[Missouri-l] New York Times: Blind Soldier Describes Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

[Nancy Lynn]

New York Times October 25, 2009, 9:00 pm
The Minefield at Home : American Veterans Speak on Post War Life
By Michael Jernigan

In August 2004, while on patrol with my Marine unit in Mahmudiya, Iraq, I 
was severely wounded by a roadside bomb. My wounds included a crushed skull 
and right hand, traumatic brain injury and the loss of both my eyes.
I am not alone. In the past eight years, many of the 35,000 American 
soldiers wounded in the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have returned home. But 
many of us have also returned with deep emotional wounds, and those are 
harder to see.




In fact, they’re often invisible, which is why so many returning soldiers 
feel so lost back home. Those of us with post-traumatic stress disorder — I’m 
one of them — feel like strangers here, carrying around a burden many people 
are unaware of or just can’t understand. The possibilities for 
misunderstandings, collisions and alienation are great.

Rewind to 2005. I am sitting in the house alone in the dark. I do not know 
where the light switches are. What does it matter anyway? I cannot see 
light.
I get up to get another beer and discover that I have run out. No fear, 
though — I’ll go find the bottle of Johnnie Walker I have somewhere in the 
back room.
I hear a noise outside. I freeze. I am running through the worst-case 
scenarios. Where am I in the house? How close is my rifle? Be quiet, listen, 
and slowly make your way to the bedroom. Good, I’ve found my rifle next to 
the bed, right where I left it. I feel safer. I am still listening; I don’t 
hear anything else. Still, I will stand here in the dark with my head on a 
swivel listening to everything within hearing. Is that not my first general 
order as a Marine? It is quiet. I am calm now, reassured that I am not under 
attack. Let’s go back to what we were doing. That bottle of Johnnie Walker 
is in the back room in a box somewhere. I stop and pause. I should bring my 
rifle; it makes me feel safer.

Fast forward a couple of years. I am married. My paranoia is not as bad, but 
still there.
One night, I am taking my wife, Leslie, out to dinner for a “date.” As we 
walk to the table with the help of my guide dog, Brittani, we hear a voice: 
“Doggy, Mommy! There is a doggy!”
“Yes, it’s a doggy,” the mother says. “You have to sit down and finish your 
dinner.”
The child asks loudly why he can’t bring his dog to a restaurant. As I walk 
by the table I lean down and say: “This is Brittani. She is a working dog. 
She is my eyes.” I cannot see the look on the boy’s face. I know that people 
are sometimes taken aback by my appearance. My left eye socket is empty and 
my right one usually has a prosthetic with an emblem or logo. (I even have 
one with diamond studs.)
We sit down. The waiter hands me a menu, I hand it back to him and say: “You 
can have this, I gave up reading!” I can only imagine the conversation that 
takes place when he returns to his post and starts talking to his co-worker.
After dinner, we get up to leave. I imagine what the other diners are 
thinking: “He gets around very well for a guy who can’t see.” What they do 
not notice is that I am holding my wife’s hand and she is guiding me through 
the maze of tables. I often get frustrated in restaurants because the tables 
are always closer together than is comfortable for me. Brittani also does 
her best to make sure that I do not knock over the tables as I pass. Despite 
all of this help I still bump into tables and chairs. In the past, I have 
even hit them so hard that I’ve knocked someone’s drink over.


Other problems remain. I fly off the handle. My emotions often come out 
quickly and unchecked. I often behave in ways that I do not understand. And 
most times, it seems, the people around me understand it even less.
It is 2008 and I am back in school. I am walking to class at Georgetown 
University. I stop right next to a flight of steps leading to the Levy 
Center. This building is not my destination; it is just a spot where I stop 
to get my bearings on an old campus that can be difficult for someone with 
disabilities to navigate. Someone walks up and grabs my arm to turn me to 
face the staircase. Did this person ask me if I was lost? Or even utter a 
word before deciding to grab me? No, because I am a cripple and it’s O.K. to 
manhandle me. My reaction is quick and angry. I jerk my arm out of his hands 
and spin on my heels with the bearing of a United States Marine.
“Get your freaking hands off me. You think you can grab me? Try it again and 
I’ll break you down shotgun style!”
I am now in a horrible mood. I have to ground myself. What just happened? 
This individual saw a blind person standing in front of some stairs. He 
probably thought that I did not see the stairs and needed help. So he 
reached out and grabbed me to spin me around to find the staircase. As 
usual, he did not say anything. These would-be helpers never do. Maybe they 
do not know what to say. I do not know what they are thinking at that 
moment, but I can tell you what happens to me. I immediately flash back to 
Iraq.
I am standing in a crowd of Iraqis. We are trying to push the gathering 
crowd back to clear an area. All of a sudden a large Iraqi man wraps his 
arms around me. I cannot move. I cannot bring up my rifle to defend myself. 
The only thing I can do is reach my Ka-Bar (a combat fighting knife). You 
can imagine what is to happen next.
It is a war and you cannot just grab a Marine and think that you will walk 
away unharmed.
This is where my head goes when I am touched unexpectedly. I know the man 
who grabbed me on the Georgetown campus was just trying to help. Why do I 
become so angry so quickly? Why do I threaten physical harm? I do not know. 
It happens so fast that I do not even think, I just react. That is what we 
are trained to do. It is the difference between a live Marine and a dead 
Marine.


I’ve come to learn that responses like the one at Georgetown are common to 
people suffering from P.T.S.D. I’ve begun to understand my own experience a 
little better and am making progress. But there is still the innocent, 
ignorant student who grabbed my arm. How will that gap be addressed?
Hopefully, President Obama’s signing of the veterans spending bill last 
Thursday will help raise awareness of problems like these. But there is 
something we can do that no legislation can: educate.
Throughout history, warriors have been taught not to speak of their 
emotional struggles. Earlier generations of American veterans mostly 
suffered in silence. That tradition can change.
We can share our experiences — today more rapidly and widely than ever — so 
that this generation of soldiers can let others know about those struggles 
without embarrassment or shame. So that when the worlds of the soldier and 
the civilian meet, they’ll come together, not collide.

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