P.T.S.D.

Chapter 1

Ahem…

Someone tried to get Sergeant Paul’s attention from the civilian side of his desk. The unfortunate part of his job as desk sergeant was that he had to answer questions from people off the street, although he usually referred them to his subordinates. His job was more like that of an air traffic controller, directing traffic onto the right runway or into the proper holding pattern. It was a job at which he had become quite proficient over the years.

Sgt. Paul looked down from his elevated desk to find a man standing there in jeans and a weathered tan Carhartt jacket. What can I do for you? he inquired, more annoyed than inquisitive.

I need to speak to a detective, the man responded.

Yeah, what about? resting his forehead on his cradled hand.

I, uh—well—I think I’ve been killing people.

The noise in the station, which had been unbearable that morning, suddenly evaporated into silence. Sgt. Paul quickly snapped his head up from his hand and sat upright, maybe a bit too quickly because it made him feel a little lightheaded.

It was only 9 AM but already the station was swarming with people. For some reason people always waited until Monday to file a complaint; they never came in on Friday afternoons, which were usually so quiet you could hear a pin drop. It was almost as if there was a plan, coordinated through some type of subliminal messaging system, flashing images on the screen during American Idol or Dancing with the Stars. Whatever it was, it brought them here every Monday at the same exact time. It was something other than sheer coincidence.

I’m sorry, can you say that again? I don’t think I heard you right. Did you say you killed someone? asked Sgt. Paul, looking for clarification to determine whether or not his head was playing tricks on him again. A hand reached in front of Sgt. Paul, placing two gel-caps and a glass of water on his desk. He glanced up and saw Officer Gleason standing over his shoulder, smiling like a dog looking for praise after retrieving a tennis ball.

Why are you still standing there, Gleason? If you’ve run out of work, I’m sure I can find you some more reports to type up, the sergeant barked. The officer reluctantly turned and slowly walked back to his lonely keyboard.

Sgt. Paul glanced at the clock on his desk, letting his head drop down in disbelief. This wasn’t the day to try to recover from a rough weekend. He returned his attention to the man standing below him. The guy hadn’t moved from his spot. Now, you were saying?

The man repeated his request without changing tone. The desk sergeant looked the man up and down, only a cursory evaluation. He appeared normal enough—clean clothes, closely cropped hair, and even a fresh shave. Usually the people who came to his desk were looking for a free place to sleep for the night or were completely off their rockers. However, this guy didn’t appear to fall into either category. First of all it was the middle of the morning, so finding a bed to catch a few hours of shuteye probably wasn’t his motive. Plus the guy looked well rested, not like someone still under the influence of last night’s liquid dinner. Heck, the guy looked in better shape than he was these days. Besides, Sgt. Paul knew most of the crazies in town, and this guy sure didn’t look anything like them.

A shooting pain in his forehead made him wince, reminding him of the pills still sitting on the desk. Not wanting to wait until he dealt with this situation, he threw them into his mouth and washed them down with some water. He was pissed at himself for waiting this long. Now he’d have to wait another thirty minutes, if he was lucky, before he began to feel the effects. His head hurt just thinking about dealing with this guy; of all days to deal with a crazy, it had to be today? Why couldn’t he show up on the weekends like the rest of them? At least then he could buy himself some time by throwing the guy in the drunk tank with all the smashed college kids. But he couldn’t get away with that today; no, today he was forced to deal with this directly.

"Now, what do you mean you think you’ve been killing people? I mean usually you’d know if you killed someone, right?"

Yes, I guess you probably would, the man replied, but I don’t.

How come you can’t remember? What, are you a junkie or something? asked Sgt. Paul.

No, Sergeant, I’m not, he replied, annoyed by the sergeant’s ignorant questioning. I don’t use drugs, and I’m not drunk either.

Well, then what? Do you have amnesia? What’d you do anyway, run someone over with your car? Or did a dog tell you to go whack somebody? What? Sgt. Paul was losing interest quickly, and he made it quite obvious.

No, I don’t have amnesia—at least I don’t think I do. Look, Sergeant, I need to speak to a detective. It’s important. Lives are at stake. The guy was becoming visibly agitated, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet.

All right, fine. See Officer Gleason. Sgt. Paul pointed to the other end of the desk. He’ll take your statement.

"I don’t need to fill out a statement. I need to speak to a detective," the man raised his voice.

Sgt. Paul put his face in his hands then ran his hands though his hair. Listen, buddy, you can’t see a detective until we get your statement. The detectives are really busy, and their cases get prioritized based upon need. But they can’t do that until they determine what the problem is. If you don’t give us your statement they won’t be able to do that.

I don’t have a damn statement to make. I’m turning myself in. Can’t you get that through your head? The man was close to yelling. A couple of officers talking nearby glanced over at the desk. Officer Gleason stopped typing.

"Now you listen to me, and you listen to me good. It’s Monday morning, and we’re very busy here dealing with real problems, as you can see from the line behind you. Sgt. Paul pointed to the half dozen people loitering behind the man. Now why don’t you take a walk around the block and think this over. If you can come up with a reason why you think you killed someone, or who it was, or where you did it, then come back in here and tell Officer Gleason all about it. But if you can’t, then I strongly suggest you go back to wherever you came from and forget all about this."

The man stopped to think, but didn’t back down. I don’t remember who I killed, or where or when it happened, but I know I’ve killed someone. Please, just let me speak to a detective, he pleaded.

All right, buddy, I gave you the chance. Either get out of here now or I’m gonna lock you up. Sgt. Paul rose to his feet, towering over the desk and pointing toward the exit.

His head was splitting. When is this damn Tylenol gonna kick in, he wondered. Not soon enough. The officers against the back wall moved slowly toward the desk, evaluating the situation.

"Why won’t you listen to me, damn it! I’m confessing to a murder, not some bullshit petty crime. How many murders happen in this town, huh? They don’t need to prioritize my statement—it is the number one priority. We’re talking about fuckin’ murder!"

That’s it. Sgt. Paul motioned to the officers to take the man into custody. They moved directly toward the man, approaching from either side, but before they reached him, the man stuck his hand into his jacket pocket. The officers stopped in their tracks and placed their hands on their pistols, ready to draw if necessary.

Hey, take it easy, buddy. Everything is fine. I need you to take your hand out of your pocket, slowly, and put both hands where I can see them, instructed Sgt. Paul.

The people in line behind the man darted out of the way, pressing themselves against the closest wall. The officers unsnapped the retention clips on their pistols and remained in position; Sgt. Paul followed suit.

I came here to confess to what I’ve done. I’m not here to start more trouble. All I want to do is speak to a detective. Why won’t you just let me do that? the man pleaded.

First I need you to take your hand out of your pocket, and show me both of your hands. Then we can talk about getting you in to speak to a detective, Sgt. Paul repeated.

We already did this dance. You mocked me and told me to get out. Why should I believe you now?

I’ll listen, I promise you. Come on, buddy, we don’t want any trouble this morning. Just take your hand out of the pocket and we can talk about whatever you want. The sergeant nodded to the officers standing by, and they crept closer. So you killed someone, but you can’t remember? How do you know for sure?

I know because I found this. The man removed his hand from his pocket, revealing a semi-automatic pistol. The two officers drew their weapons and took aim. Great, the sergeant thought, what a way to start the week. The people standing against the wall fell to the ground; Officer Gleason didn’t move.

Whoa, take it easy, buddy. We can work this out, no need to pull a gun, the desk sergeant tried to assure the man, wondering why the Tylenol wasn’t kicking in yet. He raised his open hands for the man to see, demonstrating that he was unarmed. The two officers held their position to the rear of the man who didn’t look back to acknowledge them. Whether he knew of their existence wasn’t clear to Sgt. Paul, but he didn’t want to take any risks, so he signaled them to stay put.

The man didn’t aim the pistol at anyone; his finger wasn’t even on the trigger but was resting on the side of the barrel. His body language didn’t indicate aggressive intentions, not even slightly. The entire time he spoke with Sgt. Paul he remained planted in the same spot. However, when someone pulls out a pistol in a police station you have to err on the side of his intent to use the weapon. Whether or not he actually plans to use it, the most important thing is to neutralize the threat. Once that’s done, then you can sort out the details.

During his seventeen years on the force only once had anyone pulled a gun on Sgt. Paul, and that one time was because old Walter Rummy mistook him for a poacher. And Walter hadn’t done it on purpose. Old Walter couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of him without his glasses, which he had sat on and crushed earlier that week. But other than that one incident, nobody had ever pulled a weapon on him, especially not in his station. Why this guy chose to do it now he didn’t know, but he wanted to make sure he handled it very carefully. Only three more years until he was eligible to retire to his cabin up on Back Lake, and he sure as hell didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that this morning.

I found this last night—in my backpack, the man stated.

It’s not yours? asked Sgt. Paul.

No, it’s mine.

I don’t understand. So what’s the problem? asked Sgt. Paul, confused.

I didn’t put the gun there. At least I don’t remember doing it.

So what, you forgot where you put it. No big deal. I forget where I put my keys all the time. Happens to everyone. Instinctively he tried to calm the man, but he was already calm, too calm.

Yeah, but I always keep the clip full and never inserted. When I found it, the clip was in and four rounds were missing.

I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Maybe you forgot to fill it up after the range, or maybe you lent it to a buddy and you forgot, the sergeant tried to speculate.

Maybe…but then why is it caked in blood? The sergeant strained his eyes and saw a dark red substance stuck to the side of the pistol. Something is wrong here. Nobody waltzes into a police station, announces he’s killed someone, and brings the murder weapon along as evidence. That would be too easy—and Sgt. Paul knew nothing in life was that easy.

Either this guy is completely nuts or he’s telling the truth—and after seeing his actions this morning the sergeant wasn’t quite sure. Maybe not the whole truth, but why would a guy invent a story like this knowing he might spend the rest of his life in prison? Sgt. Paul didn’t know and, at this point, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to get through the morning alive. He picked up the phone and requested the detective on duty to report to the front desk.

Chapter 2

The room was empty except for me, a gray metal table, and three chairs; two at the table and one in the corner against the far wall. A small window in the middle of the door provided those in the hallway a glimpse inside. A video camera hung from the ceiling in the back right-hand corner of the room. In the movies they always had an ashtray on the table so suspects could smoke, but this wasn’t the movies, and smoking was no longer in fashion. Maybe if you’re lucky they gave you a soda. Great, can’t wait.

The door opened and a man dressed in a blue shirt and striped tie walked in. A uniformed officer shut the door behind him and stood guard outside. The man walked over to the table and placed a notebook down before reaching his hand across the table.

I’m Detective Grappone, he introduced himself.

I shook his hand and he sat down directly across from me. His tie was loosened at the neck, the top button left undone, almost as if he had slipped it on over his head. I hope he didn’t do it for me because I couldn’t care less.

"Now, tell me if I’ve got this straight. You think you may have killed someone, but you’re not sure. Is that right?"

I guess he wasn’t much for small talk. No offering me coffee, no nothing. As was once said: All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!

Yes, that’s right, I replied, but not just one.

The detective scribbled something then looked up. He appeared to be studying me, reading my expressions, trying to find something, anything. But the something he was looking for wasn’t there. Is this what they teach at detective school? Try to read people by staring at them instead of asking questions? Wouldn’t they rather get it straight from the horse’s mouth? I sure hoped this wasn’t what they taught because it wasn’t working, at least not on me.

Okay, why don’t you explain it to me again. Like you told Sgt. Paul.

Was he now trying to annoy me to death instead? I was already tired of this routine, but I went ahead and told him what I already told his colleague, from start to finish.

The policeman was right, you know; when you kill someone you probably remember doing it, but for some reason I can’t. I can’t explain it, all I know is that people around me have been disappearing without a trace and turning up dead. The police haven’t been able to come up with any suspects, nor have they found any clues linking the victims in some type of pattern.

So what leads me to believe I killed these people? Well, for starters I remember having an altercation with each and every one of the victims, but I can’t remember what followed. The only thing I know for certain is they made me mad—and now they’re gone. Coincidence? Maybe. But likely? I doubt it.

See, that’s the problem with a disease like mine—you can’t remember a lot of things. And when I say disease I don’t mean anything as awful as cancer or AIDS, nothing of the sort. Actually my disease won’t even kill you, at least not all by itself. I guess I feel awkward even calling it a disease, maybe even a little embarrassed.

Up until now I wouldn’t have even acknowledged something was wrong with me, at least not in public. It’s not like I’m losing my hair from chemo or that I’m covered in hideous sores. No, nothing like that. My disease isn’t physically noticeable. To the naked eye, I’m just another person walking down the street, no different than anyone else. But looks can be deceiving, and they often are.

Think about it. How many times did Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors say what a nice boy he was, that he never bothered anyone? Or how about the BTK killer (the name escapes me, but he didn’t kill as many as some of the other infamous serial killers, so who really cares) whose neighbors claimed they looked to as a pillar in the community and a leader in his church? Both of them got away with countless murders over the years because, for the most part, they looked normal. The thing is, what was wrong with them wasn’t something on the outside; they were messed up on the inside, which is exactly what I think is wrong with me. It’s probably undisputed that both of them were crazy; I’m not really sure about me. But I do know something is wrong with me, something very wrong.

It isn’t normal to forget substantial portions of your day, at least not on a regular basis. It’s almost like those Etch-a-Sketch toys from when you were a kid. You turn the knobs to draw a picture then shake it to erase the screen and start all over. Do you remember that? Well, if you didn’t shake them vigorously enough it left the drawing partially on the screen. Some lines remained visible, but large portions of the picture were erased. My memory is exactly like a partially erased Etch-a-Sketch: some lines left on the screen with many blank spaces in between.

Although it doesn’t happen often, some days I can remember everything. God, I love those days. Those days I try to go to sleep as early as possible so I can convince myself I’m cured, or at least one step closer to being cured. I tell myself if I go to bed early nothing else will happen that I won’t remember—at least that’s my rationale, even though I know I’m full of it. But that’s what happens when you have a disease like mine. You live your life in denial.

I don’t know about you, but in my experience people were very skeptical about mental disease. It didn’t matter what kind, whether it was a type of depression or a learning disorder, people looked at all of it as a sign of physical and personal weakness. If you went through a period of depression during your childhood it couldn’t be because you were actually depressed, it was either because you were lazy or you weren’t given the proper motivation. It didn’t matter if your best friend moved to another state, or your girlfriend or boyfriend broke up with you, or even if your grandmother died. It was you who was weak and lazy. There were no excuses for hanging around the house and not getting your ass out of bed.

Even if you had a learning disability it still wasn’t an excuse for not achieving all A’s. The reason you didn’t get all A’s was because you lacked self-discipline and didn’t apply yourself. Forget that the letters on the page looked backward because you’re dyslexic. Forget that you had to read the same sentence three times over before you were able to comprehend what the hell it said. They were nothing but excuses. Failing to achieve results was your own fault, and nothing else mattered.

These things didn’t change when I got older either; those around me continued to perceive people with mental diseases as society’s weakest links. Although it became more socially acceptable to take prescription drugs for depression or whatever disorder you suffered from, nobody in their right mind would ever place someone like that in charge of anything. Could you see anyone letting a person like this take charge of their multi-billion dollar company, or let them command an infantry division in Iraq?

I mean, would you really want someone who’s popping heavy-duty prescription drugs by the handful making a decision about whether to downsize the company and eliminate your position? Or how about deciding whether or not to send your only son to sweep for insurgents inside an Iraqi village? Now there are those of you reading this who would say they don’t see the difference. These people are under medical supervision and responding well to the prescriptions so they should have the same opportunities as the rest of us. Fundamentally I agree with you, they should have the same opportunities. However, when your child’s life is on the line, or your financial welfare is at stake, can you still support that same statement? I’m willing to bet most can’t—and I sure as hell can’t either.

The difference in my disease from what middle-aged suburban housewives have is that most people who suffer from it go untreated or undiagnosed for years, sometimes their entire lives. We’re not the type to go to a doctor’s office at the onset of a cold or if we happen to wake up with a sore throat. Hell, most of us would rather splint our own broken fingers than be caught walking through the front door of a hospital.

See, in my world going to the doctor is a sign of weakness. The only real exception was if you were ordered to go, or if they carried you in because you weren’t capable of walking on your own. I mean did you ever see John Wayne or Clint Eastwood walk off the battlefield and ask to see the Doc? How about Chesty Puller or Dan Daly? Maybe they did or maybe they didn’t, but we never heard about it. They were our role models, and if they continued fighting without medical attention, then so did we.

It sure as hell wasn’t the smartest set of rules to live by, probably the complete opposite of intelligent lifestyle choices, but when you’re inside looking out it seemed quite normal. Everyone around you wanted to look tough not only to those on the outside, but, most importantly, to each other. It’s similar to the pack mentality of wild animals, where the weak are singled out and slaughtered. We didn’t actually slaughter our weak; however, they got pushed out one way or another—because weakness is contagious. Whether this was true or not didn’t matter. It was what we were told, and it was what we believed.

But being tough isn’t just physical; it is just as much mental. There is always someone bigger or stronger or faster, but just because they possessed those physical abilities didn’t mean they were always going to win. One thing you learned early on was those who had the will and the desire to succeed were the ones who more often than not came out on top. The training pushed you to the edge and back to demonstrate you could go that extra mile even though your body was telling you it couldn’t take another step. They taught you that your mind and your body didn’t always work in sync—but once you realized this, you could accomplish anything.

This may seem crazy to some, but it isn’t, it’s completely true. The training enabled me to overcome any obstacle they threw at me. Whether it was staying up for three days straight while running around in the woods, or hiking twenty miles in the dead of night with an eighty-pound pack on my back, I pushed through it all without a doubt in my mind. I knew I could accomplish anything, and I did.

They teach you that the success of the Marines Corps depends on each individual Marine doing his part to further the objective of the overall unit. If one Marine fails to perform his role, the whole unit fails. This is why the training and the culture frown on personal weakness, the ones who say they can’t do it or who give up. In the eyes of Marines, the ones who constantly visit the doctor or fall behind are the weak. And in the pack, the weak become the prey. And in our culture, very rarely does the prey ever survive.

Since so much of the Marines’ success is based on mental toughness, those who seek care for their psychological disorders are also shunned. It doesn’t matter if your injury came from fighting on the battlefield; it still isn’t acceptable. By admitting something was wrong inside your head, you are perceived no differently than those who fall back on a run. Weakness is weakness, no matter the cause.

Sure, the military recognizes mental disorders suffered during wartime more extensively now than at any other point in history. And services are available to troops to help treat their problem; however, once you seek treatment your career is over. They’ll never tell you that; actually, they claim the services are available to help you continue on in your career, but it’s all bullshit.

One guy in my unit, not directly in my platoon, but a guy I knew of, was having trouble sleeping because he suffered from horrible nightmares. Lance Corporal Knapp, I think that was his name. Anyway, he went to the doc and told him when he closed his eyes the battle where his best friend died in his arms replayed over and over in his head. Two days later they removed him from the unit and ordered him to get some rest and recuperation. Qatar, I think, if my memory serves me right. He was told to pack for a few days and to bring only what he needed. No weapon, helmet, or flak jacket required. It was the last time any of us ever heard from Lance Corporal Knapp.

Another guy I knew cleaned out Knapp’s footlocker and bagged it up to be shipped back to the States. I asked him if he knew what happened, and he told me Once you go on R&R, you never come back. I asked him how he knew. He said, What, you think this is my first time cleaning out a footlocker? Shhiiiitttt. After that, nobody was willing to take the chance.

I never said anything about how I felt inside, not to anyone. Even the people I trusted had no idea what was spinning inside my head. Hell, I didn’t even know what was going on until they told me. I kept it to myself mostly out of fear, but it wasn’t just fear.

I figured everyone else felt the same way, so why should I be the only one to complain? Moreover, it wasn’t in my nature to complain. At one point or another I’ve broken just about every bone in my body, either through sports or performing some other stupid act, so what’s a little anxiety here and there? So what did I do? I kept everything bottled up inside and bided my time until I was discharged, several months after returning home.

As part of the discharge process you’re required to take these exit classes that explain the benefits and opportunities available to departing service members. One of the days we were given the opportunity to sit down with a veterans’ service representative to determine if we qualified for any benefits from the VA. Since a few of my injuries occurred during field exercises and were documented in my record, he told me I had a good chance of getting some disability. He wrote down some instructions and then sent me on my way.

A few months later the VA called me in for a medical screening, and since I had nothing better to do, I went. As part of the process, they had us fill out a questionnaire that asked if you had been in combat, and like most Marines who served in the Middle East over the past few years, I checked off the box marked yes. Unbeknownst to me, by checking off yes, I was required to sit through a mental-health screening.

As I said before, seeing a shrink wasn’t something you did voluntarily, so I had no idea what to expect. Unlike all the other tests administered earlier the in day, the shrink’s room didn’t look like a doctor’s office. There were no tables covered with cheap white paper. There were no stethoscopes, no wall charts, no lingering smells of hand sanitizer in the air. Instead there was a doctor sitting behind a desk and two metal chairs in front of the desk facing him. On his