As a writer I have a gift and a curse called PTSD. First the curse. In the back of my thoughts is a dark demon trapped behind a wall of discipline and reality. Imagine one of the most frightening scenes in a horror movie. The protagonist is trapped under a sheet of clear plastic struggling to break free and screaming their last breath. The room is silent and you perceive the struggle so intensely you want to breath for them. It is a captivating scene for the moviegoer soliciting gasps and grabbed hands.
The moviegoer knows it isn’t real, but sometimes they must look away and perceive reality for just a moment. The anxiety created in their mind is almost too powerful, and a look away brings desperate relief. In my case the demon is trapped. I know he struggles for life, but I won’t let him. To be drawn into that scene is to trade places and there is too much in this world to love, live for, appreciate and express to let that happen, although at times it gets close. Today was one of those days.
Triggers become a regular part of our life. Sounds, open spaces, closed spaces, faces, places, and of course, the night. Dreams rarely are free although I have flown more in the last decade than all my years before. Night shadows no longer form into foes and having to pee is what wakes me up. Today’s trigger was a surprise.
I took our bloodhound, lab mix puppy to the vet, not paying attention to the emotional pressure I was already under. He freaked out and the fear in his eyes was piercing, and familiar. There is a look that most of us never forget. It is a deep fear projected darkly from the eyes of a man that sees his death clearly whether imagined or real. Izzy’s was a desperate plea for me not to leave him alone, but they took him away anyway and there was nothing I could do. The loss of control and helplessness set my demon free. The ensuing battle has taken most of today and I’m exhausted.
The gift is, we vets with PTSD, have a knowledge of soul bound pain that most writers will never be able to tap into. Some geniuses have their own mania that helps in the creation of paragraphs and phrases that stoke the deepest emotions from their readers. Others possess a familiar angst they can detail in ways we all connect with, and the introvert can craft worlds dreamt of behind closed doors that transport us to new heights and realms. The challenge for me, and the other vets that have taken to writing, is to assemble the words that share our struggle without losing ourselves or our readers.
I am being taught to do this by my characters. As I work to make them come alive I see parts of me in them and my struggles are not absent. At first it was hard to look at in the light of a real word, but now I believe I am learning to weave them into people with depth and real anxieties all their own. Now, are they still likeable is the question. I have to leave that up to my readers and trust my characters. A difficult task for vets, but worth the strength that will be gained.
As I think of the best way to close this post, I have to look away for moment. What I see is my dogs at my feet hiding from the vacuum. My office is in a home my wife and I bought together. I hear her cleaning at seven thirty at night because she has her own issues, and I love every one of them. Pictures of my children and my birthday cards remind me I am loved and necessary, while the partially completed canvas on my easel tells me there is still much art to create. This is the reality I have and no picture show in the corner of my mind is going to change that. Score one for me.
I am listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “Carry On” as I close. Number nine. Peace, out.
words & worlds 