Bad Medicine
Page 17
I sat at the Bar of Blackness every night. I didn’t feel good, but I didn’t feel bad either, just utterly indifferent. Not heaven, nor hell, this was purgatory: somewhere in between. In the Real World, my behaviour was considered unbalanced, uncouth and disappointing. At least here, no one judged. So I became best mates with my demons; they were easy riders. Every night, we drank together at the bar where good times never rolled and closing time never came.
This was my life. For six long months, this was it. Ninety-eight per cent nothing; two per cent crushing guilt.
I was never happy with half-measures, so I isolated myself from the people who loved me. It’s not like I would have been much fun to hang with, anyway. I was a card-carrying loser, lower than the week-old dregs at the bottom of a discarded beer bottle. I was one step away from being a clichéd washed-up army recluse.
My only boundary was work. I worked in the mining industry, where everyone was breath-tested every morning. And I was a safety advisor, so blowing numbers would have been very unbecoming. So I planned out my alcohol consumption each night. I could usually have ten or twelve standard drinks without blowing over the next morning. Never let it be said that I was an irresponsible alcoholic.
The drinking, luckily, wasn’t a full-blown substance addiction but self-medication against my Armageddon sense of self-loathing and subconscious anxiety, which was yet to fully rise to the surface. As a bonus, the booze helped me pass out so I could at least get a few hours of sleep, sometimes. It saved me from spending another whole night staring at the ceiling, counting the passing cars as their headlights danced across my bedroom curtain. Silver lining.
Despite the numbness, buying a new gadget or toy always gave me a little buzz. I liked the post-purchase euphoria of playing around with a new TV or testing the features of a new laptop computer.
I fucking wish.
There was nothing. I’d just set up the new gadgets and put them to the side.
Whatever.
Tasty, gourmet food was just bland sustenance. During the very infrequent catch-ups with my mates, I might as well have been an alien on another planet. Sleep, when I could get some, was just another way to pass the time.
Nothing, dude. There’s only so many ways I can think of to describe nothingness – the absolute absence of emotion. At this point, I would have enjoyed feeling bad – at least it would’ve been a fucking feeling, something different.
After six months of emptiness, I saw a post on Facebook that made me shudder. One of my best mates, Dan (from Baby Medic school and the wedding), shared that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and had been admitted to a psychiatric ward for treatment.
Fuckness.
I rang Dan that night. He sounded like a ghost when he answered the phone. He was drugged up to the eyeballs with antidepressants. I felt horrible for being on the other side of the country and unable to go and see him.
After the phone call, a thought troubled my mind like an annoying prickle in my sock.
If it can happen to Dan, it can happen to anyone.
Any remaining bravado washed away as the veil of denial lifted. I looked in the mirror. It wasn’t a cursory glance but a deep assessment.
My cheeks were gaunt. I’d lost a lot of weight from malnourishment.
No shit, Sherlock. You haven’t been eating properly, Tezz. Whatever. Fair enough.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed anything. Everything infuriated me. I always felt rushed, especially in public.
No shit, everything sucks. Fair enough. Whatever.
I almost walked away from the mirror, deluded into thinking all was sweet. But then I caught the smallest glimpse of my eyes and did a double-take. My eyes were dead. I’d seen this look before, on Harry and Jake in Afghan: I’d tapped out. I was spent. I couldn’t even see a glimmer of mischief in my reflection anymore.
Then, I really looked into the mirror.
I fucking hated myself. I was somehow responsible for all the evil in the world: poverty, global warming, communism, reality TV. It was all my fault. In that instant, I realised that my fundamental, genetic predisposition for idiocy had cost me dearly.
It was so obvious. How could I have been so fucking stupid?
If I’d seen these symptoms in anyone else, I would’ve twigged immediately. This was PTSD!
POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER
Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD for short, is a psychological condition that occurs after a person is exposed to an experience that they perceive to be abnormally traumatic. PTSD is characterised by severe bouts of depression, anxiety and incredibly vivid recurring dreams or memories of the traumatic experience. It can cause waking and sleeping flashbacks, a relentless sense of being in mortal danger (although no danger is present), insomnia, agoraphobia, and a laundry list of associated physical and psychological problems.
It is an empty, melancholy, seemingly insurmountable obstacle that saps the very enjoyment out of life.
Actually, no, that doesn’t quite cover it. PTSD sucks on the infected, prolapsed anus of an unhygienic irritable bowel syndrome sufferer who lives on a diet of greasy junk food and only changes their undies once a month.
16
FUCK MY LIFE
Okay, settle, Tezz. So you’ve got PTSD. It’s not the end of the world. You know the score.
With the illusion of wellness behind me, and the enemy now defined, I wracked my brain for a solution.
I felt hopeful.
Question One
The answer is d) I am fucked.
Question Two
I am waiting at the PTSD station to catch the Fucked Train. The Fucked Train is 74 km away, travelling at 4.2 km per second faster than the speed of time.
When will the Fucked Train reach me?
a) 17.61 seconds
b) Minus 17.61 seconds
c) Sometime in the not too distant past or future
d) I’m already on the Fucked Train
The answer is d) I’m already on the Fucked Train.
Question Three
If cog 1 turns in the direction indicated, will cog 4 turn up or down?
The answer is b) I am fucked.
Question Four
Solve the following equation:
Cx = AD + a – (t + c)
Where:
C: Care factor = 0
x: My degree of okayness = ?
AD: Anxiety & depression = 9 113 621
a: Alcohol = 0.62308
t: Terry = 0.18
c: Character = 0.13154 Therefore:
0x = 9 113 621 + 0.62308 – (0.18 + 0.13154)
0x = 9 113 621.62308 – 0.31154
0x = 9 113 621.31154
x = 9 113 621.31154
Thus:
I am fucked.
I no longer felt hopeful.
I understood enough about the dreaded PTSD to be humbled. My pride had to take a back seat. I didn’t have the knowledge, skills and characteristics to beat this on my own – I needed reinforcements. I called the Vietnam Veterans’ Counselling Service (VVCS) hotline and was given the soft third-degree by the operator.
No I’m not suicidal, but if you keep this shit up, I might be by the end of this deeply embarrassing phone call!
The operator said that they’d arrange a counsellor to call me the following day. I didn’t drink that night – not because I didn’t want to, but because I finally realised that I shouldn’t.
Later on, I sat up in bed unable to sleep. I googled PTSD and soaked in all the info. This was one of those times that too much information can be an extremely devastating thing. I read the most common signs and symptoms and couldn’t believe how closely they mirrored my state of mind. One common symptom was a vague feeling of a shortened, or pointless life – like the rest of your life would be so shitty that you questioned why the fuck you even bothered being alive.
That wasn’t just a feeling. I’d actually been planning to work like a slave on a
10:2 roster in dangerous sub-Saharan Africa because I felt that the rest of my personal life wasn’t even worth living.
As I read that symptom on the computer screen, I realised how fucking crazy it sounded.
If that’s my approximation of a rational thought, just how many other insane thoughts have infiltrated my mind?
All of a sudden, I didn’t trust myself anymore. I knew that this mental illness claimed a boat-load of victims through suicide.
I haven’t had suicidal thoughts, yet, but what if I do? Whatever protective mechanism is supposed to warn me that suicide is a bad idea might not trigger! I might think it’s a good idea and go through with it!
In retrospect, I think too much.
My senses instantly heightened. They perceived a massive threat. I could see everything in my bedroom, even though it was dark. I could see the technicolour contrasts of a piece of art hanging on the wall, even though the room was black. I could hear microscopic specks of dirt move in the shag of the carpet. I was in full fight-or-flight mode. I felt that I was in mortal danger.
Don’t worry about all these sounds around the house; you’re the only one who can cause yourself any harm, Tezz.
That thought was the straw that broke the camel’s back. You just can’t fight or take flight from yourself.
Full nervous breakdown.
I paced up and down the hallway like a Looney Tune, chain-smoking between laps. It was only 3 a.m., still hours before daylight. So I just wore holes in the floorboards with my pacing.
As soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, I drove to my parents’ house.
It’s funny; I’d spent my life trying to prove that I was my own man and could stand on my own two feet, but every time life went sideways, I’d always scamper straight back to Mum and Dad with my tail between my legs. And although they didn’t always agree with my lifestyle choices, they always helped – without hesitation or judgement. Parents are amazing creatures, none more so than mine.
They answered the door, still half-asleep. I’d woken them up, and I proceeded to explain my plight. Mum looked shattered, but she held it together. Dad launched into an angry tirade about the government’s lack of care for returned soldiers. The worried looks on their faces would have broken my heart, if I’d had the capacity to feel anything. But after the initial shock wore off, the most amazing thing happened.
Mum and Dad cowboyed up.
At a time when I couldn’t.
Ma and Pa wore their Superman undies on the outside that day.
We sat down together, looked at the facts and developed a plan. I’d stay at their house for the immediate future, so that they could keep an eye on me (i.e. suicide watch, because I was anxious about it – although I was way too fond of myself to go through with it). Then, we’d wait and see how the therapy played out and just roll with the punches from there.
The call from VVCS came that afternoon, and I was scheduled for an appointment in Adelaide that week. I felt that I should see my mates and explain my absenteeism, which I did later that evening. Again, the deflated looks on my boys’ faces as I explained that I had PTSD would’ve been shattering if I’d had the capacity to feel anything. Bodz, my Filipino mate from high school, had had me pencilled in to be a groomsman at his impending wedding, but had demoted me to a bench-warmer because I wasn’t much of a friend at the time. Totally understandable, but he felt incredibly guilty about it – which in turn made me feel even more guilty for the fact that my misery had caused him to feel guilty.
Next on the hit list was Tara. I told her about the situation and apologised profusely. The news hit her the hardest. She was an incredibly kind and selfless person, so she felt like she was ‘that chick’ who dumped her veteran boyfriend in his time of need. I had no animosity towards her because I knew she’d made the right decision, for herself, with the information at hand. The worst thing imaginable would have been dragging someone else down with me. But she still felt guilty, which in turn made me feel more guilty for the fact that my bullshit had caused her to feel guilty.
Later that week, I drove to Adelaide for the psych appointment. I expected the worst. I thought the psych was going to run some Jedi mind tricks and reduce me to a blubbering mess. But the session was surprisingly chilled. It was all about assessing symptoms, diagnosis and education. We discussed the idea of spending time in an intensive, one-month PTSD program, but we both settled on just seeing how I went with the counselling. I walked away feeling less horrified about my fate.
A week later, in the following session, the psych formally diagnosed me with PTSD and offered antidepressants and the paperwork for a VVCS benefit card – which would subsidise psych and medical costs – but I didn’t want them. It seemed like another step towards a kind-of permanency; an acknowledgement that I was fucked in the head. I refused to accept that I was a lost cause; I didn’t want their charity: I wanted a cure. But luckily, the psych didn’t push the subject and pandered to my ego; he thought I was responding well enough to the education to keep those measures in the back pocket. I was still bent out of shape, but something held me back from the complete downward spiral.
The next appointment was a group session for fellow sufferers. I’d never felt more at home with a room full of strangers. We knew what each other was going through. But as we went around the group, talking about our individual struggles, I couldn’t help but feel that I was the odd one out. Most other lads had their girlfriends or wives by their side.
Great. I’ll just add that to the laundry list of reasons why I’m the biggest fucking loser on the face of the planet. I couldn’t even keep my perfect girlfriend onside.
On the flipside, I realised that I had no right to piss and moan about my plight. One bloke was so wired that he couldn’t leave his house without carrying a knife for safety, because he thought everyone was out to get him. He wasn’t a violent person, or a risk to public safety, but he couldn’t face the masses without the security of having a weapon. Another dude, a Vietnam veteran, hadn’t left his house much in decades – he’d become agoraphobic. It was a courageous effort for him to even attend this group session.
I was encouraged by the fact that I hadn’t hit rock bottom yet, not like some others had. There seemed to be an imaginary barrier preventing me from experiencing the whole Rocky Horror Show. I’d fallen as far as I was willing to go. There was still another level of devastation and desperation that I hadn’t discovered yet. The weakest ember of character still smouldered.
I put in a token effort to try the practical tips that the psychs advised. They worked, kind of, but I was still a train wreck. My recovery was missing a vital ingredient: motivation. The depressive aspect of PTSD snuffed out any sparks of energy and motivation before they could grow into a healthy flame – getting motivated was like trying to start a fire with wet tinder. The endless anarchy of thoughts crashing through my mind was like reading a book with no commas or full stops, twenty-two hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. I just couldn’t switch off.
Over the next few months, I moved back to my own house – it was time to regain some semblance of a normal life. I drank a whole lot less, but I was still off-kilter. So I just went through the motions.
Focus. Focus on the number. Three, three, threeeee.
Thwack!
Fffff-fucking cock-sucking shit cunt, dickhead douchebag fuckwit ball. Why won’t you do what you’re told?
The ball sliced away from the fairway and landed in the scrub.
Golf, believe it or not, was a form of meditation for me. It helped me regain control of my rampant mind. But it’s a frustrating game at the best of times. Imagine playing when you’re more amped than a crack addict in an off week.
I poked around in the scrub, looking for the ball. The fairway was lush, and punters on the adjacent green looked like they were having a great time.
What the fuck are you staring at, grass? I hope you know that you’re grown from the town’s sewage – a breeding ground for
bacteria, you diseased McFuck.
Oh, it looks like the sun is shining brightly and wants to weigh in on our argument. Fuck you, you sunny son-of-a-bitch. Thanks for melanoma, dickhead.
Wow, I guess the chirping birds are hell-bent on ruining my day too! I hope some rich, fat fuck catches you and puts your ass on a plate in a fancy restaurant. I know those weird fuckers love eating that kind of shit.
Oh, there’s the ball. Probably a seven iron from here.
This golf shit is fucked what the fuck am I even doing here oh I’m playing by myself again why because I’m such a fucking loser and I don’t have mates anymore because I’m such a miserable Focus fucker and they’re all off living their own lives but here I am fucking about in the Focus scrub like a shit cunt who systematically destroyed every relationship Focus I’ve ever had and that pretty much sums up my entire life. Focus. Focus. Three, three, three.
Thwack!
The ball scudded along the ground, coming to rest at the base of a nearby tree. Three metres away.
Ffffuck!
I gripped the seven iron tightly and raced towards the ball. I wanted to bash the club against the tree until it magically decided to play a decent shot.
Mid-stride, I burst out laughing and my arms relaxed. This whole golf caper was so ridiculous! I was getting all bent around the axles because I couldn’t hit this poxy white ball with a long, skinny stick. I couldn’t believe that I’d worked myself into such a frenzy that I was about to launch into a murderous rampage on my trusty seven iron.
Relax. Focus. Three, three, three.
Thwack.
The ball landed on the dance floor, a few feet from the pin.
Well, that was easy. Why didn’t I just do that the first time?