I began to answer his probing questions by recounting what had happened to me in Iraq and Afghanistan, as I felt that that was the most pressing and important part of my life at that point. As I recounted some of the experiences I had overseas, and some of the things from which I was now suffering, he furiously scribbled notes on his legal pad. Occasionally, he looked over his reading glasses and silently nodded his head in agreement. After I had exhausted my story, he asked if there was anything else. Once again, another surprise after the stellar care I had received through the military.
He then began to ask me a series of questions that paralleled the DSM-IV list of PTSD symptoms. When the military psychiatrist had showed them to me a month or two prior, I had made a mental note about each of the symptoms that pertained to me. I was surprised to see that I was actually suffering from almost all of the “classical symptoms” that he had alleged I was not suffering. I guess I could have told him that his hasty diagnosis of anxiety was perhaps a bit less than what was actually going on. But was there any point? I had sought care for almost five years in the military, and all I got was a social worker that sounded like a Southpark character and liked to talk about his other patients, and a field-grade officer that smelled like Doritos and shitty cologne.
I responded to each symptom in the affirmative as he went down his list. After finishing, he slowly removed his reading glasses and looked at me for a moment without saying a word. He asked if the military had already diagnosed me with chronic PTSD. I told him no, and he shook his head in what was obvious disgust.
“I’ve been seeing this happen a lot. The military tells you young soldiers that you’re just stressed out, or have anxiety, adjustment disorder, or that you’re anti-social. They’re so full of shit it’s not even funny. You, my friend, have both chronic and severe manifestations of PTSD. Your symptoms are so clear cut that there is no way any mental health practitioner in his right mind could not diagnose you with it. You really need to seek professional help in the form of clinical treatment.”
His words seemed like daggers and hung heavily in the air as I imbibed the sweet taste of vindication. His advice had made me feel somewhat nauseated. The obvious seriousness with which he had delivered his message felt like an illness overtaking my thoughts. “What does he mean, I really need to seek professional help in the form of clinical treatment? Does he mean they might need to commit me as an in-patient? What the fuck?” These and other thoughts raced through my head as he ushered me out of his office and wished me luck.
I only had another three or four weeks on active duty before I began my terminal leave while waiting to get out. I knew that trying to get treatment through my local troop clinic was about as pointless as trying to go see “Lieutenant Colonel Doritos” on the 13th floor again. So I decided that I’d deal with it as it came. Maybe I’d be able to get some treatment after I got out and got settled in my new job in the private sector. It seemed like things were starting to look up after I was a offered an executive management position at a private security company in northern Virginia.
I had never envisioned myself as executive management material, but my leadership and management training, and experience in the military had more than prepared me to work in the business world. My time at the unit had also tested my operational decision-making skills under fire and had developed in me a keen sense of strategic planning and analysis. I was ready for whatever the civilian world was going to throw at me. Haha. Yeah, right.
COMMENTS