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<DIV id=homefires>
<DIV align=left><!-- date published --><SPAN class="timestamp published"
title=2009-10-25T21:00:15-04:00>New York Times October 25, 2009, <SPAN>9:00
pm</SPAN></SPAN> <!-- date updated --><!-- <abbr class="updated" title="2009-10-25T22:12:07-04:00">— Updated: 10:12 pm</abbr> --><!-- Title -->
<H3 class=entry-title>The Minefield at Home : American Veterans Speak on Post
War Life</H3><!-- By line -->
<ADDRESS class="byline author vcard">By <A class="url fn"
title="See all posts by Michael Jernigan"
href="http://homefires.blogs.nytimes.com/author/michael-jernigan/">Michael
Jernigan</A></ADDRESS><!-- The Content -->
<DIV class=entry-content>
<DIV class=w480><FONT face=Arial></FONT> </DIV>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.<BR>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. <BR>
<DIV class="w190 right module">
<DIV class=entry> </DIV><BR></DIV>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.<BR>
<P>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.<BR>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. <BR>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.<BR><BR>Fast forward a couple of years. I am married. My
paranoia is not as bad, but still there. <BR>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!”<BR>“Yes,
it’s a doggy,” the mother says. “You have to sit down and finish your
dinner.”<BR>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.) <BR>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.<BR>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.<BR>
<P>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. <BR>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.<BR>“Get your freaking hands off me. You think you can grab me?
Try it again and I’ll break you down shotgun style!” <BR>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. <BR>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. <BR>It is a war and you cannot
just grab a Marine and think that you will walk away unharmed. <BR>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.<BR>
<P>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? <BR>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. <BR>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.<BR>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.<BR><SPAN
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