wire that we had placed one hundred meters in front of our position, then the gunners would engage and destroy it.

Haji and company stopped approximately fifty meters shy of the wire. They got out of the car, threw their hands high in the air, and began walking towards our position. I instructed two soldiers and an NCO to dismount the tanks and conduct an assessment. My loader alerted the company commander. Since none of us spoke Arabic, my boys used hand signals to instruct the men to disrobe and lay on the ground. The car and men were thoroughly searched, and my boys reported that this situation was not a threat; however, they did not know how to proceed.

I climbed off my tank and went to greet Haji. We allowed the men to put their clothes on, and we gathered for conversation. This engagement would be simple. We had rehearsed this scenario in Kuwait. Psychological Operations invested millions of dollars to produce pamphlets with pictures and Arabic that explained that we did not want to harm civilians, and they should remain in their homes. I shook Haji’s hand and gave him a big smile. He nervously smiled back. I showed him the picture of the Iraqis staying in their homes, and I pointed for him to head back east towards Nasiriyah. As he read the document, his eyes sparked in recognition; however, when I pointed east, he started shaking his head furiously. He pointed west through my position. His home was past my blocking position.

Now, we had a problem. My orders were not to allow anyone to pass, but he simply wanted to get back to his home. I decided to ask my commander for permission. On the radio, I pleaded Haji’s case. My commander denied it. Haji could be an operator trying to penetrate our lines for intelligence purposes. I followed my orders, and through a blundering series of hand signals, I forced Haji to head back to Nasiriyah. I suppose that my commander could have been right; however, I will never forget Haji’s reaction.

He burst into tears simultaneously pointing at the picture of the Iraqi family and west past my position. He was simply a broken man that only wanted to see his family. Finally, Haji and his friends got back in their car, turned around, and headed back to the office. In that moment, less than thirty-six hours into the invasion, I honestly believe the insurgency began. We did not have the answers. After many years of suffering, the Marshland Shia had great expectations for the American Invasion, and we were not prepared. We were wrong. I don’t know what happened to Haji. I never saw him again, but I think about him and his family often.

We continued our march north.

[MikeF]

Thunder Runs

I do not remember much of the thunder runs. It was violent and fast, but it was too easy. We were in tanks fighting men with AK-47s and RPGs. It was like some weird made for TV movie. It seemed unfair. Firing a 120mm heat round into a man disintegrates his body. It is as if he never existed.

[MikeF]

Baghdad

April 2003. After we reached downtown Baghdad, we did not have a mission. The original plan ended south of Baghdad with us cordoning the city while someone else went in. Thomas Ricks documents the strategic blundering in Fiasco: The American Misadventure in Iraq, but the events on the ground were much more traumatic.

The most important thing that you learn when conducting a raid in a house is to find a job. If your sector is clear, then you help your buddies by finding something important to do. There is always work to be done during a clearing mission, and that’s what we did in Baghdad. In the absence of a plan or orders, we found a job.

The neighborhood was nestled somewhere deep inside northwestern Baghdad, past the Abu Gharaib prison, north of Saddam International Airport, and a couple of blocks from the Mother of All Battles (MOAB) mosque. I can probably still pick it out on a map. The remnants of a Republican Guard artillery unit were scattered everywhere- the neighborhood littered with artillery pieces, ammunition, grenades, and artillery shells. When we arrived, the children were tossing hand grenades back and forth for fun. I was flabbergasted.

I ordered the platoon to remain in their tanks, and I took two soldiers and began going door-to-door desperately seeking someone who could speak English. Finally, I met Ali. He became my first translator. We sent the children home. The following day, we went house to house again ordering all the men to come outside and clean up the area. No one volunteered. I was irritated. My men and I cleaned up the neighborhood by ourselves.

The next day, Ali invited me to his home for tea. I brought a bag of Starbuck’s Breakfast blend coffee as a gift. He found it amusing, but thanked me nonetheless. We met in the sitting room and drank some wonderful chai. Being a guest, I would never be admitted past the sitting room into the privacy of their home. Completely covered, his wife darted in and out of the room providing refreshments and snacks. I’ve never been subtle, so I asked him to explain his society to me. I explained that in America, the wife runs the home, and there is no way I could ever force her to wear that type of dress.

At first, he didn’t understand what I was saying. After three or four tries, he burst out laughing.

“Mike, it’s no different here. I’ll be damned if I try to tell my wife what to do in the home. We just have different customs. Outside the house, I am the head of the household. Inside the home, my wife is in charge. In Islam, women wear the veil as a means of respect for their husbands- it’s how they submit to Allah; it’s part of their jihad.”

Although I did not agree with it, it made sense. Anyways, it was their culture, and who was I to tell them how to live? I certainly had enough problems of my own to fix in order to live a righteous life. I then asked him to explain jihad. It was foreign to me, and I only had pictures in my head of the planes hitting the twin towers.

“Mike, jihad is two-fold: 1. one’s never ending inner struggle to live a life that is acceptable to Allah, 2. Society’s attempts to live collectively in peace.”

I had so much to learn. We talked for many hours over his future employment, the hope for his children, and the wonderful things that would happen now that Saddam was gone. I thanked him for the chai, and I said goodbye.

The next day, we moved back to Abu Gharaib.
I never saw Ali again.

[goesh]

After Nam, I stayed drunk a long time and I can't sleep unless I have a loaded weapon in my bedroom. That Mossberg is covered with dust but it is there. I never got any release until I felt honored as a Veteran and I got that from a Native American Pow wow about 18 yrs ago or so, their Veteran's Honor Song when all the Vets on hand go in the arena and move together around the flag and Native Staff. I'm not Indian but that's just my personal experience. Once I felt honored as a Vet, I was able to respect and honor the NVA/VC - men who just wanted to make it home and keep their buddies alive. It's a hell of a life we chose and I believe in time you will be able to look back and believe that if you had it all to over again, you would change nothing. I wouldn't. therapy never did a thing for me but I know a few guys that it did help. Hang in there.

[MikeF]

Thanks goesh. I was able to articulate and publish this experience because I made it through. I decided to let my final psychotherapy session be published for free because it can help others.

If some disagree or don't like it, then this thread was not for them.

As a smart, wise psychologist told me, "Either fix it now or end up divorced five times and dying from psorosis of the liver."

I have modeled it all mathematically. Eventually, after I take some rest and have time to finesse it, I'll publish it. I combined biology, economics, and pyschology into one model that can explain individual behavior, groups, and that of the state. But, for now, that must wait. I gotta fix myself first.

v/r

Mike

[Tom Odom]

After Nam, I stayed drunk a long time and I can't sleep unless I have a loaded weapon in my bedroom. That Mossberg is covered with dust but it is there. I never got any release until I felt honored as a Veteran and I got that from a Native American Pow wow about 18 yrs ago or so, their Veteran's Honor Song when all the Vets on hand go in the arena and move together around the flag and Native Staff. I'm not Indian but that's just my personal experience. Once I felt honored as a Vet, I was able to respect and honor the NVA/VC - men who just wanted to make it home and keep their buddies alive. It's a hell of a life we chose and I believe in time you will be able to look back and believe that if you had it all to over again, you would change nothing. I wouldn't. therapy never did a thing for me but I know a few guys that it did help. Hang in there.

Hey mate

Welcome back!

Tom