It’s PTSD awareness day (really) and I can’t stop thinking about something. 

You see, my dad was a fucking hero. Really. He fought in Korea, the 23^rd Infantry. I hear about these young guys coming back from the war and the trouble that they’re having. I hear about how many more of our boys are committing suicide after returning than dying in the war and I think about my dad and how thankful I am that my dad stayed with us.  I really want people to know that even with PTSD you can do so much and mean so much to people. He was drafted, sure, but he elected to go to Korea. His dad had political friends and had gotten him out of the war but my dad figured if other kids were going to fight and die, he wasn’t going to Germany. It wasn’t right. My dad went because that’s what heroes do. 

When my dad was buried, he had a full military funeral. He didn’t ask for it but all five of his kids and my mom got together to discuss it. He kind of hated the military after he came back but he loved his country. That never changed. We figured he would like that the government finally did something for him. Seeing the military guys treating his burial with such respect really meant something to us. His wake was great, too. My father-in-law came over to my side after talking to a fellow named “Moose” who had long hair, tats, a big old beard. Moose had just told my father-in-law that he’d come to the wake with a few other guys who were there because my dad had given them a chance when no one else would. My dad had a small construction company and would hire people who needed a hand. I guess that’s what heroes do, too. He also hired each of his kids. Hell, after I got my first academic job (which paid very little) I used to take my summer break and work for my dad. I could make much more in those eight weeks than in a typical Ivy League semester. Two of my bothers still run the company my dad started. 

My dad was also really compassionate with his kids. When I was teenager (and the drinking age was 18) I used to go to gay bars with some of my friends who were gay. I wasn’t gay but it was fun. My dad called me aside one night and said that he noticed that I kept going to gay bars and he wanted me to know that if I were gay, he’d still love me and not to worry about that. I told him I wasn’t but I would let him know if I changed my mind. I thought it was kind of funny. My gay friends didn’t think it as funny at all. They wished that their family would do the same. My dad was a hero. 

Yeah, my dad was messed up. My mom said he came back from Korea a different person. He got there after Heartbreak Ridge but saw plenty of his buddies die. He lost the hearing in one ear and had tinnitus in the other. Yeah, he could get violent. I was in therapy during that first academic  job I mentioned and the therapist said “You seem like you were an abused child. Were you?” I said that I didn’t think so but that my father did hit me. She asked if I was ever bloodied. I told her it wasn’t that often. Her jaw dropped. I mentioned the last time my dad hit me. I was about 15 and having a fight with my brother out on the front lawn. My dad came out and was mad. I told him it was my fault and he carried me inside by the neck. Oh yeah, he was strong, too. So, we got inside the front door and he put me down. He looked at his hand and it was covered in blood from my neck. His eyes welled up and he ran upstairs. My brother came into the house and asked where dad was. I told him he’d run upstairs and I was waiting for him to come back. My brother told me that I had to run because my dad would kill me. The two of us ran out the front door and came back a couple of hours later and nothing more was said and the beatings stopped. The therapist was shocked, said that wasn’t normal, and that I was clearly an abused child. Hmmm.

Anyway, that night I called that same brother and asked him if we were abused. He said “No, it’s totally normal for a dad to pick up his seven-year-old and throw him head first into a radiator.” I laughed then my brother said “Wait.   Are you in therapy?” I told him I was and we had a discussion about the fact that my dad had stopped that stuff nearly 15 years before and that I never had any question that my dad loved me and my siblings, and I knew that he really would just lose control.  He was never treated for PTSD, not beyond the gin he used to self-medicate. Did we ever have troubles? You bet. There were times I thought he was just some mean guy who lived in our house. Would he have been better off with treatment? Hell yeah. He would have been way more comfortable in his skin but I am so proud to have known him and proud to be his son. Like I said, my dad was a fucking hero. Like Judy said: I would follow him down the toughest road I know. 

I would hope that anyone coming back with PTSD would know that they have so much that they can do and so many people who can love them. As a second generation sufferer, I know it sucks but don’t give up. You’ve got so much to give.   

RichardB

 

Please forward if you know someone who should hear this.