Unspoken Abandonment (23 page)

“The reason why I’m writing to you is to let you know
that
something happened. I’ve been having a lot of problems with my left leg and it just never really healed properly. About a month ago, I had another surgery to adjust one of the rods that was placed in my thigh bone. After the surgery, a really bad infection set in. The doctors did everything they could to
treat
the infection, but it wasn’t helping. Last week, my doctor and I decided that it was time to throw in the towel and take my leg. On Thursday morning they amputated my leg just above the knee….”

Kevin’s email continued on, but I could barely read it. My stomach sank
,
an
d my heart was broken.
I always knew in the back of my mind that this day was coming, but
I just could no
t believe Kevin lost his leg. He had been through so much
,
and he fought so hard, only to lose after all this time.

I a
m
not sure if it was the stress
in my marriage that worsened the pain, but Kevin’s news bothered me deeply. It not only brought back feelings
of pain and tragedy that I had no
t felt in a long time, but it brought them back with a magnitude that is indescribable. The feelings and pain that had been bottled
up
for so long were ready to
explode
, and
in an instant,
the
temporary emotional
bandage
s and facades
w
ere
no longer working.

The days
,
weeks
,
and months that followed sent me deeper and deeper
into a dark period of
depression. Like always, I tried my best to hide it, but it was always there, worsening with each day. Work became a disinteresting chore, and I began to distance myself further and further from friends and family. I painted myself into
that
proverbial
corner where I felt
I had nowhere to go, and I felt I had
no one w
ho c
ould ever understand me. I felt as though explaining all of this to someone would be useless, as there was no way anyone could
possibly
comprehend
what I was feeling
. Hell, I barely even understood
what was happening to me
. No matter
how hard I tried, I just could no
t control it. As I look back now,
as I a
m
writing these words, I thank God I never turned to drinking. I found a point where I wanted to turn to alcohol to make this all go away, and I knew that
was the time to talk to someone -
anyone.

I contacted the veterans help line
,
and
I
was referred to a local counselor who specialized in veteran care. I made my first appointment and met with
the
counselor. I was no
t sure what I was expecting to get out of this, but I was willing to try. The first meeting was
n
o
t very
productive.
I guess you could say it was more of an introduction
than a counseling session
. The counselor had no military experience, but she claimed to have worked with numerous other patients in similar situations
. Above all,
she had very promising things to say. I visited her twice a week
, and I also sought help from my family doctor.
My family doctor prescribed me
a
medication to help me sleep, and it helped tremendously with the recurring dreams
but
did
little else
.
Although I was doing this
, very few of my problems were
actually
going away. I was taking all the right steps, but yet I felt like I was getting nowhere.

During one session, I talked about the frustration of not getting better. I explained how I felt
as though
in some ways it may actually be getting worse.

“Why do you feel as though you’re not making progress?” the counselor asked.

I glanced around the room momentarily before answering. The office looked more like a
modern
living room than an office. I sat on a very comfortable loveseat, while my co
unselor sat in a typical office-
style chair. I loved the way her office smelled. She burned a candle that smelled
just like clean laundry
fresh from the clothes dryer
. I watched the candle’s flame dance as I responded.

“Nothing’s going
away;
I’m just not getting anywhere. I just feel like I’m wasting my time here.”

She replied, “What are you expecting? Where would you like to see yourself?”

“I’m where I want to be. I don’t need to change where I am in life. What I want to change is feeling like shit all the time. Feeling like I have something hanging over me, something stalking me.”

I then began to describe to her something new that had recently started. I had been in a local grocery store,
and I was
doing a quick food shop. As I pushed the shopping cart down an aisle, I suddenly had the strangest feeling that someone was following me. I turned to look behind me, and sure enough
,
there was no one there. A minute or two later, the feeling returned, but this time it felt overpowering. The aisle felt like it was closing in around me, and I felt like I was in extreme danger. I had
an incredible fear come over me
for absolutely no
rational
reason. My heart was racing, and I could barely breathe. I abandoned my groceries
,
and
I
went to my car in the parking lot where I rode out this
terrifying
feeling. It lasted for no more than five or ten minutes,
and the feeling vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared
. The same episode repeated itself twice
again
within
the same
month.

When I finished describing what had happened, I was told I was having panic attacks. She said, “We can get you a mild anti-anxiety medication that should help with that.”

I said, “No,
n
o medication
. I already take one pill to help me
when I’m
sleep
ing
, now another one to help me when I’m awake? Then what? Where does it stop? There has to be another way.
Aren’t you supposed to be able to fix this kind of
thing
?
”

“Bryan, maybe there is another way and maybe there isn’t. Either way, I wouldn’t know because you hold so much back. You need to open up completely about everything for this to work.
You have been coming here for weeks, and you’ve told me practically nothing.
I look at you
every time,
and I can see you want this to work. I also see that you are trying so hard
, but you’re also fighting me every step of the way
.
I
f you don’t open up, we are just not going to get anywhere.
I can’t make you open
up;
you have to be willing to trust me.
”

I was holding back;
in fact
,
I only spoke about a small fraction of the things that had brought me to this point. I admitted this, and
I
agreed to start being more open and revealing more
detail with her
.
Even though
I made that
commitment to being more open
,
it
was
actually
the last time I went to counseling.
I cancell
ed my next appointment and did no
t return.

As I write this pag
e and I look back, I really canno
t explain why I
did
n
o
t
return. I think it just goes back to feeling like no one would
understand me. I believed then that
no matter what I told her, I was going to get
the same
canned bullshit
response
that everyone else had been given before me.
I knew very little about counseling
,
and I was no
t sure what to expect when I went,
but
I felt like she was
merely
there to guide me, or advise me on which paths to take to change my way of thinking.
I was confused as to h
ow
she could
guide me on a path
she had never walked.
The whole thing
just
stopped making sense to me.
I walked away, and
I put myself back into
the
position
of trying to figure everything out on my own.

It was a random Tuesday night when my telephone began to vibrate on the
coffee table. I leaned forward
just enough to read the caller ID display, “Tony.”

Tony was a good friend from the police academy, and he and I had
become
quite close. However, by this
point in
time I had no
t talke
d to him in weeks, and I could no
t remember the last time we got together. I contemplated not answering, but I went ahead and picked up.

“Hello.”

“Hey man, what’s up?” Tony asked.

“Hey buddy! Not a lot, man. What’s up with you?”

“
Some guys and I
are going for wings and beer, want to go?” Tony invited.

“I’m not sure. I have a lot going on tomorrow. Tonight is kind of tough,” I replied.

Obviously detecting my answer was half bullshit, Tony said, “No, dude
, y
ou’re coming. I’ll come by your place and pick you up at eight.”

I woul
d be lying if I said I actually wanted to go, but I knew I had
n
o
t been out in a very long time. I answered, “Ok, sounds cool.
I’ll s
ee you then.”

A group of us met at a local bar that was
very
popular for its
chicken
wings. Five of us sat around a crowded table, eating
our chicken
and talking
,
with
the
sauce
from our wings
on our faces. Another friend, Dave, asked me, “You don’t seem like yourself
lately
.
Is e
verything okay?”

“
Yeah, I’m fine.
I’ve j
ust been busy lately, and
I
have a lot on my mind,” I told him.

“Is it anything I can help you out with?” Dave asked.

“No, it’s nothing big. Just some stupid shit,” I told him.

The evening continue
d on without incident, so I do no
t really remember much else from that night. The only reason I recall that specific incident is I remember noticing that it was the very first time anyone realized something was wrong. Before that moment, no one had ever asked if I was okay. Maybe I did too
good
of a job hiding everything to that point
,
and
this was the moment
I was no
t doing
such a great job
anymore.
It could have been that
I never did hide anything very well
at all
, and people were afraid
,
or felt
too
awkward
,
to
mention anything
. Regardless of the reason, something had obviously changed.

I had spent so long hiding my feelings behind jokes and laughter,
to everyone around me
that was
eventually
the person I had become.
T
he jokes and laughter stopped working
,
and I had abandoned them. Any enjoyment I
was once able
to have
was constantly being interrupted by feelings of extreme guilt.
With the smartass façade no longer working, the truth was beginning to reveal itself.

As we ate our wings
that night
, my mind continually flashed back to starving children, images of Kevin’s crippling walk, the thought of a grown man sitting in his urine soaked underwear,
and a
countless
number of other
visions of misery. My life had
finally
reached a point where I enjoyed nothing.