PTSD. How Many, How Long?

He was sitting silently by the bridge on our river walk in his wheel chair clutching his large bottle. I greeted him cheerfully and he responded eagerly. It was clear that he wanted to talk. He wanted a connection to someone....anyone. In a short time he shared his loneliness, guilt and dependency for comfort from his bottle.

"I have nightmares. The booze helps calm them but they always come back. I was in the army for ten years and the marines for eight. I lost my leg from a land mine in Kuwait. I woke up in Germany. My leg was gone and my brothers were killed. Why was I still alive? My family leaves me alone. I am alone with my bottle. You don't understand, I killed young men. I killed them!"

This Native American veteran, eighteen years in service to our country, still fights his personal wars. His demons of guilt consume him. Serving his country is lost in his fog of alcohol. What remains is loneliness, disconnect and pain. The missing leg is painful at times. The pain of surviving when his comrades did not, and the pain of killing others are his constant companions, along with that large bottle he clenches so tightly by his side.

Perhaps we will meet again along our lovely Fall River. Perhaps we will talk some more. Perhaps he will decide to wheel himself up the hill to our healing VA and check himself in for help with his enduring torment. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.