I ended my last post with my mom's suicide and clean up. I completely internalized. Again, I turned to alcohol. At this time, my girlfriend (we'll call her "Jane"), was in college. She came home on the weekends and mostly stayed with me at my apartment. Again, I began getting drunk every night, mostly to drown out the memory of it all, but also to pass out so I hopefully wouldn't have anymore nightmares. It usually didn't work. I had nightmares almost every night, flashbacks, and I didn't want to do anything but drink. All this was on top of the horrible deaths I had seen as a firefighter. There is nothing worse than hearing the shrill scream of a mother when you tell her her child is dead.
"Jane" had finally had enough. She tried everything to help me, but nothing she could do on her own worked. The last straw was when she came home from college for the weekend, walked in the door, and found me on the floor passed out in the morning with an empty bottle of whiskey next to me on the floor. It was full when I began drinking it the night before. She gave me an ultimatum, get professional help or she will leave me. I knew that was it, I had to face it now. It not only was affecting my life, but affecting work as well. I couldn't concentrate and was making poor decisions. My skills had dramatically suffered.
I began seeing a therapist soon after. I was quickly diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and put on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills. The nightmares continued, but I began feeling better with the help of the meds and therapy. Meanwhile, my dad was on his way to rock bottom.
My dad discovered mom that morning. He slept downstairs since their marriage became one of convenience. He went upstairs and found her in bed. The first call he made was to me, not 911. I got him to call 911 and raced to their home. My dad and I were the only one's in the family to see her body like that. It ruined him. He drank more and started smoking crack to self medicate. I became the parent. I believed he would commit suicide next.
Once "Jane" and I bought a house together, I had him move in with us. I got him into therapy, which didn't work out so well for him. He had drug dealers coming by my house and I finally had to kick him out. He stuck with therapy until he threatened to kill his therapist, then himself. He was institutionalized a week before "Jane" and I were to be married. Now, not only was my mom not at my wedding because of suicide, but my dad was missing it because he was institutionalized.
I finally stopped therapy and got off the meds because I thought I was "feeling better." It lasted for awhile, but I still had nightmares and an occasional flashback. It didn't help that I was still seeing horrible things at work and almost died in a fire.
I felt a void inside. I always wanted to be a Police Officer, but ended up a Firefighter. I made the decision, leave the fire department full time and become the police. I stayed on part time at the fire department and currently work both jobs. It filled the void for awhile, but I constantly need more. Now I am an Arson Investigator and work Crime Scene Investigations. The PTSD got worse. I spend a lot of time with dead bodies from gruesome deaths, up close. In fact, I get so many death scene jobs to process my co-workers began calling me the "Angel of Death."
Again, "Jane" gave me an ultimatum, get help or she's leaving. I was never there mentally and kept everything bottled up inside. Nightmares, flashbacks, and sudden outbursts of anger became the norm. I went back to therapy. I continued on a downward spiral even with therapy. I was finally put on meds again. I experienced a severe side effect, I had a seizure. They gave me seizure meds and continued with the other meds because they believed the benefits outweighed the risks. The therapist even considered inpatient therapy, but I refused.
I finally hit rock bottom when I walked in on a suicide at work that was exactly like my mom's. She was still alive and there was still a haze and the smell of gunpowder in the air. I knew there was nothing I could do but watch her die. As CSI my job was to process the scene. I knew the paramedics would destroy the scene once they got there so I began taking as many pictures as I could to maintain scene integrity. So not only did I have to watch her die, but I had to photograph it also.
I'm still currently in therapy. I take Cymbalta, 6mg of Ativan daily, Lamictal, and Lunesta just to stay asleep. I wake up 4-5 times a night and with the Lunesta I wake up 2-3 times a night. I see my psychiatrist today so we'll see if he changes the dose. Anyway, that is an extreme summary of my life. Now you know a little bit about me. I could write a book if I included everything, but I won't since I don't think you want to be reading this post all day. From here on, my posts will continue with my accounts of my life dealing with PTSD, The Job, and Me. I hope you find this blog helpful and informative. Know that you survived whatever horrible experience that brought you here so you can survive this too. Anyone can be afflicted with PTSD, not just soldiers, police officers, and firefighters. Know that you are not alone and I know a lot of you out there have worse stories than me, but this is my story...
And remember...
Above all else...SURVIVE!
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