Fred Doucette - Better Off Dead: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and the Canadian Armed Forces

I ts 4:30 p.m. on a Thursday and another therapy session is over. Nothing earth-shattering discovered or resolved, just the familiar uneasy feeling I get when weve been working on some of the deeply buried memories. My psycho sessions with my psycho lady have been part of life for the past ten years. Most of my recovery from post-traumatic stress disorder ( PTSD ) was achieved in my first two years of therapy. For the past eight years my regular sessions have been part of the self-care regimen required by my job while working as a peer support coordinator with the Canadian Forces Operational Stress Injury Social Support Program ( OSISS ). The sessions allow me to download some of the vicarious trauma and stress that I encounter when dealing with soldiers and veterans who are suffering from an operational stress injury ( OSI ), with PTSD being one of the most common of these.

Finishing my therapy at 4:30 usually puts me in the Fredericton rush half-hour the city isnt big enough to have a full-fledged rush hour. Today I was stopped at a street light waiting to turn left when I noticed a dad and his son crossing the street. Watching the little fellows wobbly gait I figured he was about two years old and he seemed overjoyed to be out with his dad. He wore a sky-blue toque, red mittens, and snow boots that went up to his knees and looked too big for his little legs and feet. He reminded me of my grandson Logan who is just shy of two years old and proud as punch that he can get around on his own little legs.

The little guy and his dad made it across the street, my light changed, and I made my turn. I was abreast of them and took one more look at the little fellow. Then it was as if everything slipped into slow motion as the little boy turned his head towards me and looked me straight in the eyes. His face was a picture of innocence, his eyes were dark, and in them I imagined a look of fear. Those eyes caught me off guard and tripped a trigger that I thought I had under control. In an instant I was awash in a flood of anxiety and fear for this unknown child. It was a look I had seen a hundred times before in Bosnia and it was now unlocking a door to memories I feared. My breathing became short, I could feel the rush of adrenaline hit the way it used to in Bosnia when I had to deal with incidents involving kids. My stomach felt as if it had rolled over, my grip on the steering wheel tightened, my vision drew in and focused on what was in front of me everything else was grey. I was heading towards a full-blown flashback and I knew I had to get a grip on it before it got me.

As if possessed, I began yelling, Dont let it get you, dont let it get you, youre in Fredericton on your way home, the kid is OK , youre not in Bosnia, your grandkids are OK , theyre safe, youre in Canada not Bosnia, everyone is safe, you are going home to supper, its OK , Fred, its OK , Fred. An overwhelming rush of emotion came over me like a hot flash, my eyes started to tear up and a feeling of gut-wrenching grief hit me as I imagined what it would be like to lose someone dear to me, especially a child. My mantra had kept the flashback at bay, but now I was wrapped in an emotional dive.

Breathe, Fred, I said out loud. In through the nose, hold it, breathe out through the mouth, relax your grip, everyone is OK , think of the good not the evil, theyre safe. Keep breathing, youll see them grow into adults, no one will harm them. I felt my grip loosen and my vision widen. I kept mumbling positive words as I made my way home. Stopping at our mailbox I got out and gulped in fresh air as if I had almost drowned. I guess drowning is a good analogy when it comes to explaining what had just happened to me. It is as if you are fifty feet underwater and you have only enough air to make it halfway up. Youre looking up and you can see the light of the surface but you lose strength and weaken, it gets darker, and youre dumped into your little piece of hell again.