Echoes of Iraq: Living with PTSD After a War I Thought I Understood

Introduction:

I carry Iraq with me. It’s not physical weight, but an invisible burden of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, and the persistent visions that replay in my mind. Before I enlisted, war felt like a distant concept, relegated to history books and old movies. Desert Storm was a faded memory, and the idea of a “real threat” seemed remote. My family, particularly my parents, were terrified of me going to war. They, like me, had no idea what was to come. This is the story of my experience, and how the echoes of Iraq continue to reverberate in my life today.

A Legacy of Service:

My family has a deep connection to the military. Four uncles served, spanning different branches and different eras. There was the uncle who survived a neck wound in the Korean War and a hospital bombing, earning two Purple Hearts but receiving only a pittance in compensation. Another in the Navy seemed to be followed by ship fires every time he went on shore leave. My father’s twin brother served in the Army, though his service was cut short. And my paternal grandfather, a sharp-dressed man in his WWII uniform, was a figure of quiet strength.

I respected them all, their service and sacrifice shaping my understanding of duty. Their wars felt different, more brutal. Vietnam was a jungle nightmare I couldn’t fathom, the constant fear of unseen dangers. WWII was a global conflict of immense scale.

Operation Iraqi Freedom: A Different Kind of War?

When I deployed for Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2004, I carried those expectations with me. But the reality was…different. We lived in buildings with air conditioning, a far cry from the jungle trenches of Vietnam. Pizza Hut, Starbucks, and shopping areas offered a strange sense of normalcy amidst the conflict. My uncles never had those luxuries.

I even begged my First Sergeant to let me go on convoys, desperate for a taste of what I thought war should be. I volunteered as a gunner, standing exposed in a vehicle, a .50cal machine gun or grenade launcher in hand, praying I wouldn’t have to use them.

Crossing the Berm: A Line in the Sand

The tension was palpable as our convoy crossed the berm from Kuwait into Iraq. We were the last convoy leaving Kuwait. Reports of ambushes just miles beyond the berm had us on high alert. I remember the feeling of my body tensing as we crossed that line. The fire burning in the distance was a constant reminder of the conflict we were entering.

First Day Fears:

My first day in Iraq was a rollercoaster of anxiety and anticipation. I was assigned to the last vehicle due to me being the only vehicle with night vision, scanning the darkness for threats. The commander refused to let me escort back a broken-down vehicle, but I refused to leave them behind. We were in Iraq for only a few hours, and I was not going to lose anyone. I almost took the life of a child playing with a stick thinking it was a weapon, highlighting the heightened state of alert we were all in.

The constant vigilance was exhausting. Every vehicle, every person, was a potential threat. We had been briefed before crossing into Iraq that at no given time was a civilian vehicle to get inside our convoy. The orange and white taxi that repeatedly passed our convoy raised my suspicions, and I was ready to call it out if it came near us again. Even sleeping in a protected compound offered little comfort, the uncertainty of what lay beyond the barriers always present.

The day ended with the knowledge that this was just the beginning – a full year of constant alertness, of living with the potential for danger lurking around every corner. The fire burning in the distance was an oil well that had been burning since the start of the war.

The Unseen Wounds:

The war I experienced wasn’t the same as my uncles’ or my grandfather’s. But it was still war. And it left its mark. The constant stress, the fear, the weight of responsibility – it all took a toll. Today, I struggle with PTSD, depression, and the intrusive memories that haunt me.

Conclusion:

Sharing my story is a way to connect with others who may be struggling with similar experiences. If you are a veteran dealing with PTSD, depression, or other mental health challenges, please know that you are not alone. Help is available. Talk to someone, seek professional support, and remember that healing is possible. The war may be over, but the battle for recovery continues.