Erik Krikke - Surviving PTSD & moral injury: How an Afghanistan veteran breaks the silence on mental illness

R ound the clock assisting in war surgery got to him. He went from aid worker to victim when he was confronted by his PTSD some years later. This realistic book shows his battle and how he got back up after he hit rock bottom. I am proud of him. General Tom Middendorp, Netherlands Chief of Defence ( ret .)

Erik Krikke (2017)

T he screams of the patient are blood-curdling. The police car he was travelling in hit a landmine. The attack happened just a few miles away from our camp. I suddenly realise that the blast we heard earlier this morning almost certainly was the explosion of this mine .

The hospital slowly fills with the now familiar scent that every victim of an explosion seems to be carrying: a sickening mixture of diesel, gunpowder, blood and burnt flesh .

My legs, the young policeman mutters over and over again, dont take them off. Please, dont take them off. Without my legs I wont be able to live .

His right leg is severely damaged. It is positioned in an unnatural angle below the knee. His trousers have been torn to pieces and the left leg doesnt look much better. The rest of his body is covered in a grey layer of sand, dust and dried blood. It is obvious that he wont be going out on patrol ever again .

At the same time another patient is carried to the hospital. With every step the stretcher crew takes, his head bobs powerlessly from side to side. The stretcher is placed in front of the hospitals door. As soon as it touches the floor, his head drops back and his arms spread out. His eyes are half-open and it is as though he is staring up to the sky, wondering what has happened to him. There is no light in his eyes anymore; he is beyond help .

O ur bedroom is pitch-black. I wake up with a shock. Gasping for air I sit upright in bed and look around wildly. It seems to take ages before I realise that I am safely tucked up in bed. I am not in Afghanistan anymore, I am home. As I repeat these words over and over in my head, like a mantra, they dont seem ring true .

I glance over to my wife next to me who is sound asleep. Her regular breathing tells me she hasnt noticed a thing. Thank goodness. I am so ashamed. All my senses are heightened. I am soaking wet from the sweat, but I feel cold as ice at the same time. As tears fall down my cheeks, I try to suppress a feeling of nausea, triggered by a scent that is rooted deep within my brain. It is the scent of death .

Quietly I get out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I switch on the light, grab the sink with both hands and look up slowly. As I look in the mirror, my eyes meet the eyes of a total stranger and I cant help to feel sorry for him. The pain I see in his hollow eyes gets to me. Then I recognise him .

I stumble to a corner in the bathroom and curl up. With my arms wrapped tightly around my knees I sit there for ages. My mind is racing. I dont want this anymore. Why the hell did I let it get to this ?

A warm hand on my forearm and a soft voice suddenly startle me. Daddy, why are you crying ?

T en years ago, I flew out to Afghanistan to work as a military operating room nurse at Kandahar Airfield. During my deployment I helped to save the lives and limbs of many severely wounded victims and it turned out to be a period that would radically change my life .

Even though my wounds arent visible, I have had to fight hard to get to where I am now, to survive. To not become one of the many for whom the battle became too much .

In front of you is my story about the experiences that have led to my PTSD and my fight against it. The hardest battle I have ever had to fight in my life: the one against my memories, but above all with myself .

Writing about it has not been easy at all. I am sharing my story with you to raise awareness of working through trauma and PTSD. One doesnt have PTSD on their own. Partners, family and friends fight just as hard alongside of the one suffering from it .

I made it with the help of my family, friends and professionals. Because of them I can now live my life to the full again. Nowadays, I can and want to talk about it to help others. This would not have been possible, and I could not have come this far without their support and love .

I tell my story in this book, but I also do that on stage. With my band I tour theatres to tell about it through music. Break the silence? Yes, absolutely !

T he development of my PTSD can be compared to a physical wound that I refused treatment for. Instead of having immediate surgery I covered it up. It became inflamed and an abscess developed under the skin, which burst years later. I looked for help and found it. The wound got opened up again and a lengthy procedure was needed to remove all the crap, and also to prevent it from ever happening again. The wound was left open to help it heal from the inside out and from deep within. All that is left now is a scar that is still red, inflamed and ugly, but which will fade away in time. It is still sore at times, but it wont rip open again .

I have made huge steps. Much too late, but I am on the right track and I am now able to do something positive with it all .

I got rid of most of the ghosts from the past. I used to suffer from reliving memories, flashbacks, and nightmares, and I even used to worry about the sense and nonsense of carrying on with living, but it is as if a switch has been flipped .

I did away with the pathological coping mechanisms I used for years. I always thought I could do it all on my own, but could not have been more wrong. More than once I have had a rude awakening. Like so many people, I grew up with the idea that I am man enough to handle everything on my own. I always used to be there for everyone, but I never held out my hand for it to be taken by someone who could help me. I have learned from that .