Remember when...?

I have been missing for a while. I have a reason for this. I will explain when I'm able, without so many watchful eyes. In the meantime....

There are some who are pushing me to face my demons. This is easier said than done. And in spite of conventional wisdom, I'm not sure it is what's best for me. I protect myself.

I am a reporter, in the truest sense of the word. I'm old school. I specialize in disasters and wars, though not by choosing. I have seen a lot of dead bodies, blown to bits in war zones, some with gaping holes, and some which resemble ghosts--slippery beings floating in the Katrina flood waters. I once saw a horse in a tree. Katrina victim. Really. I stared at it for hours.

I have to have some degree of separation or I could never do my job. I empathize. I get it. I help people. I think very clearly in the face of disaster or emergency, so much so that when I was bombed I calmly requested a smoke and a whiskey. In Israel once, as I was chased by an Israeli tank (I was on foot), I managed to squeak out "I paid for that tank!" as I ran down the street.

The gunner was laughing and so didn't mow me down. But just seconds before he had shouted he'd blow my American "sorry-ass" to "f*cking kingdom come".

When death is facing me, I am as calm as a cucumber, as my Grandma used to say. I can tell people to go here for help, or shout here for attention. I think more clearly than at any other time. I am never afraid. Never.

But it is only because of my detachment. A sniper opened fire on us once in Diyala Province, Iraq. The American soldiers I was traveling with were screaming at each other, trying to figure out where the shots were coming from. When they finally shut the f*ck up, I told them where he was. On the rooftop behind us. They were so busy screaming, they couldn't focus on the threat. Poor training, in my eyes, or youth. Whatever. I was as calm as could be. I listened for the gunshots, followed the sound, and saw the poofs of smoke from a rooftop. And there was that shadowy ass figure...BLOW HIM AWAY.

Follow the leader and you're dead. If a group of crazed, panicked soldiers ran one way, my instinct was to head out the other. Follow the herd? Sure. That's what got me bombed.

One lapse in judgement and here I am.

My detachment keeps me safe and sound. My experiences go well beyond any PTSD a soldier battles. I have experienced it so many times it has become the norm. PTSD doesn't scare me. I don't have nightmares of the scorched bodies I've seen. My nightmares are all about not being able to return to what I do.

In the meantime, to force all of my demons to the surface would jeopardize not only my job but my mental health. So there is the quandary. What to do....?

A social worker today asked me what would keep me going? I told her my passion for my work. And that is my passion for life. Its absence has been the scariest part of all of this.

But perhaps even scarier...the docs say PTSD is cumulative. I'm in deep shit...