Coming Down

God how I wanted to die!

PTSD for Rubicon in X Rubicon

Coming Down

“Learning to fly, but I ain’t got wings. Coming down, is the hardest thing.”

Learning To Fly — Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers

At twenty-five, and still alive,
Much longer than expected for a man...
At twenty-five, all hope has died,
And the glass of my intentions turns to sand...
And shatters in my hand.

25 – The Pretty Reckless

Driving out the gate alone was daunting, and I had yet to realize how far I would fall in coming down. I felt free, but there is much insecurity in freedom. For a moment I thought I would drive to California and attempt to get Kit back, but then I told myself, “No! Fuck that bitch!” She had been there for me early on when I felt alone, and made me feel life and love. I truly loved her, but when I needed her most she wasn’t there, and I felt nothing now but intense pain. She sold herself for a college education she didn’t even plan on using.

The guilt and shame over what I had done began growing. Soon, my sleep became disturbed with dream reenactments, and I would wake up exhausted. I took a job selling coupon books over the phone. When payday came I was issued a check, so I went to the business’ bank to cash it, only to be told that account didn’t have enough funds. I nearly lost it in the bank. I drove over to the phone center and told the man his check bounced. He said, “No problem, I’ll write you another.” The anger raged in me and I threw him against the wall with my hand on his throat and told him, “I want cash!.. NOW!” He fumbled in his pocket and paid me. I hated that job anyway.

I tried a series of nothing jobs, but when I couldn’t pay rent any longer, and I couldn’t make my car payments, I decided to try something else. I bought a listing of companies with jobs in the Gulf oil industry. I stole a plate from another car and lifted the sticker and put it on my plate. I drove to Louisiana and applied at several companies. One told me to stay at a certain motel and they would cover the cost (to be repaid) until they sent me out. This was one of the worst motels you’ve ever seen. In a beautiful scenic area of Podunk, Louisiana, above a bar and the rooms were filthy and had windows onto an old hallway strewn with trash, the kind that gives you thoughts about being robbed or worse.

After a few weeks of eating nothing but snack foods, they finally sent me out on an oil rig about 75 miles out. The work schedule was a week on and a week off. Finally with some money for rent, I found that my cousin (by adoption) was working in Fort Walton Beach at a stereo store. She had a two bedroom apartment and agreed to rent me a room. During the week off I searched for work closer to FWB without much luck; it was the off season for tourism and few jobs were to be had. While on the oil rig, I became steadily more tired. My sleep had become riddled with dreams about killing, and waking up in cold sweats from fighting. As I slowly descended into major depression, I began laying awake for hours in my bunk on the rig, and my mattress in my room. My thoughts would spin and race for hours until I was only getting an hour of sleep each night. After a few months my thoughts became dissociated, and somewhat psychotic. I could see the faces of many that I had killed. Begging faces, defiant faces, scared faces… The woman and her husband entered my dreams angry that I had stolen their lives and ruined their family. The detached head of the cartel guard growled at me. Every day the guilt, shame, and sadness grew to the point where I found it hard to function normally.

I wanted peace and quiet. It seemed reasonable to me that I could use one of the life rings (a rectangle with a net bottom deep enough to stand in), and I would use this to float away to a desert island and live my life in peace – I would escape. Yeah, I know, but when you’re that tired and out of it… I put my plan into action and was floating away from the rig in the middle of the night, and I really thought I would end up on the beautiful desert isle. During the next day it rained and the waves crashed over me. After several hours of this, I began to vomit constantly. The rain subsided and a long lonely night turned into a hot sunshiny day – then I really got sick. I puked to the point of dry heaves. One more long and lonely night in relatively calm water, but I was so very cold now. About mid morning I was so out of it, and suddenly I found that a Coast Guard helicopter was hovering above me. They were telling me something through their PA, but I couldn’t make it out, and I found I couldn’t make sensible words either.

They lowered down a basket and strapped me in, and we headed for New Orleans. While in the ER a rep from the company owning the rig came in and asked me to sign a waiver; I was very compliant and did just as he asked. They put me in the psych ward, but since I wasn’t insured, they transferred me to the State hospital north of Lake Pontchartrain. Here I was poked and prodded and asked non-stop questions. I tried to deny that I had done it on purpose, but apparently while I was out of it, I had confessed almost everything. What I didn't tell them was about my military service, because I had a fear that they may get the military involved and/or they would lock me up in there and throw away the key. The doctor who ended up with my case had a huge heart. He held my hand as I cried and told me I had major depression. I took the tricyclic he prescribed, but when it started giving me headaches and to make my heart pound, I started spitting them out.

I called my parents, told them where I was and that I needed help getting out. My dad was pissed beyond measure and wanted to leave me, but my mom insisted otherwise. They hadn’t heard from me in months. They rode down with one of my sisters. The doctor told them, insisted, that when we arrived home, they should get me treatment immediately. That didn’t happen for reasons belonging to all. We retrieved my car from the company parking area and headed north.

There were late snows when we arrived. My parents, who lived on a lake, were at work, and I sat festering all day. I couldn't let go of the shame and guilt… it only grew stronger. I had come to the point of wanting to die constantly. I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d done because I was so ashamed. I looked out the windows and felt trapped by myself. There was a bottle of Jack Daniels and four full bottles of heart medication on the counter. I washed down all four bottles with the Jack and waited for the nothingness. Then, my stomach was being pumped at a small clinic in a small town. I woke up while this was happening and tried to stop it, but they strapped my arms down, and I was out again. When next I awoke, they were putting me on a life-flight, and the kindest nurse looked at me with pity and told me everything would be alright. I turned my head because I had to vomit, and it got on the chopper floor, and I told her how sorry I was. She just wiped my face clean and told me not to worry about it, it was nothing and she’d have it cleaned up in no time, and she smiled sweetly at me.

Then I was out again. When I awoke this time, I was in a hospital in another city in another state. I had been in a coma for three days. I felt and saw the straps holding my arms and legs and I thought, oh shit, I’ve done it now. When you really want to die, but then you wake up realizing you’ve failed, it’s not a hallelujah moment. The doctor wasn’t sure if I would live, and I hadn’t wanted to, but I did nonetheless. If this had been a hospital in my home area, I would have been committed. But seeing that this hospital was in the next state, I was returned to my parents under the promise of getting help.

My mother would ask me, “What happened to you?” But then she would just as easily turn off her emotions and not listen. There was no one to listen and no one to help. PTSD wouldn’t be considered a useful diagnoses for military veterans until the ‘90s. I was still “only a man” in need of sucking it up, buttercup! This was usually proclaimed by “virgins talking about sex”.

All I could think about was wanting to die. When the weather turned hot, and sticky, a new manifestation occurred. I would look at my hands and they would be covered in blood, and I could smell it. When this first occurred, I would hide my hands in my pockets and be totally freaked out. When removing my clothes I saw there was no blood, and I started to accept that I was seeing things. I soon realized that I knew that there was no actual blood on my hands or caked into my fingernails, but when I looked, I saw it. Even today, this still happens in hot sticky weather, but I’ve learned to ignore what I see, because I know its not there. The smell of diesel as it passed forced my mind to wander back to the bases and flightlines and burning jet fuel (an extremely dirty poorly refined fuel that looks like dirty pond water).

I first sought help from the VA. In order to get psychiatric help at the VA, you have to be interviewed by a military psychiatrist or psychologist. I was sent into a room with a psychiatrist and I explained what problems I was having, and why. He listened and then said, “There’s nothing here that indicates your problems are related to military service.” He showed me my redacted record, looked at me in disgust, treated me with disdain, and sent me out without allowing me to explain. I realized that they had no access to records of my activities, but his attitude showed me he wouldn’t have cared anyway and would have found an excuse to drive me away. I drove the 45 minutes home feeling pain and deep sorrow. God how I wanted to die!

For two years I was like this. Majorly depressed, in and out of psych ward treatment (for which I was billed). One “doctor”, dressed in cowboy hat and boots, told me to “suck it up” and told me he was going to medicate me. I told him no one was going to medicate me without my permission. He threatened to force medicate me, so I threatened to kick his ass. He said he would review my case, but I no longer felt safe there, so I ripped the bar from the shower wall and went to break out. Six sheriff's deputies were there in no time, and four of them wrestled me to the ground and hand-cuffed me. I was taken to the state hospital and placed on suicide watch. Never would I tell any of them about my military service – I just didn’t trust them. I had tried telling my Mom once, but she had always been emotionally scared, scared to discuss painful or sad things, so I gave up.

Needing some relief, and some change, I began running again and working temp jobs. I attempted utilizing my DD-214 once for employment, but the looks and sounds of disapproval and disgust I received made me put it away never to be used again. Running helped clear my head and allowed me to think. Contemplating my situation, I realized I could tell no one about the killing or my sexuality, ever. I decided that I would have to live with chains on forever, both with the military service and my sexuality. It was extremely lonely and suffocating, but I embraced this path. In 1980 the DSM 3 was published with PTSD as a diagnoses of the anxiety disorders. Yet no one (when they did know), absolutely no one, asked me about my military service, and no one bandied about the PTSD diagnoses, and I didn’t even know it existed at that time (and apparently neither did psych professionals – and the VA proved itself that they would do anything rather than treat what the military had wrought).

As always, the virgins talked about sex. Chicken hawks are so free to give their opinions on who should die and who is righteous, without any knowledge or experience about what they’re talking about. Praising veterans who don’t seek praise, praising the military and “decisive” politicians who don’t deserve praise. Reagan pontificated on his righteousness while continuing to destroy Guatemala. The CIA continued running their rabid dog operations, killing anyone and everyone who opposed their agenda; and Americans reveled in their power while choosing ignorance over Truth. The CIA was documented moving drugs via Cessnas and MAC transports to fund Reagan’s Contra “freedom fighters” and fund Israeli apartheid, eminent domain, and slaughter in the Middle East. America fully supported apartheid South Africa. You know, apartheid, an international crime.

The nightmares and flashbacks persisted, but I improved enough that I was able to sign up for classes at the community college. I took the standard general classes, but focused on music and singing. I wanted to be as far away from killing as possible. I wouldn’t be there long before my life was spun around again, and I would cross another vast Rubicon.

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Sean Griobhtha (gree-O-tah) is a combat veteran. His latest book is X Rubicon: Crossing Life, Sex, Love, & Killing in CIA Proxy Wars: An indictment of US Citizens: ignorantia non excusat, which details the life of Rubicon (“2.5 years of Deception & Death; 40+ years of locking away Emotions & Truth”). It’s important that you read the Foreward (Vanguard); written by a highly intelligent woman with a heart of empathetic gold; she’ll bring you in gently, which neither Rubicon nor I would ever do.

Rubicon spent just under three years as a military Scout. During that time he was awarded the “AF Cross, 2 Silver Stars, 4 Bronze Stars, Defense Superior Service Medal, AF Good Conduct Medal, and the CIA Distinguished Service Medal” (ODNI). When he refused to kill further, he was stripped of these awards and was abandoned with his PTSD by the military and thrown away.

Read the Foreward (Vanguard) free at Substack. Learn more about the author and Rubicon at Substack. 40% discount available for book clubs, student groups, humanitarian groups, We Are Not Your Soldiers groups, Veterans for Peace groups, & more: Inquire at O.Griobhtha+XRubicon at gmail.