Broken

by MR scrappy

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, DJ P0N-3, Human, Sad, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other, Romance, Octavia, Sex
Length: 3076

A soldier comes back, but doesn't, not really. He feels useless and like a burden to society. That is, until he sees an old high school buddy who helps change his perspective on life and death. A story about PTSD and the people who really matter

A soldier comes back, but doesn't. Not really. He feels useless and like a burden to society. He sees a therapist every other day because of his PTSD. He suffers from extreme anxiety, and has frequent panic attacks that leave him shaking and sobbing. He's had to make life or death decisions right out of school, and they weigh heavily on his mind. That is, until he sees an old high school friend who helps put things in perspective, and opens his heart a little.

Formatted like a journal, all characters are human, features explicit language and describes some gruesome stuff.

Published 2013-08-04 17:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-08-04 17:10:02 UTC

Reference and Understanding

If this was a western, all conversation would have stopped as soon as the young gun slinging hero entered the saloon, and unfriendly eyes would follow his every breath. Men with eye patches playing poker would have ceased their game, watching as the hero confidently waded through the hostile cowboys towards the bar, where the hero would have ordered something that would burn going down. The bartender would prepare the drink, well aware that this patron was a dead man standing. Regardless, the drink is made, delivered, and finally downed in one enormous swig.

If this was a western, one of the poker players would have stood up right about then with a revolver and an intent to kill, while the hero was still recovering from the bartender’s incendiary concoction. Needless to say, this wouldn’t have boded well for the villain. The hero sheriff might look down at the poor bandit, and say some catchy one-liner.

For a western, this wouldn’t have been a surprising plot line, but it may have been a little more exciting than the story laid out before you now. See, this one occurs every day. It’s replayed every time a young man or woman comes back from the front, and a little bit of the front comes back with them.

PTSD. That is, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. For future reference, PTSD is a type of anxiety disorder that occurs when the subject has gone through extreme emotional trauma that involved the threat of death or injury. It’s not a frequent conversation topic, though not exceedingly uncomfortable for the people talking about it. The fact of the matter is, it’s not really a “hot topic” or anything. Maybe it would have been a little more scandalous for a father or brother to come back home with an anxiety problem after Vietnam or Korea, but now it’s relatively old news. Part of the issue is that not many people truly know anyone with PTSD, or haven’t really had a frank conversation with them. Ipso facto, they don’t really understand what the issue is.

Another part, perhaps, is the involvement of the numerous misconceptions that surround the ailment. Too often, a veteran is subjected to the disorder only to be dismissed by his compatriots; ‘Man up’, they say, ‘Your buddy never came back, why aren’t you happy’. In truth, neither did our veteran in question, not really. Suppose he was an outgoing, optimistic type of man before he served in Kandahar, or maybe Helmand in Afghanistan. When he gets back, however, he is no longer recognizable. Physically, maybe he wears a prosthetic leg where his real leg was torn apart by shrapnel when his Humvee hit an IED, the fragments ripping through the hull of the armored car.

Internally, he struggles every second of every day. He is stuck in the “on-guard” mentality. He cannot help but evaluate every person he sees, to analyze whether they’re a threat or not. This being the case even though the person in question may just be a young mother holding the hand of her little girl while on their way to pick up lunch with the father they never see. Or perhaps when the veteran goes shopping, maybe he sizes up the old man at the end of aisle six: ‘Could he be hiding an AK-47 under that sweater?’. See, all of these thoughts were completely valid and required of him while he served; if he ever let his guard down, someone could die.

All of this makes social interaction difficult and cumbersome, what with his constant distrust of anybody who hadn't been there with him, fighting alongside him. This is hard on our model PTSD veteran, especially since he used to be outgoing and friendly.

The real stickler, though, was sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, memories come back, terrible ones that make him cry. Of the way his squad mate’s head looked when it exploded from sniper fire, or when the woman in the burka holding a little bundle of cloth wasn't carrying a baby at all, but a grenade. He usually wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming for a corpsman or for his friend to not close his eyes, to just stay awake. But his friend isn't there, and the veteran is all alone.

The veteran may try to get back to sleep, maybe drink something to make the pain go away. Water certainly won’t do it, it isn't even close to heavy enough. So the veteran pours himself some whiskey - or a lot of whiskey. It burns going down, but it also gets his thoughts under control a little.

So even though this isn’t a western, our hero is still standing in a silent room, downing glass after glass of alcohol. And even though there isn’t some mean, one-eyed bandit that stands up in the corner of the saloon, there’s still the memory of an insurgent standing up from behind a market stall with an RPG, ready to kill. Even though the veteran isn’t some classic sheriff, he’s still a hero.

See, he had to make life-or-death decisions right out of high school, when other young people his age were studying for finals or trying to resist the urge to take advantage of some poor drunk girl in their dorm room. He’s a hero because he found the strength to stand up for the weak, even when his Humvee exploded in a beautiful ball of fire. Because even when his leg was blasted off, he still pinned down the seemingly infinite insurgents that swarmed the nearby rooftops so that a few young Afghani kids that he’d never met could get away from the fire.

A little specific, perhaps, but it is the case for the veteran who struggles in the story laid before you.

Back at the veteran’s apartment, he has downed a lot of alcohol, and the effects of the drink are setting in. After a short time, his intoxicated mind inevitably wanders to his service. He begins to get angry, angry that he returned and his buddy didn’t. That he himself didn’t really return at all, and that the world doesn’t care. He’s yelling. He’s stomping around, throwing things against the far wall because if the world doesn’t care about him or his friends, why should he care about a broken lamp?

This is the picture too many people form in their heads when they imagine someone with PTSD: a drunk, angry-at-the-world man too intoxicated to stand. They forget that that is the scene of many men, some who don’t really have any reason to drink themselves silly at all; that maybe this veteran is more entitled to drunken ramblings than many other men.

They forget that though the veteran should still be held accountable for drowning himself in spirits, it still remains the only sleeping pill that suits the troubled soldier. Drinking himself into a stupor is the only way that the veteran doesn’t see himself choking on the gas of a chlorine bomb that hit their barracks, or spitting up vomit as he tries to scoop his CO’s intestines back into his stomach cavity every time he tries to sleep.

So even though the veteran isn’t a cowboy, he’s still a hero, and even though people rarely speak of him, he still exists.

***

July 16, 2013

Doctor Hunter says I have to keep a diary or journal or whatever the hell this is so that I can see if there are any similarities between my “episodes”, the fuck that even means. I still think it’s probably the gayest thing I’ve ever heard, but if it stops the anxiety attacks or whatever then I guess I’m game. Anyway, I’ve gotta say what I had to eat the day of the attack, my alcohol intake, how my prosthetic was holding up, and how much I slept, since those are usually triggers. Also, I have to write what I saw or felt during an episode, which makes me feel like a damn science experiment, but whatever.

I don’t know how specific I’m supposed to be or what, and I don’t really see how my deli meats can trigger an anxiety attack. Today, I had peanut butter on toast with OJ for breakfast. I have it every morning, so no surprise there. For lunch I had a sandwich with some salami and colby and mustard. For dinner, I had some rosemary chicken - cooked it myself, oh yeah - and peas.

Last night I slept for like 4 hours, after downing a bottle of bourbon. What do I still have? Prosthetic? It was itchy, I guess. I'm starting to get pretty fucking tired of all the stares it gets. Even worse is when someone pretends I don't even exist so that they don't risk being rude.

My episode today happened at around four p.m. at the library. I saw myself on patrol in Kandahar, when Tommy’s Humvee got hit by a rocket. I was pretty scared, I guess, and mad. Mad is too soft a word, I think. Furious and hysterical, suits just fine. I was screaming or something when someone found me between the bookshelves, and they got me some water. It took me about half an hour to calm down, though I had to drink a glass of vodka before I stopped shaking.

Uhhh. I guess that’s it, though I’m sure Doctor Hunter is gonna beat my ass for leaving something out.

***

July 20, 2013

Well, Hunter didn’t kill me or anything, but she did give me an earful. She says I’m drinking too much, and that I’m too isolated. That doesn’t really make sense since almost all of my attacks happen when I’m in public. Which sucks dick, if whoever is reading this needs to know. Do you know how embarrassing it is to start yelling about an IED while in a crowded restaurant? Didn’t fucking think so. Not to mention that you scare everybody shitless, thinking there’s a bomb or some shit. Anyway, Hunter told me to change up my diet and to see an old friend to relieve some stress, so I guess I’ll give that a try.

The change in diet didn’t really help, seeing as I still had a panic attack today. For breakfast I had oatmeal (tastes like the shit we got overseas), milk, and an apple. Cool beans. For lunch I had a chicken salad and water, and I didn’t eat dinner. That’s because the attack happened while I was picking up beef broth so I could make sauce to go with the steak, and I kind of made a fool of myself. Anyway, I was paying for the broth when it happened, and I thought the cashier’s scanner was a bomb trigger. Not even shitting you. So I dropped the broth on the ground (it burst and I had to pay for it) and punched the cashier in the face before slipping in the broth and crying about Henry when he got killed in the chlorine gas attack on our barracks. It lasted like 15 minutes, too, of just me sobbing in a pool of beef broth in checkout.

Anyways, I had to calm down and then apologize to the cashier dude, and then pay for the beef broth that I dropped. It was humiliating. I guess you could say I had vodka for dinner, but I don’t think that’s what Hunter is going for. My prosthetic itches. Same old. Et cetera, I’m still miserable and wallowing in self-pity.

...I just sighed, but it would have been weird to write ‘sigh’ there, so whatever. It feels like I’m just talking to myself here, so I’m going to try to get some shut eye. Maybe I won’t dream, which would be really cool.

***

July 23, 2013

Um, I didn’t have a panic attack today, so I hope I don’t have to write about what I ate. Because that’s pretty retarded - stupid, sorry. Hunter told me to stop using slurs and stuff so this can be used scientifically. Whatever. The reason I’m writing is this: I actually met someone today. You know how I said I was supposed to go talk to old friends and shit? Well, I did. She’s an old high school buddy from orchestra, and we caught up a little. Or a lot. I didn’t say anything about Afghan, but I can tell she was curious about it. Right off the bat, she started looking at my tattoo, the marine one. I rolled down my sleeves so that it wasn’t making her uncomfortable or anything, but I think she was disappointed that it got put away. She probably just wants a glory story or something. I also wore jeans and boots so that my leg wouldn't be a problem, so I don't think I even have to write about that.

Anyway, she’s still doing cello, and is actually playing a lot with the orchestra here in town. She might actually make it to the big leagues, which I’d be happy about. She’s pretty nice, and seems to deserve it. So our meeting specifically; we met at this little pub pretty far from my apartment, which was cool. All of the ones near me already know who I am and don’t enjoy the business I bring. Or lack thereof, since I generally scare everybody off with my screaming and shit.

We talked about her a lot, since the only notable thing I’ve done is drink and not die. She told me about Uni, which I got pretty jealous about. She had this one friend that she would not stop talking about, Violet or something... Vinyl, that’s it. Vinyl’s a DJ with a club in New York, and is a pretty big deal up there. ‘Sides that, my friend’s just been working her way through the ranks in the orchestra.

She was pretty beautiful. Gorgeous, even. I almost... resent her.

Whoah. What was that? That just kind of slipped out. Bear with me here, I’m going to pursue this little train of thought.

She was my best friend in high school since we were both pretty much outcasts, and now she’s this... beautiful, successful woman. Makes me feel kind of worthless, I guess. My 15 months of usefulness ended when I came back from Afghan, and now I’m unusable. A burden to society. I can’t do anything. Today was a big deal, and all I’ve done was see her.

When she talked to me though, it was like I mattered. Like I was relevant. Maybe it’s pity, maybe not. Either way, I’m seeing her again in a week. Her name’s Octavia, by the way. Just for future reference.

***

July 30, 2013

I did have a panic attack, today, and I also saw Octavia. And sorry, Doctor, but I’m not going to waste my time with any fucking food shit. I need to get this out. So we went to that pub again, since I liked it so much last time. It started out really well, with us talking about her. Her. Then she asked about my tattoo, and about Afghan.

I told her only a little about my tour, mostly joked about the shitty food and sleep. The tattoo, though... fuck. She asked me about it. I told her the truth, about all the names on it and stuff. I told her how Tommy, Henry, Tank, and Neil died, though I guess I shouldn’t have. As I was explaining, I started to get these little flashbacks that went by really fast, like a bunch of pictures being shown in quick succession. Each “picture” was of how each one got hit. Last thing I can recall was that I stopped talking and she asked if everything was alright. I didn’t say anything, I just broke down. Collapsed out of my chair and curled up in a ball. My leg came off and I'm pretty sure she just gasped or something. Didn't even make a big deal out of it. After that, I don’t remember much, just that I screamed for the guys and cried a lot. I remember that when I snapped out of, she was still there.

She was right there, the whole time, helping clean up my face while I bawled like a fucking baby. I was calling out for Tommy and Tank, trying to get them to come back. They’d understand what I was going through.

I just... I couldn’t get the image of Neil out of my head. The one where he shit himself from the sheer force of the bullet that got him. He was shitting and pissing himself, even though he was already dead. It was probably the worst thing I saw over there, just Neil’s busted head and the shit that dribbled out of his boots from where it had gone down his leg. Christ.

You can’t unsee that shit, and you can’t forget it or move on. You always hope that you die quietly and peacefully; with dignity. Neil died after his brain exploded and he shit himself. I say it bluntly so that whoever is fucking reading this gets the idea of how little dignity he died with. He was one of my best friends I’ve ever had.

But Octavia. Jesus. She helped me back to my apartment, paid for the cab, and even helped reattach my damn leg. She just left not too long ago, said she was going to get a drink for me, since I chugged the rest of the fucking vodka. I’m afraid that she won’t come back, and that she won’t like me or something. She was there for me when we got picked on in high school, and here now that I’m a wreck. Of all of the people who abandoned me, I really, really don’t want her to. Because... because she was there when I finally snapped out of it tonight, you know? She was there.

Author's Note

I think it would be healthy to remember that these medical logs in the story are written by a pretty angry and scarred vet, so conventional writing doesn't really fit, I think. Since this is only the second story of mine, constructive criticisms are welcomed, so feel free to leave a comment. I guess you don't really need my permission to comment, but whatever. Have a fantastic day!