Into the Jungle

I will be posting tiny things that have no place, this coming month, as I gear up for the April blogging challenge. This means that I have been trying to write every day, which has gone surprisingly well. Additionally it means that I end up with both useable stories/entries and some that fit into no dialog or larger project. Most of that is garbage but some of it isn’t to terrible. The entry you will find below falls into the latter category. It is also due to having a few people I love, with varying degrees of PTSD. I have spent some time in VA hospitals and clinics, and with veterans. What I wrote below is only my interpretation of some very tiny part of that experience, of conversations and the full body crushes needed to both restrain and show comfort on occasion.  I am not an expert, a vet or anything special. I’m just a friend.

322593_10150471915575752_669447622_o

The woman’s tone was soft and reassuring, like she was approaching a wild animal that just may bite. She wasn’t wrong.

The machines beeped, whirred and the unmistakable sound of metal against itself wove together like a cacophony of sound, each small thing mingling with all of the voices. Some raised in anguished while the softer plaintive ones that soaked themselves into my head were the ones that seemed the loudest. It all streamed together and triggered the situation we found ourselves within. A wheelchair rattled by, and the tenuous hold slipped further. I heard their screams in my dreams but the dream world and todays reality melded together in this moment. It wasn’t the first time by far, but I prefered to keep these breaks with reality a private affair. So close to falling and the damn woman wouldn’t stop talking with her calm calm voice, like it wasn’t all falling apart, like there was time for her inanities.

The floor was made of pale squares made with scuff marks already there, and I focused on the details, trying to distinguish the manufactured from the filth of countless human interactions. It changed and sprouted real dirt and jungle underbrush. Slipping. Slipping. The ticking of the clock seemed amplified, becoming the sound of the trigger on an empty weapon. I felt the pain of my nails digging deeper into my legs. Danger Will Robinson. Danger. A voice cut through the fog obscuring the large elephant leaves, muffling the birds and creatures that rustled with uneasy silence and the woman who became a mother screaming for mercy. GET OUT! GET OUT! GETOUT! punctured the noisy stillness, and some dim part of me heard my own voice. The woman/mother left swiftly and the demons descended.

298989_10150429457075752_1479219656_n

Bullets and blades cut through flesh. Life was held in these hands and extinguished, like god or the devil, take your pick. Just following orders. Boots made silent imprints on soft earth. He screamed when he saw his death in me and a part of me rejoiced. We drank and patrolled the edges of the fires reach and beyond. We fought, sweated, slept and took the power into ourselves.  It was everything, every heartbeat, every breath. I understood this place.

Quiet broken sobbing reached the dream and blood streaked my arms and legs. My eyes took in my caked nails and dismissed the self-inflicted pain. Through muck and mire I tried to figure out the sounds and felt the tears pooling in the crease of my neck.  I recognized the drugs in the grogginess and feared sleeping again. Sleep had become an enemy.

This body was failing, this mind couldn’t be trusted and I floundered. I understood less and less of the world I kept moving through like an audience to my own failures. The nurse came back with her calm voice and this time I managed to hold onto some semblance of being a functioning human being. She asked if there was anything I needed. I wanted to say to please let me go back, stop this charade that I wasn’t capable of but instead  I took the drugs and watched the lights move above me as they wheeled me into surgery.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Into the Jungle

    • I’m not sure what whole would look like, but perhaps we can begin by changing the story we tell ourselves. I don’t know that we are helped by the deafening internal mantra “I am broken”. ❤

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s