PTSDSoldier
30-11-2007, 12:02 AM
After years of struggling/denile I finally went for help in 2002 and have been in therapy for PTSD and MDD since. I live with it everday and hope that my experiences can help others to gain insight into theirs. Mine is military service related and has taught me actually some good things besides the lack of sleep. One is I treat all people equal, I listen better, I do not use the words I understand instead I have empathy. I am married with 2 boys and live on the East Coast of Canada. Thats very general for now so I would like to leave you with a Poem that I wrote about 8 mths ago. Thanks for you time Grant
Post Traumatic Stress is a Slow Death
I feel the sadness and the pain, every second of the day.
I wish I could be like you, carefree and pain free too.
My stomach is tied up in twisted knots.
I remember the smiling faces on the little tots.
I see visions in my sleep, I don’t want to be alive.
My defenses all around me seem weak, How will I survive?
Loneliness follows grief, every day of the week.
Stress is a slow death, consuming you from inside.
I have to be someone I’m not.
Put on a façade, grimace with a smile that is not.
The sweat pours off me, as I hear the rounds hitting near.
The wife startles me awake, saying your only dreaming dear.
My heart is racing out of control.
My senses are heightened and ready to go.
But I really can’t.
It’s fight, flight or freeze.
There are days I want to die.
So many it would make you cry.
The drugs are eaten way too much.
The pain is still there, I feel out of touch.
I can’t sleep without my pills.
I feel this is my ultimate bill.
I hate the words I understand.
Unless you where beside me every day.
Your life would not be good tainted this way.
I ask only for a bit of empathy.
Recognizing the terror in lands far away.[
They’re very real to me every minute of the day.
I scream out in the night.
I want to kill those demons I fight.
I don’t leave my house at all.
I just stare at the wall.
If I could be like you, never tested never blue.
Maybe I would not understand, what it’s like to be this type of man.
The smell of death is thick in the air.
The corpses lying in a grave, thrown in make shift boxes without a care.
I disassociate to be like you.
My joking masks my sorrow and pain.
I feel disrespect, and shame.
Sometimes to get back to reality I cut with a knife.
PTSD will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Author
Grant R.T.
Post Traumatic Stress is a Slow Death
I feel the sadness and the pain, every second of the day.
I wish I could be like you, carefree and pain free too.
My stomach is tied up in twisted knots.
I remember the smiling faces on the little tots.
I see visions in my sleep, I don’t want to be alive.
My defenses all around me seem weak, How will I survive?
Loneliness follows grief, every day of the week.
Stress is a slow death, consuming you from inside.
I have to be someone I’m not.
Put on a façade, grimace with a smile that is not.
The sweat pours off me, as I hear the rounds hitting near.
The wife startles me awake, saying your only dreaming dear.
My heart is racing out of control.
My senses are heightened and ready to go.
But I really can’t.
It’s fight, flight or freeze.
There are days I want to die.
So many it would make you cry.
The drugs are eaten way too much.
The pain is still there, I feel out of touch.
I can’t sleep without my pills.
I feel this is my ultimate bill.
I hate the words I understand.
Unless you where beside me every day.
Your life would not be good tainted this way.
I ask only for a bit of empathy.
Recognizing the terror in lands far away.[
They’re very real to me every minute of the day.
I scream out in the night.
I want to kill those demons I fight.
I don’t leave my house at all.
I just stare at the wall.
If I could be like you, never tested never blue.
Maybe I would not understand, what it’s like to be this type of man.
The smell of death is thick in the air.
The corpses lying in a grave, thrown in make shift boxes without a care.
I disassociate to be like you.
My joking masks my sorrow and pain.
I feel disrespect, and shame.
Sometimes to get back to reality I cut with a knife.
PTSD will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Author
Grant R.T.