Filling Time and Space after Trauma

 

Filling Time and Space after Trauma

 

                        When I came home from my time in the U.S. Army, I was overpowered by voices, paranoia, and delusions from my schizoaffective disorder. It is an invisible illness that turns your brain into a slave to symptoms. I thought the voices and the false impulses could be heard by my parents. I thought my symptoms were turning my parents against me. I thought they were listening and being influence by the “enemy” voices inside my “mental atmosphere,” inside my mind yet out in the open. My brain disorder felt like it was infinite.

            Life was not easy for me in the military. My superiors did not know how to manage my insubordinations, and the fact I just did not fit what they were trying to accomplish. I thought the other soldiers could see my strange thoughts so I would yell out random thoughts to show them I was just as powerful as they were. My superiors concluded that I should be punished. The punishment was a hazing incident that rocked my world.

            I still have not fully resolved the trauma of being duct-taped by the other soldiers into the fetal position while out in the Mojave Desert with my unit. I thought I did my best to fight back by kicking and pushing at the time. Looking back, even if I had won the fight, where would I have run to? I was in a part of the desert I had never been, far from the barracks. Despite my attempts to break free, about three other soldiers overpowered me, and it broke me in ways that I would never fully be whole again. I remember thinking this was the end of my life, and my parents will never know what truly happened to me that night.

            Being overpowered was only part of it. There was so much taped wrapped around my body that I could barely move. I could only move my head slightly. My personal space was getting tighter and tighter. I was confined. Some soldiers picked me up and took me to our sergeant. They were proud of their sacrifice to the Gods of the Mojave Desert.

            I could not fight them anymore. They had beaten me, and I was broken. That was the beginning of my so-called special powers later to be diagnosed with schizoaffective. I hear voices and impulses even today that say, “How do you go on after something like that?”

            I was such a bad soldier in their eyes that they demoted me. I was demoted because of my appearance. I did not know how to iron my uniform, and no one was willing to help me. I felt like all the other soldiers I served with were so tired of me that they planned to kick me out with the smallest things. It was going to happen gradually, but they wanted me out with a dishonorable discharge.

            I eventually referred myself to mental health where I was sent for the first time to a psyche ward in San Diego. This was my last hope. Because of my psychosis I thought Jesus told me to go to mental health. Because I was given a mental health diagnosis of schizophrenia, I was given a honorable discharge. The psychiatrist was truly kind and did her best to talk to my mom about what I was going through. Finally, I had someone who knew and understood what I was battling in my mind.

            When I came back home, I was quickly becoming another veteran tragedy. Later, the police handcuffed me when I became a danger to myself and/or others. It was my parents’ only option. The trivial questions of my schizophrenic life were being answered by the results of these actions. I felt relief, and I thought whatever was going on inside my mind was going to be solved. This was what help looked like to me. This day was my worse day but also a good day, because it was the start of recovery proving a severe mental illness diagnosis is not the end. This was the start of going on after my trauma, and the beginning of my schizoaffective advocacy.

Even today in my journey of recovery, thinking about my trauma which was my psychotic break, gives me a tingly feeling. My heart still races whenever I feel confined. I still get a mild shock to my heart and mind. I had no choice but to go on. I find the anxieties from my trauma can be fuel to keep going and for getting through filling the empty time and space.

My space and time are filled with making my bed every morning, exercising, watching tv and listening to my vinyl record collection. I volunteer at Goodwill near my apartment; I make appointments to the veteran’s hospital and always show up on time. I am on the right medication now, and I can manage my symptoms and I keep going. I had to fill the days with distractions so I could go on. Every step forward, every new place I visit, every delicious meal at a wonderful restaurant, and every cool note from a Miles Davis album pushes me further away from my trauma. Life is worth living. I will never fully get over the taping, but I will do my best to move on.

The taping happened over twenty years ago. I am in my forties now and I am living my best life with the help of my veteran benefits. I can pay my rent and my groceries. My dad oversees my income which reduces the stress that comes with finances.

            I am a veteran, and when I get a “Thanks you for your service” or “Did you go to Afghanistan or Iraq?” I go back to the taping experience. I was in the wrong desert. My service was bittersweet, but I still signed the line. Sometimes I wonder why being handcuffed, and restrained was not triggering? Despite that I am thankful that my parents used their only option for me to get help.

There were times in the early years that my delusions and voices were the only things that filled me. I have turned the tragedy into something positive. My main response to this experience is to share my story of resilience and recovery. I may have been knocked down, but I did not stay down. Every soldier has a story, and this is mine.