*According to statistics (which may be underreported), some 20 veterans PER DAY commit suicide due to PTSD. I decided to write this story after learning that a second Marine I served with took his own life over the holidays. I've never even been depressed, so I can't begin to imagine how awful it is to be a prisoner of one's own mind due to memories one can't shake.
I'm also no expert when it comes to cures for anything, but I have met people who claim to have experienced some sort of 'overnight conversion' in which they went from hopelessly addicted alcoholics or drug addicts to clean and sober without traditional treatment. That would seem to be extremely rare, but it obviously seems to happen.
With that in mind, I hope you'll be able to enjoy an intense-but-romantic story that involves both PTSD, and the cure, that one hypothetical person found to not only help him escape his mental anguish but to replace it with the kind of love most people hope to find.
******
"Heath? There's a big difference between feeling hopeless and a situation being hopeless, and I promise you, yours isn't hopeless."
The recently-discharged Marine Corps officer sat there staring into space before he quietly said, "You have no idea."
The psychiatrist replied, "No. I don't know the details of your specific case. But I've worked with enough soldiers and Marines with PTSD to know there are similarities. No matter how different the things you saw and experienced may be from someone else—anyone else—the brain's reactions to them are always similar."
She slid her wheeled chair a little closer then said, "I can help you, Heath. But only if you'll talk to me."
Heath Thomas was 26 years old and had spent 16 months of his 3 1/2 years on active duty in Afghanistan. He was now a civilian again because his PTSD was so out of control he could no longer function effectively on active duty.
It wasn't just that he could no longer lead Marines. That was true, but it was much worse than that. His personal life was spinning out of control, as well, and lately, he often wondered if what he called 'checking out' might not be a rational option. That he still knew it wasn't was the only hopeful sign in an otherwise miserable existence.
He also knew his doctor was right. He had to talk about it. But the last thing he wanted to do was say out loud what he'd seen after living with it 24/7 for well over a year. It had even invaded his dreams, the one place he used to be able to go to find some relief. But for the last year or so, and specifically since the second 'incident', even peaceful sleep had eluded him.
The former first lieutenant had been turned over to the VA for treatment since his discharge four months ago. While he knew he should be grateful, Heath was angry and resentful about being there. The only redeeming aspect of his first visit had been the psychiatrist herself. She was a 30-something woman who was very attractive, and Heath found himself mildly aroused for the first time in months. It was barely noticeable, but by her presence alone she was able to take maybe 10% off the edge of the PTSD, and while that wasn't much, any relief was welcome.
She reached out and touched his arm then said, "I've been here long enough to have talked to people who've seen it all. So believe me when I tell you there is almost nothing you can tell me that I haven't heard before. So I hope you won't think being female or a civilian somehow makes me weak."
"I don't think you're weak," he said, finally breaking the silence. "It's just so...fucking hard to talk about, you know?"
This was progress, and the doctor said very quietly, "I do know."
Before he said just those few words, the images came to him again in stark, vivid detail. The first happened two months into his first tour. A Humvee hit an IED, and after being blown 15 feet up and 20 feet to its right, there was a second explosion as the vehicle landed on its wheels.
Heath was just two vehicles back in the convoy and watched it all unfold as though it happened in slow motion. He also knew the secondary explosion was the anti-tank round every Humvee carried.
He was one of the first to approach the burning vehicle just seconds later as other Marines exited their vehicles and set up security in the event of a post-explosion attack.
Rounds were still cooking off, and the smart thing to do was stay away. But Heath couldn't wait. He'd take an ass chewing from the company commander later, but he had to know if anyone was still alive.
As he reached the driver's side, what he saw through the thick, black smoke something that nearly made him vomit. The second Marine looked inside and hollered, "Jesus fucking Christ!" before puking his guts out.
"They're gone. Let's get the fuck away from this thing—now!" Heath hollered as the flames got hotter and higher before eventually engulfing the Humvee, causing any remaining ammo to cook off along with the three dead human beings inside.
Heath had managed to compartmentalize the gruesome sight until the second event when it, along with what he'd seen with his own eyes, returned with a vengeance.
He was five months into his second and final tour when his company encountered the largest enemy force since Iraq; a force no one knew existed let alone was operating anywhere near them. There were roughly 200 Marines in a defensive position with nearly 600 jihadists preparing for an attack.
Heath heard the company commander on the radio informing the Task Force commander, and Army lieutenant colonel who was back at their joint base camp, of their situation. The captain made it clear they needed reinforcements, massive air support, or they'd have to pull back.
The reply stunned not only Heath, the company executive officer or XO, making him second in command, but the company commander as well.
"Negative! Hold your position."
Their position was just another worthless patch of sand with no tactical meaning which meant there was no reason to stay and fight. But orders were orders. The truth was, even if they held off the attack, Marines would die, and many more would be wounded. The company commander reiterated his concerns in no uncertain terms, and again, he was ordered to 'hold at all costs'.
"Son of a bitch!" the captain said as he looked at Heath.
"Looks like we're defending this oasis, sir," he remembered saying with a grim smile.
"All right. Get the word out," the commander said as he barked instructions to his lieutenants who would in turn, pass them on to their platoons.
As the enemy massed for a suicidal frontal assault reminiscent of Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg on the 3rd of July in 1863, the Marines dug in as best they could and prepared for battle. There was no air support available for at least another hour, but in less than half that amount of time, a hell of lot of people would be dead or dying.
The attack began with the enemy firing a few ill-aimed mortar rounds from maybe a half mile away that did no real damage. As the large group of enemy soldiers began running toward them wildly firing AK-47s and RPGs, Marine machine gunners opened fire, and riflemen began taking well-aimed shots as the 'martyrs' continued moving in mass toward them.
Evidently, these fanatics truly believed that dying in battle with the infidel was a ticket to Paradise, and a lot of them were going to go there (or somewhere south of heaven) very quickly.
Heath watched as the attackers fell by ones or twos here and there all across the front. At about a hundred yards away, the jihadis began sprinting and screaming, and Heath, who'd been firing his rifle along with everyone else, laid his 9mm next to him as the enemy closed the gap.
Things went into slow motion again as three bad guys came directly at him. He shot one of them at five yards and another as he was diving into the small 'hole' Heath had dug in the sand, intent on killing the young Marine.
The man fell dead, almost on top of him, just as the third ran ran by screaming in Arabic. With no threat to his direct front, Heath turned just as the third man stopped and spun around. He reached for his pistol, and as he was about to fire, another Marine shot the attacker from the side.
