Things are calmer here this a.m.

Have you been to see therapists? I don't know if it's a symptom of imbalance or if it's based upon my earlier experiences in working with shrinks to get people out of the military, or maybe it's just a reflection of my culture ... but even the thought of making such an appointment gives me the heebie jeebies.

You know what it feels like? It's like that last half hour before you step off on an operation where you know some of you won't come back alive - anticipation and fear wrapped into silence. You've seen it in the eyes of others ... facing an unknown enemy who you know is trying to kill you, soldiers who have been trained, paid, encouraged to kill you.

And in the case of the Therapists and shrinks, they've been paid to grill me. Ask questions that go far beyond "how's the weather." Sure, the stated goal is to help rather than hurt me, but I've known many who only found their wounds worsened by those who are paid to help.

I get in kind of a silent rage whenever I meet people who dominate the conversation with questions. they're skilled at it and don't even let you turn it back on them. Question. Question. Question. How can I go into that office knowing that someone is being paid to dominate me with questions?

These paid interrogators will want me to go where I don't want to go. They'll want me to confront those things that I've boxed up and put away. They'll want to know why, why?

What if these people think I need to be hospitalized for treatment? What if they consider me a danger to myself? You can't tell what kind of crazy idea they'll come up with. I've known of many cases where social workers and shrinks wreck someone's life because they project their own fears onto the "patient" and create more havoc. Having a license as a shrink doesn't mean they're completely trustworthy. Or knowledgeable (especially in the government system where I've met many who work there because they're willing to take small pay for whatever reason).

Some stuff I've read even has the "patient" watching realistic combat videos, somehow thinking that immersion will provide relief. It sounds like idiotic academia to me even though I know they've spent years studying all the aspects of this.

I really hesitate to come into PC and tell all of this stuff. In an objective way, it seems like whining. It seems like trying to put all of this onto you instead of dealing with it myself. It seems like just asking for sympathy. None of that is intended. I appreciate your remarks, but it's the telling that is important.

Perhaps this is just one man's way of creeping up on the reality that one of these days all of this will come to a head, either alone or with the help of therapists.

If the therapist gets progress through asking questions, why can't I do that in the anonymity of PC? Why do I have to be face to face with these people? And ... ugh ... why would I have to be in a group? I have a terrible attitude toward group discussions. I feel the pain of other people in that kind of conversation while at the same time being repelled by them. I leave there an emotional wreck. But I then dislike the people because they have revealed these things and now I'm a part of their own pain and chaos. I can't solve their problems, why must I know about the difficulties. They surly have the same feelings toward me and my wimpy, means nothing, get over it stories.

I have known peace before ... in combat the peace comes after the last grenade is thrown, the last bullet is fired, the last wounded sent to the hospital, and the last of the dead sent away. Peace is that silence in the middle of the battle where you can't hear anything anymore, no more explosions, no more yelling, no more screaming ... it's that point where your mind and entire being is focused on survival even if it means killing. Peace sometimes has a red haze across it, knowing that if you lose focus there won't be any more battles.

Peace is walking alone across the battlefield when it's all over, covered with mud and the grime of battle, stumbling on the uneven earth plowed up by the bombs, deaf from the explosions, looking at those who won't fight again. Hearing in the background that the radio call is for you but it's a remote observation because how can you talk with anyone at that moment - you stumble on, even walking in circles with tears in your eyes and a scream just under the surface. your troops must not know your fragility, your hanging on by a thread. *tears, running down my neck*
Peace is in the stern orders you issue, falling into the routine you've been trained for, check your weapons, check your ammo, give me a head count, patrols out to make sure we're not counter attacked, call battalion, call for medivacs, cool off those machine guns, get some water over here, medic, medic, medic!

Peace is in cursing the enemy, cursing higher ups, cursing the support you didn't get, cursing those who ordered the mission, cursing the politicians who sent these innocent teenagers into a useless gunfight, a gunfight that lasts for days, weeks, months, years. How long before they get the idea that the only way win a war is to fight with all you have, not with negotiations and peace initiatives but with brutal, overwhelming, kill 'em and break their will to fight power. there's peace in the cursing.

Peace is that few minutes after a funeral as people are moving away from the grave site and you detach yourself from the present to absorb the peaceful feelings of the one buried there.

Peace is that time after they give you the shot, just the few seconds between the pain and the numbness and sleep. A moment of consciousness about the relief in knowing the torture is over.

Peace is a part of violence - the last part.

How can there be peace in therapy, especially group therapy? How can I be a part of a therapy group where the coverings are stripped back and the horror of war is revealed first hand ... again? Catherine's post about "give this post a name" is almost more than my emotions can handle, and the post is just there to read or not read.

Maybe my fear of therapy is just an excuse for my own lack of courage, for my own unwillingness to accept help. But thank you for letting me say this stuff out loud. And thank you for helping me understand that in the end, I do need help. You can see it in these scattered and unfocused thoughts, some of which bring panic just to write about them.