166 Days: My Journey Through The Darkness (21 page)

8 October 2008-12 October 2008

I traveled out of theatre much the same as I traveled into it. I was accompanied by Tony and Tim again, except we didn’t have the same connections in Manas as we did when we first arrived six months ago. Tim’s girlfriend already redeployed so we were forced to live in the clamshells like every other transient party. As I stepped off the C-17 onto the airstrip I found myself thinking of the person I was when I first set foot on the same concrete six months ago. I’d been through so much more than I ever could have imagined. I remembered how frustrated I had been with having to wait to use the morale phones, to call home to the family I’d just left. Now, having been through what I had, I found myself in a completely different state of mind. All of the fears in my head when I arrived the first time were now an afterthought. All of my energy was focused on one thing….home.

We stayed in Manas for a total of three days, waiting for our names to show up on the manifest home. While there, I occupied my time with the gym. I decided to put myself on a night schedule to help re-acclimate to the States, since we were about ten hours ahead. I happily turned in all of the gear I was issued there back in April. The days went by relatively quickly; I slept the majority of the days and filled my nights with the gym, email, movies, and time with my own thoughts. Eventually our names were on the manifest out, leaving in the middle of the night on the 11
th
. As we got on the plane I couldn’t wait to leave, hoping I would never return.

We stopped in Incirlek, Turkey to refuel. We were instructed to de-board the plane during the process. We waited and waited to re-board for what felt like hours when finally an announcement came overhead at the airport terminal stating that there was a mechanical problem with the plane and we would be there for at least a night while it was being repaired. There was a unison sigh of frustration from all two hundred plus passengers. We all desperately wanted to get home and twenty-four more hours away was an eternity to us all. Because we were staying overnight we all had to get our orders stamped, allowing us to leave the terminal. After standing in a never-ending line we were all loaded up on buses and were taken to several transient billeting rooms. Once we were all settled, a group of us decided to make the most of our mini-vacation to Turkey and walked over to the BX and purchased a few “adult” beverages to partake in. We did have a good time and some laughs as we all exchanged stories of our time in the desert. I found myself refraining from saying much. As I listened to the stories of the mundane life at BAF and KAF and how people creatively passed the time, I missed Becky, wishing she was there for me to exchange that knowing look with, but I was alone. I found myself in an uncomfortable silence amongst the laughter and jokes. I wanted to be in Greg’s arms and put it all completely behind me. I managed to shrug off the looming emotion, put my smiley face on and told some jokes of my own. We stayed up the majority of the night and luckily had a very early call to get back to the terminal; the plane was fixed and ready to go, and so were we.

From Incirlek we traveled to Ramstein, Germany where we switched planes to a more commercial type aircraft, similar to the one we flew in on from Virginia. I’d never been to Germany before; the airport was huge. It was almost like a civilian counterpart. There were Subways, Starbucks, and Duty Frees. People in civilian attire were traveling with their luggage and children just as they did back in the States. As we waited at our gate I saw more and more of these people lining up in the same line I was in. They were flying back to America on standby. As I sat down in my assigned seat, an elderly couple sat down in the row behind me. As they struggled to get into their seat, they bumped mine repeatedly. I heard the woman’s voice, “Can you believe this Frank? How on Earth are we going to sit here for this trip? I’m so uncomfortable! I’ve never been on a plane where the seats were this uncomfortable. Frank?
Frank!
Are you listening to me? I don’t have enough space!” She went on and on, all the while bumping my seat as she tried to adjust to her substandard flying conditions. Listening to her complaints appalled me. It was no secret who their co-passengers were; we were all in uniform and it was announced that we were coming back from a deployment. They were still oblivious to this and continued to complain about their
free
uncomfortable seats. I couldn’t take it and moved to the back of the plane, put my earplugs in, my eye mask on and slept all the way to Baltimore.

As the flight attendant announced our final descent into Baltimore my eyes welled up with tears. I couldn’t control the emotion as the wheels screeched as they touched ground. I was finally back. I couldn’t believe it. As I stepped out of the walkway into the airport I felt my knees go weak and I had to sit down. I looked around as the people around us busily walked by trying to get to their gates or to baggage claim and I’d never felt happier about being in an airport. We walked to baggage claim to pick up our belongings and the people surrounding us smiled and nodded in thanks. I’d been in situations before when I was uniform and had a similar reception; however, this time I felt it in my core. The gratitude meant more to me than I ever could’ve imagined. We stayed the night at the Sheridan where Tony, Tim and I had our final dinner together before we parted ways.

The morning of the 14
th
of October I couldn’t wait to get to the airport. I was going to see Greg again….after
everything
! Griffen was going to be there too, as he had moved to Panama City while I was gone. I was so excited that I was beside myself; I had to go back to my room several times because I forgot things, but eventually made it to the airport. I was in my civilian clothes and blended in with the people around me. No one knew who I was or what had happened to me. I was just another face in the crowd, which was exactly how I wanted it. I didn’t want any big reception or attention. All I wanted was my family. I connected flights in Atlanta and realized that in one and a half hours I would be
home.

I sat in a window seat and as we started our decent into Panama City. I went back to the day I left home, looking out the window with tears running down my cheeks wondering what was ahead. Now, the tears of joy and relief were pouring. The person sitting next to me must have been so puzzled by my emotion, but was kind enough to just let me be alone in my thoughts. As we pulled up to the terminal I couldn’t stand it! My heart was beating out of my chest. I wanted to run down the aisle and out of the plane. We de-boarded in what felt like hours and
finally
I was inside. I ran from the gate to the reception area….and there he was.

The love of my life was standing there with a bouquet of roses with tears streaming down his cheeks as he saw me running toward him. We hugged the tightest embrace we’ve ever had. People around us smiled and could see the love and excitement, imagining how special the moment was for us…..if they only knew! My little Griff was eagerly waiting next to him for a hug and kiss from his stepmom. Words couldn’t describe how good it was to see him; I hadn’t seen him for over a year. I’d missed him so much and was so happy he was there to greet me. I couldn’t take my hands off of Greg. I couldn’t believe I was touching him, holding him. I was really
with
him. I wasn’t dreaming…this was it. I was finally home.

6 December 2009 was the night I realized I was in serious trouble. I looked down at my crying newborn with concern….but I didn’t see Ayla. I was holding
that
baby. The dying baby in Afghanistan, whose brother had carried her into my clinic in what looked like a potato sack and plopped her down on my gurney.

As I looked down at my daughter I was right back there, in that horrible place. I could smell the filth in the air, and I could hear the breaths slowly leaving the baby girl’s tiny dying body. It was the night of my first flashback….but certainly not my first sign of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Being back was overwhelmingly wonderful and when I first returned home, I found myself thankful for each and every moment I had with my family and in the United States. I had a whole new appreciation for the freedoms and niceties I once took for granted. I remember thinking as soon as I saw Greg I couldn’t wait to tell him all the details that I hadn’t been able to elaborate on over the phone and through email, but the reality of the situation was I couldn’t. I tried several times to tell him, but I found I couldn’t put it into words, so I didn’t; I still felt an urge to “protect” him from knowing all of the horrible things I went through.

He didn’t know how to ask me what I was feeling, so it eventually became a wedge of silence between us. I answered his questions and elaborated on various facts, but avoided discussing my emotions. It made me feel weak. I didn’t want him to know I was hurting, mainly because I didn’t want my pain to impact him.

I reported to the base to in-process upon my return so I naturally stopped by the clinic. I will never forget walking into my office and seeing everyone. They were so welcoming and eager to hear how I was doing; they wanted all the details they could get. Several new people had joined the clinic since I left and it felt like I was walking into a new place all together.

As I was getting ready to leave, after going through the formalities and hugs, I ran into one of the nurses in the hallway. She was a civilian contractor who’d worked there for years, and was somewhat disgruntled. She gave me a big hug and said, “Oh Jenn! Thank you so much for your service over there! I’m so grateful you made it home safely.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I replied.

“Believe me; you are so glad you weren’t here. It has just been awful since you left,” she complained.
Is this conversation really happening?
I thought. “Oh and the referral process! Well, that is just a mess. I just can’t believe how broken our system is,” she continued. “You are so lucky you were out of here for six months.”

As I stood and listened to her rant, I found myself in utter disbelief. Just days before I was getting shot at, my friends were killed and wounded, and she was telling me that I was “lucky” to have not had to deal with the circumstances back home?

“Alright, I’ll see you later,” I cut the conversation short. I felt rage, but managed to suppress it. I went home and focused on something else to keep my mind from “going there”.

Several months after returning to work I was presented with numerous medals and awards, which was typical after a deployment. I remembered how big of a deal that would have been to me prior to the deployment, but now it felt undeserved. I felt I did so little compared to the sacrifice of my comrades. I was carrying tremendous guilt, feeling I should have done more than what I did while I was there. Maybe I could have found a way to better treat all of the unfortunate people I had to turn away. Why wasn’t I out there with the team on those missions? It would have made a difference, wouldn’t it? I often found myself withdrawing more and more from the things I normally loved; I became significantly more irritable and would often cry for no reason. I would sit in church, listen to the music and just weep. I felt so much hurt, and so alone.

Greg was wonderful, but didn’t quite know how to handle my reactions, nor did I know what to tell him. I think we were both in a state of denial of what was happening. I kept feeling if he knew how much I was struggling, he would think I was not strong enough. I felt overwhelmed at times; often feeling lost in a world that was happening around me. Many days I would come home from work, sit at the foot of my bed and just stare off into space with tears streaming down my face. My mind would drift to the memories of who I was before I left; someone with so much passion and drive, filled with a fire for life and optimistic that any and everything was possible. I was so “innocent” to the terrors of war, looking at the world through such a naïve perspective insisting everyone was innately good.

Who was that woman? She felt dead to me. That fire was gone. I was just going through the motions, I felt numb. I left that person and her “innocence” at that firebase, and I missed her terribly. I thought back to who I was before I joined the military, that young twenty year-old, who thought she had it all figured out, but had so many life lessons to learn. So many of the people I met over there were no more than twenty themselves, just starting their lives, and look at what they were going through. Did others leave from deployment in the same condition I had - broken?

Greg told me often that maybe I should get help, but I insisted I could handle it on my own. I told the facts of my story to those who would listen and over time I felt that I had a good handle on my emotions because I learned to avoid them. I learned my triggers and subsequently learned to evade them. I felt so alone; no one could understand where I was coming from or what I’d been through, not even Greg.

Becky and I talked often initially, sometimes needing to talk in the middle of the night when one of us started “thinking too much”. Eventually some unfortunate family circumstances occurred with my father that preoccupied my time and all of the emotion seemed to stop. I later realized this was because my family issues served as a wonderful distraction. I was able to channel my energy away from my personal struggles and focus on my family.

As time went on, I felt an overwhelming urge to share my story, thinking that by telling others about my experience and helping them to cope with their own it would somehow help me deal with it myself. I spoke at several events by invitation of my commander and eventually was asked to be a guest speaker at the Non-Commissioned Officer Academy (NCOA) on base. I embraced the opportunity and felt the academy was an excellent medium to get my message across. I used my experience to deliver a lecture to the students on PTSD. It was a success with a tremendously positive reaction from the students. I felt I was making a difference by telling them how to avoid PTSD
as I had
by doing healthy things like exercise and not being ashamed to talk about their emotions and getting help… even though I never sought help and continued to struggle with my personal demons.

I vowed to run a half marathon in Rod’s honor, feeling by doing so I would be able to gain some sort of closure. His memory haunted me every time I ran; I would see him and Jacko cheering me and waving each time I passed by.

I avoided things that would provoke emotions, such as news broadcasts and war movies. I found that giving the lectures was therapeutic in a sense, by finding the purpose in what I went through. I was seeing my experience, while it may have been unfortunate for me, was a way to help others. I held on to this idea and validation tightly, as if my life depended on it, but it still wasn’t enough. I was still dancing around the depths of what was happening to me.

As I continued to train for the half marathon, that I titled “Rod’s Race,” I injured my left hip. I had been so accustomed to running on a rocky surface in Afghanistan that running on a pavement took its toll. I’d strained one of my adductor muscles, and instead of resting it and letting my body recover I continued to run. I would run 5-6 miles despite my pain; I had become an expert at ignoring both the emotional and physical signs that I was hurt. Eventually I got to the point where I couldn’t even walk without a significant limp. I ended up in Physical Therapy for several months, with strict orders to rest. All of my training and conditioning melted away. Rod’s Race was not even a possibility, I couldn’t do it. Now I had failed myself emotionally and physically.

When I recovered from my injury, determined to accomplish my goal, I resumed running. My training; however, was short-lived. One morning in, April 2009, Greg and I were blessed with the news I was pregnant. I couldn’t have been happier. It was the perfect time in our lives for a little one and I wanted to have a baby so badly. Throughout the pregnancy I continued to give my lectures and work in the clinic. Knowing I was going to be a mom served as yet another distraction to what I was feeling. It was no longer about me, but the little life I was bringing into the world and so all of my positive thoughts and energy went towards my unborn child. When I was twenty-two weeks along, at a routine OB appointment, it was discovered I was high risk due to an incompetent cervix. Given this was my first pregnancy, and due to the findings on the ultrasound, I was placed on modified bed-rest for the remainder of the pregnancy. This gave me a lot of time to think. I told myself it would be a great time to dive into the journal and start putting it into the book for my new little one, as I’d planned when I initially wrote it. Yet I couldn’t open it; I would find myself staring at the book in silence while I sat at the computer. I would quickly find something else to do with my time, anything to avoid reliving any of the emotions.

Thankfully, the remainder of my pregnancy was uneventful and the baby was healthy. On the 4
th
of December 2009 I delivered beautiful little Ayla Lee Clark. I had no idea how overwhelming a mother’s love truly is until I saw Ayla for the first time. The moment they laid her on my chest and I held her, the heart that had been broken so badly in Afghanistan filled with a new joy and love unlike anything I had ever experienced.

That joy was tarnished the night of the flashback. I knew I was not ok, and despite the new wonder in my life, my darkness was still there, and there was no hiding from it. From that moment I had several more episodes. We tried to watch a war movie that was incredibly realistic and took me right back to Afghanistan. Not thirty minutes into the film I felt my stomach turn and I began crying uncontrollably. My body became flushed and my heart was racing. I was having an anxiety attack. I ran from the living room and lay on my bed in the fetal position and shook with emotion.

Greg came after me and hugged me tightly, “It’s ok sweetie, it’s ok,” he tried. I wished so desperately he was right. The memories began to manifest more frequently, my distractions were no longer effective, and I began to notice my haunting reminders impacting me more and more profoundly.

After my six weeks of maternity leave was over I returned to work. I felt a sense of purpose being back; having been away for several months it felt good to return to what I loved. At the same time, of course, it was bittersweet. I struggled every day having to leave Ayla at home. I wanted to be with her so badly, but I hoped work would help me to avoid the symptoms that continued to surface. I began to experience nightmares filled with gruesome details of crimes that were mainly focused towards women, waking me up at times in the middle of the night in fear. They were the type of dreams you wake up from, and it takes you a minute to realize it was actually just a dream. I eventually opened up and told a friend of mine, who was a psychologist. “You know Tracy, I should probably come over to the Mental Health clinic and talk to you,” I confessed.

“Really? What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh. Well, you know it’s really nothing, no big deal. I can get through it myself. I’m sure it’s due to just having had Ayla,” I said and quickly walked away. I could hear myself lying; I knew it was much more. I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of relying on someone else to help me deal with my issues. I’d already done so much by myself, there was no reason I couldn’t handle this, right? I also continued to feel so incredibly alone. I told myself no one would be able to relate to what I was going through and because of this there was no way anyone could understand me or help in any way.

On an intellectual level, I knew better. I went to school and learned about this, and I was surrounded by peers who were fellow PAs, ARNPs (Nurse Practitioners), doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, and social workers. Yet I was still insistent none of them would be of any help.

Two weeks after I returned to work, I was in the middle of my morning clinic when my new squadron commander came down to the clinic with a blue folder in her hand. As I was about to walk into my next exam room she pulled me aside.

“Hey, Jenn, I know you’re busy, but do you have a minute to talk?” She had just arrived at the base several months before I was put on bed-rest and knew very little of who I was or what I’d been through.

“Yes ma’am, of course,” I said and we walked into the hallway. She looked at me and shook her head.

“It’s against my better judgment to do this, but I’m going to anyway. Jenn, you have a tasking…”

My heart stopped.

She continued, “It’s for Afghanistan, for two-hundred seventy-nine days with three months of training prior to your departure.”

Everything else she said was a blur. I broke out into a cold sweat and my heart was racing. My entire body felt like a giant hive.

“You won’t be leaving until….”

“Excuse me ma’am-” I interrupted as I ran to the bathroom to dry heave. I tried to pull myself together but I was clearly shaken.

“Are you ok?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am, thank you,” I replied, but inside my heart felt as if it was going to explode out of my chest. I couldn’t even look at the folder. All I could think about was,
I can’t go back there. I can’t go back to that place
. I am ashamed to admit my reaction wasn’t even due to the fact that I would be leaving my brand new baby. I didn’t even get that far in my thought process. It was a response solely to “Afghanistan.” She was understandably shocked by my reaction and didn’t know what to do other than leave the folder with me, have some of my colleagues check on me, and let me continue with my clinic.