My Struggle with P.T.S.D: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

by E. Paul Newell, Staff Writer

Buzz words for the Epoch. In some small or major way we will all have experienced P.T.S.D in some form and to some degree in our life times. I first experienced P.T.S.D when I was all but 14 years of age as a young cadet with a militia group –  the B.C.D.s (British Columbia Dragoons Army Cadet Corp.)

I rode my beat up old “Mustang” peddle bike over to my friends place that afternoon. I and two of my comrades, who were themselves brothers, were hitching a ride to the barracks where we would practice drill and so forth on a weekly basis. After having a late afternoon burger and fries at the local golf course clubhouse near their house, we three headed out to the highway.

In order to get down to the highway we would take a path that gradually led us to the bottom of a thirty five foot cliff. One brother and I had made it down to the highway and had our thumbs out hitching a ride. Willy, the other brother was still up on the top of this cliff tossing a few rocks and horsing around and that sort of thing. After only a few minutes and no ride his brother and I decided that it looked like more fun up there where Willie was, so we tried to climb back up a different way.      

We were just out of sight of the brother up top for maybe 8-12 seconds. We realized that we could not get up the embankment that way. Turned around came back in sight of Willie and there he was lying in the ditch with his head resting on a large rock in an awkward position. Like a rag doll. We were petrified.

Within seconds there was an adult on scene –  a traveler who went to Willie and tried to help. His flesh had started to turn blue. My friend died right there in that ditch, with me, his brother and by this time two good citizens who had stopped to help, watching but completely helpless. And so I felt a part of my soul, and I’m sure the others did as well, was being wrenched away in those few seconds. As if part of me was being dragged along with Williams soul.

This is the point of no return for all who witness such a tragic occurrence. This is the point that the Trauma takes hold and becomes Post, and then Stress, and then Disorder. This all took less than 180 seconds. The other brother and I started to weep uncontrollably and could not be consoled. It was at that point that I realized what life and death were all about.

I could not be the same ever again. An adult had taken us to a cousin’s house where we continued to weep for what seemed like hours. Then we were driven back to my friend’s house where the friend’s parents and siblings had just come home from a trip. They had just driven by the scene not knowing that it was Willy.

It was very heart breaking to see the reaction of the family. It was all I could do to leave the family to their own. I got on my beat up old” Mustang” peddle bike and rode home. I don’t remember ever getting home that quickly before.

I burst in the door and told my mother what had happened – she tried to console me. By this point I was so exhausted that I’m sure that I just went to sleep until the next morning. There was questioning by the R.C.M.P (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) of course. They were very sensitive about the death while questioning. That at that time would have been all the therapy that we would have. This was 1974 when therapy really wasn’t that prevalent.

Willy’s brother, my friend,and I were at his funeral in the next few days. It was not an easy thing for anyone. There were three sisters, two brothers, a Mom and a Dad surviving. They were a wonderful family. And they were in grave shock. I was there with my Cadet uniform on smart and shining, I saluted Willy in his coffin. Willy was fifteen years old.

The next few weeks and months were blurry for me. However I can now recall that I really never was the same after this tragedy. This is P.T.S.D. So as you can see many people have different circumstance and different coping levels (So called set points) when it comes to P.T.S.D. My friend, Willie’s brother, and I went on with a strange kind of bond, on with life that is. On to summer boot camp and what not. I was slated for the R.O.T.P (Regular Officers Training Plan) by the time I was eligible.

Some how I did not make it down that path. I now guess that maybe I did not want to see death again. However I did join the Coast Guard for a brief time. Serving at “Ocean Station Papa” Pacific Ocean Weather Ship H.M.C.S Vancouver. My friend and I drifted apart and the world kept spinning.

When I take myself back I now realize that it was that day, there on the side of the road with my friend Willie dying before my eyes, that I was really born awake. Because up until that point I hadn’t known true life. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust “Willy”. May he rest in peace. I became so exposed that day that it took away that surreal world that exists around children sort of like a blanket.

From that point on, life became like a cloak and dagger never knowing what the next few seconds and I do mean literately seconds, may have in store.

Does this exposure make you more cautious? Or does it make you throw caution to the wind. For some it’s a struggle all through life with these elements of exposure. At some points wanting to be so careful with decisions and actions and other times not really giving a crap. Never really understanding but always wanting to do the right thing….

So as you can see P.T.S.D comes in all forms. It has varying effects on different people. This story may be tame in comparison to others, however the effects are just as real.

This is an accounting of this tragedy to the best of my recollection. I am telling this story to help anybody who wishes to better understand Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.