Chapter 2: Brought to the Center

To recap from Chapter 1: The War Before the War, our basic training on how to handle stress came from our childhood.

If the people around us growing up weren’t skilled at helping us process our anxiety, grief, anger, and physical tension, then we missed out on a foundational life skill. We likely ended up with a backlog of undigested stress after our time in service.

The bigger this backlog is, the heavier it feels. Over time, we can end up feeling chronically fatigued, agitated, or in a depression, from carrying that invisible weight.

When I came back stateside from Iraq I felt like life was no longer reaching me. It was like there was a six-foot-thick wall of glass between me and everything else. I could hear a hollow echo in my laughter—it sounded forced. There were many moments like that, where I knew I was expected to express something—so I did—but I felt disconnected from it all.

I lived like a ghost for years, eating without tasting, touching without feeling. This went on until I learned that dealing with military stress often requires community.

I learned how wired we are to be community animals. How infants die if they go too long without touch. How even as adults our nervous systems sometimes require others in order to soothe and regulate themselves.

This is called “co-regulation.” It means trusting someone enough to share the weight.

In April of 2019, I was at a Veterans “coming home” workshop led by Dr. Ed Tick, author of War and The Soul*. During the retreat, Dr. Tick shared a story that forever changed how I approached dealing with stress.

The story was about the Great Plains bison and how they live as an example of the kind of relationship that can exist between warriors and society.

In short, when the herd senses danger, the strongest bison form a protective ring around the most vulnerable—the children, elderly, sick, and most of the females. The bulls then stand guard on the outside.

Hearing this, I remembered how I felt when Sept. 11th happened. I was young and strong. The right thing to do was clear. The city I was born in was attacked. It needed to be defended from further violence. The strong protect the weak, that's the natural order of things—that made sense to me.

What I didn’t understand then was the rest of the story.

Dr. Tick explained that once the threat is over something different happens with the bison from the outer ring, the ones protecting everyone else—if any of those bison end up distressed or injured—they get moved to the center.

Then, the rest of the herd surrounds them and cares for them, until they recover.

This is the critical step I skipped.

I thought I was “OK” because I wasn’t physically wounded. I figured resources and attention should go to those with visible, “real” wounds. I didn’t understand that emotional and moral wounds needed just as much care.

The problem was, at some point while I was in the military, I decided it was better to be numb than scared. I didn’t realize that you can’t shut off just one emotion—that going numb to fear means going numb to everything. Maybe you made a similar decision, shutting yourself off from certain feelings.

The guys in my platoon were in the same boat. We were expected to tighten up and "keep it together", no one wanted to hear any griping about feelings. Then, when we left the service, we were supposed to re-enter society and carry on like we hadn’t brought home any pain with us.

When I came home, I avoided anyone and anything that reminded me of what I was carrying. I didn’t talk about my experiences because I didn’t want to weigh down the people I loved. 

I didn’t want them to hear the harsh stories carried inside me, and be tainted by what I’d experienced. Seeing them free of the kind of pain I felt and able to enjoy a carefree life was one of the few joys left to me.

I didn’t realize how everyone I cared about could have benefited from me being brought to the center of the community—and held, and honored, and listened to. And loved.

In healthy societies, this is how warriors are welcomed home. It's a cycle of reciprocal devotion that makes everyone safer and more connected. It’s the kind of exchange that makes up for leaving behind the close bonds of military life.

Instead of all that, I purposely closed myself off from people. I was trying to protect them from realities I'd experienced that didn’t match up with their image of America—or of me.

I was also protecting myself. I was confused about what happened in Iraq, and questioned what I did there. I didn’t want to see disappointment in their eyes and be cut off from the herd. What if they judged me for how my service changed me?

How would people respond if I talked about how my military service impacted me?

Letting that question hold me back—not letting other people share the weight—is the biggest mistake I made in life.

I didn't give the people back home the chance to serve in their role. I kept the herd from doing what it’s meant to do: encircle the wounded and carry the load together. It was foolish to think that I was the only strong one, or needed to be. Even someone sick, young or elderly is capable of holding at least one of the rocks in my rucksack. 
 
It wasn’t until 2019 (15 years later!) that I began to let them.

I became more aware of what numbed me—drinking, smoking, staring at screens. Instead of spending time on those things, I started taking the rocks I’d been carrying, the experiences that left a heavy impact on me, and sharing them.

I shared them carefully, one at a time, with friends, family, community members, and other Veterans. I learned how to bring them out into nature and let the wild places hold them. Slowly, I felt alive again.

Self-reliance only took me so far. It wasn’t far enough. Community took me the rest of the way.

Yes, survival needs have to be taken care of. Food, water, shelter, and confidence those resources will be there tomorrow. That’s foundational. Until our basic needs are met our brain will struggle to focus on anything else.**

Once we have that foundation it's critical that we have a community that can bring us into the center, hear our stories, and share what we’ve been carrying alone.

It may be that PTS(D) exists because we haven’t evolved to live disconnected from close community.

The culture of the military is group based but often the "help" we find when we return home isolates us and treats us as individuals. Many organizations don't understand that some of our stress happened in the context of a close group relationship and needs to be healed in a close group relationship.

I see it all around me where Veterans with invisible wounds end up as misunderstood outcasts. I lived that life. In the natural world the wounded protectors at the edge of the herd aren't left behind, they get brought to the center. This is the life I'm choosing now.

When we find our herd, things will change.

So, how do we find our "herd", the people who truly care?

Where can we find the places where we'll be brought to the center and honored?

Let’s look at that in Chapter 3: Our Stories Create Community

*War and The Soul is still the best book I've read on what it means to return from war carrying invisible wounds.

** - If you or another Veteran you know needs immediate food or housing help call the VA’s National Call Center for Homeless Veterans hotline: (877) 424-3838. It’s staffed 24/7. Or contact your closest American Legion office if you don’t want to work with the VA.