Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Time: 02:39:45, 22 December 2021

"AAAAH AAAAAAAH UHH uhhh"

In a darkened room, I awake in a panic. The ceiling fan is quietly creaking away. I wipe the sweat off of my neck and turn on the light.

My hands are shaking.

For the past couple of years, I have woken up like this every morning. I relive the same events in my head every night. I am a broken man.

I stare at the fan for a couple of minutes and break into another cold sweat. I then glance at the beaten-up clock at my bedside.

03:01. Fuck.

By three in the morning every day, I am jolted awake by my memories. As there is no use in trying to get some more rest, I start my day around Three AM. I slowly trudge into the kitchen area and make myself a cup of coffee before I go for my daily run. I see my reflection on the microwave door.

I look like complete shit, I thought to myself. The bags under my eyes have gotten larger…

I look down at my hands and see a bloodied mess, but when I blink, it's gone. I drink my coffee and then get changed into a pair of long camouflage cargo pants and a jacket to match. Then, I walk out the door and run. Run.

Run Away.

I shake my head and run faster. The ice cold air nips at my cheeks. My breath looks like a dragon.

A dragon? Sometimes I wish I could just restart life in one of those fantasy worlds. Maybe my worries would go away.

As I rounded the corner, I saw a convenience store right by my house. A trusty 7-11. I stop in and decide to grab a bento for lunch. As I slide open the door, the wafting smell of fried chicken engulfs my nostrils. I slowly make my way towards the smell, and see what's cooking.

Mmmm, My favorite, Karaage.

I buy some fried chicken, and then walk the rest of the way to my apartment, karaage in hand.

When I open the door, I see bottles strewn about everywhere. I walk in, neglect turning on the lights, and just start crying in the middle of the room.

It's too much. I can't take this anymore…

My thoughts are taking over my life.

My PTSD is wearing me down, slowly but surely…

My once-steaming-now-room-temperature fried chicken doesn't look appetizing anymore. My saliva feels so thick in my throat. It feels like I am swallowing rat poison. But I force myself to keep eating. As I slowly swallow my bites of fried chicken, I boot up my laptop.

Maybe I can read something for now…

But I can't find anything worth reading. Everything either doesn't have enough material to keep me entertained, or just seems boring.

Nothing here, huh? I sigh.

Feeling defeated, I close my laptop and crawl towards the couch.

Maybe I can get some sleep?

I lay awake for hours on end. And not a wink of sleep. I periodically check my phone.

No Notifications. Guess I've been forsaken…

Again I stare up at the ceiling fan. Just slowly rotating. Just doing its job. I wish I could just do that. Simply rotate on command. Not a worry in the world. And then the memories come rushing back to my eyes. On repeat, I am forced to watch my squad die. Over and Over.

Over. Over. I just wish it was all over…

For hours on end, I relive those moments. The memories are burned into my retinas. On constant playback.

A sea of blood. A crimson mist. Ruby tears.

I can no longer see anything. Everything is black. Every day, every minute, every second I am pulled further into a hell I never signed up for. And my futile attempts of keeping afloat seem negligible.

It's all for nothing…

A singular tear streams down my cheek as I drift off into the abyss…

^^^^^^^^^

Time: 02:30:21, 23 December 2021

A crimson stream fills the room. The sun is burning bright. But it isn't. At least it shouldn't.

It is unbearably hot. Like someone left a space heater running for too long. And the smell of ashes engulfs my face. But it isn't. At least it shouldn't.

The wind blows hot air on my face. And the noise it makes is unbearably loud. But it isn't. At least it shouldn't.

The fan blades spin far too slowly. And they aren't clean. Or attached to the motor. The shrapnel is flung away. The blades are broken. But they aren't. At least they shouldn't.

The alarm clock pierces through the air. A steady chime. But it isn't. At least it shouldn't.

The bed is uncomfortable. It's cold. It's metallic. And there are seats lining the side of it. And I am spinning. Or rather, the entire bed is spinning. And everything around it is spinning. But it isn't. At least it shouldn't.

There is someone yelling at me to brace. Brace for what? I am in an apartment? I think… There are people around me. But there isn't. At least there shouldn't.

And then suddenly everything turns a bright white. A tunnel of light. Like someone shining a high-power search light in my eyes. But there isn't. At least there shouldn't.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe. Breathe. Breathe!

I jolt awake. I gasp for air. I grab my rifle. Or, I try to assume the battle ready stance. With no rifle. I don't have a rifle. At least on hand.

As I steady my breath, I check the time. 02:48 AM.

Even earlier than yesterday.

I slowly stumble my way to the bathroom. As I glance in the mirror, I see the blood on my face. And someone is smiling behind me. A wide, shit-eating grin. I turn around. But there isn't anything there. I look back at the mirror, and all I see is a tired, war-ravaged vet.

I turn on the shower. Scalding Water always gives me the best clarity. As I waited for the shower to finish warming up, I undressed. The scars along my body are gruesome, as any helicopter crash survivor would have. I run my calloused fingers along some of the scars.

Still no feeling, huh?

I hop in the shower. And just sit. For a long time. Who knows how long? Only God will ever know. The sound of the hot water falling on my scalp is therapeutic. I feel so calm. Calm. Calm.

I was calm when it all happened. I was calm when I was pulled out of the wreckage. I was calm when the convoy rescuing us was detonated. I was calm when I arrived on base, and the doctors said I was Code Black. I was calm when I somehow survived my injuries. I was calm when I found out my entire squad had been wiped out. And I was calm on the flight home. I was even calm at the funerals.

But I am never calm anymore. Never.

I guess it's divine punishment…

I look down. I am bathing in a pool of blood. I blink, and it's just water. The water runs down my hair. It drips onto my face. And the salt in my tears is dissolved in that rain. I wipe my eyes and turn off the water. It's not even hot anymore. Just slightly-above-room-temperature water.

I grab a towel. Except for the fact that there is no towel. I didn't prepare one. So I trudge into the kitchen, sopping wet. Like a mutt left out to rot in the monsoon rains. The water drips down my body, and leaves foot shaped puddles on the floor. A trail. And it follows me anywhere I walk.

Just like my regrets. And this goddamn PTSD.

I grab a towel to wipe off my soaking hair, and grab a quick snack. Just some average salted potato chips. And I head back to the bedroom. I sit on the side of my bed and grab a shattered picture frame.

I promise, today will be better…

Every day, I promise them that I will get better. At least get a bit better than yesterday. And almost every day, I break that promise. I can't even fulfill a promise to the dead.

How pathetic.

Every day, I try to get out of my apartment. Human interaction supposedly helps abate the hell known as depression. Everyone thinks that all is fine. At least around me. People even feel safe around me. I am a retired Special Forces Soldier, after all.

And I make jokes. Funny ones. I try to laugh. It sometimes helps. But when someone asks me how my day was, I say it was fine, I'm just a tad tired. But that's all a lie.

Trying to keep it all together. Under pressure, I soon break. Tears behind the laughter, but they keep on coming. They keep on coming. Watch my tears fall, it's no wishing well.

I just shake my head and tell myself I'm fine. And I keep going. I just put my earbuds in and keep going.

Music is a mysterious thing. It can hurt, but it can heal. It can evoke feelings of happiness, but also sadness. It can give you the energy to keep going, or it can make you feel tired. Music is intercultural. Especially in this globalized time. Music is something that transcends disagreements too. Or it causes them, if you're a die-hard fan. But for me, music is a painkiller. I can feel good about myself. And it works way better than drugs. Or Alcohol. Though I haven't entirely given up the latter. With music, I can keep on going. At least for another couple of minutes while the song keeps playing. As long as it's a banger.

I slap my cheeks lightly, look up at the cloudy sky, and then hit shuffle on my "Best of 2021" playlist. Just my top 150 or so songs that I liked in the past year. And I run. I run to the garage where I have my car parked. I rarely use my car, but today, I need to just drive. I need a joyride. I need to feel the wind ruffle my hair.

I grab my keys out of my pockets, and start the car. Beneath the blanketed sky, cradled by concrete and glass, she gently purrs to life. My trusty 2J swapped JZX100 Chaser. As she rises to operating temp, I ease off the clutch and just start driving. I just drive through the streets, highrises on either side of me. And I drive. For hours.

It's so comforting. And smooth. Smoooooth Sailing.

And I remember the days before I was deployed.

Eighteen and a haze, memories of the days, climbing up to this place. We live nights in flame, bold dreams and no shame, but we know we are okay. Just like a storm that's rising, lights up the spark inside us, don't act like it's surprising. Vodka, Champagne, start a fire, we made it. Put your hands up, raise 'em higher. We are on top of the world.

Or so I thought. And then I was deployed. And I got kicked from the top back down to the bottom; to reality.

And I watch the sun through the clouds. The world never really stops moving.

And you have to keep on moving with it.

I knew that, and yet I didn't. I knew what the words meant literally, but I didn't know what it meant in my life. I didn't know how to implement those words in my life. And my joyride slowly came to a close. As I pulled back into that communal garage, I just placed my forehead on the top of the steering wheel. And just sat there.

Man, why do all good things have to come to a close? And why do the shitty things always stay forever open? I am just sick and tired.

I pulled the key out of the ignition, and got out of my beloved car. And slowly trudged back to my apartment, just a block down the road. I open the door, and crash on my couch. I glance at my watch.

19:12 PM.

I boil some water for a cup ramen. Kind of a sad dinner, but it'll do. I boot up my desktop and sit back to relax. I find a random video on Y**Tube, and just watch whatever auto plays mindlessly. There isn't much else to do anyway.

For the next couple of hours, I just "watch" whatever comes on. I am not actually paying attention most of the time. I tune in and out, but I am more out than in. I fiddle away with the pencil in my hand, just flipping it and doing random pen(cil) flipping tricks. I boot up my favorite childhood game, Minecraft. Not to play, but just to listen to the main menu music while I doze off. My favorite OST from that game is probably Aria Math.

And I finally started to doze off. At like 1 AM. Before I got a text.

Shit, man. Did I forget to turn off my ringer? I thought to myself.

I glance at my phone, and see a weird notification. It's a weird number, and I have not ever seen that number, let alone the area code. I unlock my phone only to find gibberish, garbled text. Thinking it's just some weird spam, I lock my phone and doze off once again for a couple more hours.