This story is to honor the memory of a friend's father.
Dad was seldom a happy man. It didn't matter Friday brought with it the end of a hard work week or, holidays were a time of joy and birthdays were suppose to be a really special day. His handsome features were rarely softened by the simple act of a smile.
When the pain inside his head was so explosive or, his nightmares scared him to the brink of terror, he would strike out not because he wanted to but, because he was fighting an enemy none of us could see... only him.
A thunderstorm was always his enemy and distant rumbling sounds rolling across the countryside struck a fear throughout our household like no other. It did not matter whether it was day or, night time, because the sky was always ominous and the air impossibly heavy to breathe. Dad's demeanor flicked quickly like the light switches that controlled the current running through the walls of our home.
I never understood when I was real little why my mom religiously listened to the radio wherever we went, wherever we were. She always kept an ear open for that warning of an approaching storm and then would quickly scoot us away to a neighbor, to the local theatre or to Grandma's, who lived upstairs in our two-family home. When bed time came around... there was no escape for any of us though. We were held prisoner by the same demons just like dad while he relived the horror of a war he served at sixteen and was missing in action for more than a year.
The older I became, I realized my dad really did love me. Dragging me kicking and screaming in the middle of the night down into a dark, dank cellar that shared space with canal rats as big as my mom's toy poodle was in his own tortured mind his way of protecting us from the phantom bombshells that stole and destroyed his youth. During those tender young years when my pleas of, "Daddy, I promise I'll be good," fell upon deaf ears, I did not understand and prayed for the angels to please come and save me. For so long I thought I was being punished for something I did not do, something I had no power... no control over.
Turning thirteen was a pivotal time in my life because it was then I first read about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at my middle school library. Every storm that approached thereafter, I then became a soldier and stood fearless and proud at my dad's side offering a calming voice and soft words of support to help him through his nightmare. Never again did I hide in the shadow of the very fear that took the joy from his heart, the laughter from his voice and the spark from beautiful blue eyes I will never have the joy to gaze upon again.
This story is for all of you who may know someone serving in our armed forces. Please take a moment to read and research PTSD. We can not help our loved ones, if we are ignorant of the source which is sucking the life from their very souls. To know is to understand.
For more information on PTSD you can visit the following informative links:
http://www.helpguide.org/mental/post_traumatic_stress_disorder_symptoms_treatment.htm
http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/go/ptsd
According to the National Center for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder nearly 1/3 of all veterans suffer from this disease, dramatically affecting not only their mental health but also, their employment, relationship with friends, and most importantly, their interaction with their wives and children.
Dad was seldom a happy man. It didn't matter Friday brought with it the end of a hard work week or, holidays were a time of joy and birthdays were suppose to be a really special day. His handsome features were rarely softened by the simple act of a smile.
When the pain inside his head was so explosive or, his nightmares scared him to the brink of terror, he would strike out not because he wanted to but, because he was fighting an enemy none of us could see... only him.
A thunderstorm was always his enemy and distant rumbling sounds rolling across the countryside struck a fear throughout our household like no other. It did not matter whether it was day or, night time, because the sky was always ominous and the air impossibly heavy to breathe. Dad's demeanor flicked quickly like the light switches that controlled the current running through the walls of our home.
I never understood when I was real little why my mom religiously listened to the radio wherever we went, wherever we were. She always kept an ear open for that warning of an approaching storm and then would quickly scoot us away to a neighbor, to the local theatre or to Grandma's, who lived upstairs in our two-family home. When bed time came around... there was no escape for any of us though. We were held prisoner by the same demons just like dad while he relived the horror of a war he served at sixteen and was missing in action for more than a year.
The older I became, I realized my dad really did love me. Dragging me kicking and screaming in the middle of the night down into a dark, dank cellar that shared space with canal rats as big as my mom's toy poodle was in his own tortured mind his way of protecting us from the phantom bombshells that stole and destroyed his youth. During those tender young years when my pleas of, "Daddy, I promise I'll be good," fell upon deaf ears, I did not understand and prayed for the angels to please come and save me. For so long I thought I was being punished for something I did not do, something I had no power... no control over.
Turning thirteen was a pivotal time in my life because it was then I first read about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at my middle school library. Every storm that approached thereafter, I then became a soldier and stood fearless and proud at my dad's side offering a calming voice and soft words of support to help him through his nightmare. Never again did I hide in the shadow of the very fear that took the joy from his heart, the laughter from his voice and the spark from beautiful blue eyes I will never have the joy to gaze upon again.
This story is for all of you who may know someone serving in our armed forces. Please take a moment to read and research PTSD. We can not help our loved ones, if we are ignorant of the source which is sucking the life from their very souls. To know is to understand.
For more information on PTSD you can visit the following informative links:
http://www.helpguide.org/mental/post_traumatic_stress_disorder_symptoms_treatment.htm
http://www.mentalhealthamerica.net/go/ptsd
According to the National Center for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder nearly 1/3 of all veterans suffer from this disease, dramatically affecting not only their mental health but also, their employment, relationship with friends, and most importantly, their interaction with their wives and children.