"My Client Suffered a Traumatic Event"

Today was a shitty day.  I spent the entire day in court and I only had one case.

Fridays are domestic violence, or DV, dockets in Montgomery County.  The one I had was a bad one.  Both the victim and suspect, her lover and the father of one of her children, had been drinking alcohol.  Apparently though, this time she had had enough and got angry with him.  Shouting followed.  And soon, it broke into a physical fight.  She was no match for him.  She got one good lick in and that was it.  He punched her in the face and then the belt came out.

I saw the marks.  Two very distinct loops on her back.  Bloody and bruised.  Red with a black hue.  There was also blood that had dried in her right ear from a blow.  A large lump grew on her forehead.  Soon I saw more smaller marks covering her arms.  She was drunk.  But that probably helped her in the end.  Maybe preventing her from feeling the full extent of her pain.   Maybe...I could only hope.

I arrested him for assault and reckless endangerment.  The endangerment alone carried a maximum of 5 years.  And, although this was Montgomery County, I still held out hope that justice would be served.

But I already told you, I had a shitty day, so you can probably imagine the outcome.

And that was just my case. The whole fucking day was DV shit.  This one shitbird put his hands around his baby's mother's throat, trying to choke her.  Probably over money.  After the judge heard his case, he talked about how "disturbed" he was by the facts of it.  And then proceeded to sentence him to 60 days in jail for the second degree assault.  He quickly followed that up by suspending all, but 58 of those days because the abuser had already served 2 when he was initially arrested and booked.  No fine, just court costs because when the public defender talked about his client, he talked about what a model citizen he was and how he's already gone through yada yada treatment or counseling programs and then the defendant vowed it'd never happen again.

They all say the same goddamn thing.  Its fucking sick.  There's so much emphasis in our judicial system, particularly this county, to ensure that none of the accused's rights are skirted.  Fuck the victim.   And the betterment of society.  During one of these defense narratives, his lawyer stated that her client experienced a "traumatic" event when he spent 2 days in lock up.  What?!  Fuck him.  He's lucky he's not castrated.

And it was like that ALL day.

One defendant's victim, now former girlfriend, was so afraid of him, she stayed in a secured room to avoid him as much as possible.  Another who got thoroughly beaten invoked her marital privilege, a one time free pass in Maryland for the wife beater to get off scott free because the wife still "loves" him.  Or is completely petrified of him and what he'll do to her if she doesn't invoke it.

My favorite though was a dude who is active duty military.  Now listen, I'm in the military reserves, but even if I wasn't, I'd still be a huge supporter.  So, this guy is an alcoholic and supposedly this was his first out of control episode.  Well, I guess, if you're gonna do it once, you might as well go big...A neighbor calls 9-1-1 and reports the domestic assault, says it been going on for a while and they can hear a woman screaming.  The call taker can hear the victim pleading in the background, "I didn't do anything!" as the defendant is dragging her into the middle of the apartment complex courtyard.  He beats the fuck out of her...rupturing an eardrum.  But the defense gets to tell everyone how great of a guy he is, what a decorated servicemember he is, how he's changed, gone to programs and all the other complete bullshit.  He brings 3 members of his branches' command cadre to speak on his behalf and say what a good dude he is and how he's taken this seriously.  Then he speaks...reads a fucking novel that he wrote.  And it's all about him.  He tells everyone what's he's done and that it took courage to tell his command.  He says he really wishes he could walk up to his victim and tell her he's sorry...to free his guilty conscience, right?  Screw what'd it do to her mentally.  But he can't...she's got a protective order out against him she's so damn scared.  Throughout it all, he's never humble, he never mentions the sheer terror he must've put his victim through...and never says jackshit about her permanent physical injury, the ruptured eardrum.  His attorney pleads with the judge to give her client PBJ, probation before judgement, so that, when he faces his military trial board in February, he can say he doesn't have a conviction.  Fuck.  That.

But he made out...he got the same sentence as the others...all suspended sentences.  No one got any jail time.  Not a day.  They got a stern talking to, maybe some probation with the threat of jail "if you ever do that again", and a few got actual fines.  That's it.

How am I, let alone a victim, supposed to have any faith in our judicial system?   Obviously, there are significant affects on the victims, but there's also fallout on the officers that handle these calls for service one after another after another.  And the holidays are a hotbed for domestics.  Never fucking ending.

I left court sick.  Exhausted from the mental and emotional drain of utter frustration and anger.  20+ years of shit like that piled up inside of me.

My guy...pled to a lesser, amended charge.  He was sentenced to 60 days with credit for 2 and the remaining 58 were suspended.   No fine,  just $57.50 in court costs.  Twelve months probation and he must complete the county's Abused Persons Program.  Done deal.

Oh...I almost "forgot"...the military defendant?  He's a chaplain.  And you bet your ass they rode that pony until she dropped...

Climbing OUR Mt. Everest

12 November 2014 was the hardest day of my professional law enforcement career.

Several weeks earlier, I had sent a memorandum to the chief of police.  In it, I explained the need for us, as an agency and as a law enforcement community, to do more for our own when it came to mental wellness.  I use the term wellness instead of health because, well, because mental health sounds bad, taboo, to cops and wellness, which is usually used in the same context as fitness, is a more appropriate word anyway.  I timed the memo to coincide with a tragic call for service that my teammates responded to and will probably never forget.

A former county canine deputy sheriff and her husband, a law enforcement officer from a neighboring county, lived in the city, literally like a few blocks from the police station.  Sadly, we had responded to numerous calls for service at their residence before throughout the years.  Almost exclusively domestics.  And alcohol was regularly involved.  Although it's mainly speculation, I would venture to say that much of their mutual issues arose from the pressures, stresses, and traumas of the jobs they both endured.  Add a terminal illness to the canine deputy and you can have a very unstable person and situation.  So, when the call came in for a suicide that just occurred, it wasn't totally a surprise.  Still, it was horribly tragic.  I was off.  Not working.  But my team was and responded, the initial on scene officers.  Talking to them the next day and the days after, they said it wasn't pretty, hard to maintain focus.  But we talked, individually and collectively.  It was harder for a few of them as they knew the deputy personally.

But there was my window.  It was my opportunity to take that first step in trying to overcome the greatest stigma in the law enforcement community: mental health.  Over the course of a few months prior to that incident, I had disseminated a mental wellness questionnaire to gauge where our department officers had issues regarding mental wellness.  I had gotten the idea from a study I read by Dr. Ellen Marshall who wrote about Cumulative Career Traumatic Stress, or CCTS, as she labeled it.  CCTS is similar to PTSD in its symptoms and subsequent effects on the individual.  It's simply the cumulative effect of many traumatic events over the years versus PTSD, which is the result of a singular event.

The surveys were anonymous and voluntary.  I got just under a 35% return rate.  Not stellar, but not too bad considering most police officers are petrified to discuss or even elude to anything mental.  Still, the results were astonishing and heartbreaking.  Here are a few...

• 70% have flashbacks of an incident
• 80% have difficulty concentrating
• 80% have trouble sleeping (falling asleep or staying asleep)
• 70% have experienced a change in appetite 
• 42% have experienced intense fear, helplessness, or horror
• 70% say that stress from the job affects personal relationships 
• 75% use alcohol to relax

And my two biggies...

• 25% have thought about suicide 
• Another 25% think that a line of duty death is better than suicide

Law enforcement posttraumatic stress and depression experts that I have conferred and shared the survey results with all agree...these numbers are conservative, underreported.  And very scary.

I felt, however, that in order for anything to start rolling or any progress to be made that this venture, this challenge, had to be personalized.  So, I personalized it.  I bared my soul to the members of my department's command staff...from my initial major traumatic incident in 2001, to the subsequent and compounding trauma and stress, to the toll it took on me and my personal life, to the collapse of my marriage, to therapy, meds, and, yes, to suicidal ideations all before talking about how I had overcome those demons by working hard and being proactive in my healing.  This was not about self promotion or propping myself up.  Not even close.  It was all about my brothers and sisters-in-arms who suffer silently, everyday, too afraid to reach out because of this oppressive stigma in the police culture about mental wellness or mental anything.  It was about the guy next to me and getting shit started and done for him.  I wanted to tell them, through my story, that, no, PTSD or depression or anxiety for a  police officer is NOT a career death sentence.

So, the climb has begun...I'm at the base camp of law enforcement's Mt. Everest.  Staring up, but not undaunted.  I may have just one or two other committed professionals with me at the start...but we'll pick up more as we ascend, climb, and eventually conquer this horrible stigma that is killing...literally...killing police officers across this country, and the world.

In 2012, ODMP reported 125 officers killed in the line of duty.  In that same year, Badge of Life, a police suicide prevention organization, surveyed the internet for media and police reports and found 126 police suicides.   Out of the 125 LODDs, 48 were by felonious gunfire.  That means between 2-3 times as many cops are taking their own lives by their own hands than are being killed by another.  NLEOMF reports a LODD occurs once every 53 hours...according to the IACP, a police suicide happens once every 17-18 hours.

We need to help our brothers and sisters.  Look out for one another...what you say could save a life of someone in blue.

Nuck aus der Fischerei (Part 1)

I sat there.  Broken.  And now, stunned from the blinding angle from which I took this next devastating blow.  I replayed his question a million times in my head within those few seconds it took for him to ask me again.

"Did you kill your dog?"

It was June in San Mateo.  Which is to say, it was hot as shit.  We were working.  Really working hard.  Learning how to mesh together as a team.  I was in canine handler school with my dog, Nuck aus der Fischerei.  Of course, there was no way in hell I was going to be calling him that on the street.  So, he was just Nuck.  And for anyone who has been a K9 handler or knows one, handler school isn't really about teaching the dog.  They're already ridiculously smart.  It's about teaching the handler how to read the dog; how to notice the minor changes in his behavior or body language as he picks up the scent cone and starts working a track.

Ever since I can remember, our family has always had dogs.  It was my mom who initially had that deep love for them.  We had Blackie.  A mangy mutt who ended up having his throat ripped open after a fight with another neighborhood dog.  And there was Birfy, named for the way I said birthday as a toddler.  According to mom, "Birfday".  Mom was crazy about him, to a fault.  I can still remember, vividly, the day Birfy attacked me.  I was probably 6, maybe 7.  He was lying down around the corner between the kitchen and the living room.  I walked up from behind him wanting to play.  I had no idea that he was working on a bone he'd just been given.  He wanted no part of playing and clearly saw me as a threat.  I had almost no time to register the foreboding growl before he lunged at my small face.  Instinctively,  I put my right hand up for protection.  His fangs sunk into my soft flesh, almost going through to the other side.  I screamed with every ounce of breath I had in me.  My mom came running and saw the wound and the blood that followed.  As a registered nurse, she had little difficulty tending to my injury.  I'll never forget that moment.  Years later, Dandy, would come and remain in our lives for many years.  

Then I went to college.  And, I would assume as many enterprising young men do as they move through the ranks while entertaining secondary education, I moved into a house with seven other guys.  One of these housemates, adopted a younger dog from the local shelter, only to turn around several weeks later and threaten to take her back.  Instead, I rescued her.  Codi.  She was a gorgeous Rhodesian Ridgeback and was my ever sweet, ever faithful companion.  When I moved to California to pursue my law enforcement career there, she remained at home with my parents until I graduated the academy.  Then my best friend brought her with him as he road tripped across the country.  She stayed with me until I settled into my new place.  Codi soon developed kidney failure.  And one night, I discovered her lying on the couch after working an evening shift.  Despite her depleted state, she managed to pull herself up to her favorite spot one last time.  I was heartbroken as Codi had been with me during many of my major life changing events.  But before leaving for California,  I had rescued another dog, a yellow Labrador I named Neshana, after the Lenni Lenape Indian word neshanic, meaning two creeks.  She, too, was heartbroken when her companion Codi died, but we rebounded together spending many hours hiking and overnight backpacking trips exploring the local mountains or traveling to the Eastern Sierra Nevadas.  Neshana would be my rock and, ultimately, the connection that lead me to my wife.  After almost a decade and a half of unquestionable devotion and sincere love, I had to make my most heart wrenching decision ever...to end her life.  Although she still had the spirit of a young puppy, Neshana's body had worn down.  In July 2013, exactly 14 years after "asking" a muddy, matted, but happy Lab into my Jeep, we had to say goodbye.  Now, it's Kamali and me.  She's a spunky, yet super smart Border Collie mix.  Again, another rescue.  (That's all I'll ever do, by the way, rescues.)  So, through the years, I've had my share of canine companions and experiences.  I love my dogs.  I simply cannot envision my life without them.  They give such unquestionable friendship.  And I often go to a passage by the author, Rick Bass from his book about one of his dogs, that describes how I feel about my canine companions far more eloquently than I could ever hope to imagine...

"Back then it was just sweet and clean and wild and fresh; and on many days, most days, the best days, it still is: and when I am in the company of one of my dogs, and am speaking to him or her as I would to a human friend - just shooting the shit or conversing about how the day has gone - or when I am admiring the sunlight in their eyes, or patting their heads, marveling at the physiographic fit between the curve of the palm of my hand and the top of their broad heads - as if we, or someone, has sculpted them just for that fit - or perhaps someone has sculpted us, for that fit - on those occasions,  I do not concern myself with my inability to feel such comfort amidst humans (other than with a very few friends and family), but, rather, am simply thankful that at least dogs exist, and I'm humbly aware of how much less a person I'd be - how less a human - if they did not exist.

I don't mean to say that a human without a dog is somehow less of a human.   What I mean is that I think there are those among us who are more dog people than others - and a dog person without a dog is missing something."

~ Rick Bass, Colter

Yet, there I was, in August 2001, rolling that question over and over again in my mind.  "Are you fucking kidding me?!", I thought.  "Did I kill my dog?!  There's no fucking way I would ever intentionally hurt any of my dogs.  Ever!"

But Nuck was dead.  And I was his handler.  My world had collapsed around me...

Robin Williams Was a Cop

As with any celebrity death, the news out of Hollywood spreads like wildfire and, many times, dominates the news media for a day or two.  Most times, I could give a shit, quite frankly.  I mean, actors are human, just like you and me...they bleed.  And they die.  Sometimes by their own hands.  When it gets right down to it, they are no different than you and me.  So, one of them dies.  So, what?  People die all the time...lots of them horrible and tragic deaths.

But Robin Williams was different.  He was magical.  And for those of us that suffer and fight the demons in our sometimes endless battles...he was a savior.  There was nothing that he didn't say that wasn't profound, showing intellectual penetration or emotional depth.  Whether it was his balls to the wall humor or his somber, cerebral side, Robin Williams' words meant something.   And that was a rarity.  His raw, unabated humor gave us moments, however brief, of escape and pure pleasure.  It was incredible.

Robin Williams was just funny as shit.  He was unmatched.  I'd watch him in amazement.  You could almost literally see his mind race through the thoughts he quickly twisted and turned into jokes and tales.  He seemed to be always on.  And, at times, I stopped and thought, "jesus, does this guy ever slow down?  Does he rest?"

Clearly, he was fighting a never ending war.  He suffered from severe depression and battled with substance abuse for many years.  Through all of his humor, Robin Williams was dying inside, unable to tame the beast as it ravaged his mind and soul.

Now, what if Robin Williams was a cop?  How would he have handled all of this human despair that we witness and confront on a regularly?   If people who commit suicide, or battle with depression, or suffer from PTSD have a propensity for these conditions and illnesses due to genetics, a chemical imbalance or what have you, how long would Robin Williams have lasted?  Maybe he'd have killed himself years ago, unable to bear the pain...like so many of our brothers and sisters in blue.  It's not a knock on him, but the reality is...he seemingly had the ability to utilize a plethora of effective and extensive resources at his disposal given his financial wealth and social status.

But he wasn't a cop.  (Thank god...could you imagine?  I'd have gone on every call with him, no matter how mundane it sounded when it would've been dispatched.) Yet, if Robin Williams,  a celebrity who could literally chose the clinic, the therapist, or the doctor he wanted, succumbs to his demons, where does that leave us...the vilified police officer who can barely make ends meet and works in a profession that harbors this obese stigma for those who suffer from the "weaknesses" of PTSD, depression,  anxiety,  etc.?  For me, his loss is heartbreaking.  His masterful humor kept my head above water many days.  I know, though, I'll continue to do whatever it takes, even now with this one less avenue of escape.  I will persevere.  But some of us, simply don't make it.  The challenge, the fight can be daunting.  Money is tight.  EAPs are skeptical.  Administrators are unresponsive.   And peer support is weak.

Chew on this...More police officers die each year by their own hands than by felonious gunfire.  Yeah, can you believe that shit?  In 2012, there were 125 line of duty deaths, 48 of which were by gunfire.  By comparison,  an International Journal of Emergency Mental Health study reported 126 police suicides that same year.  It's estimated that between 125 and 150 of our brothers and sisters take their own lives each year.  We need to sound the alarm.  We need to start taking care of ourselves and looking out for one another.  Far too many times, good, devoted people give up simply because there is no support to help guide them through the darkness.  In the end, Robin Williams couldn't find his way out.

Rest in peace, Mr. Williams.  Your time with us was fantastical and sobering.

"You will have bad times, but they will always wake you up to the stuff you weren't paying attention to. "   
~ Robin Williams

Cop 2 Cop 866-Cop-2Cop
Call Safe Now 206-459-3020
Badge of Life 800-273-8255
National Police Suicide Foundation 443-889-5666

A Seed Was Planted

I just transferred back to mids, or graveyard or overnight or whatever you call it.  I enjoy mids.  Of course, the calls you get aren't the "petty" ones like my kid won't listen to me, or a customer is yelling at me, or someone just dented my car when they parked and now they're inside the doctor's office, or any other mediocre type call.  Generally,  I can't stand them...people almost never try and work out their own problems first.  They call us right out of the gate.  On mids, though, it's almost always "the shit hit the fan" calls.  And you can get there quick.  And you don't have to deal with admin...yada, yada.

But it can be dead as hell sometimes.  And that can be a good thing.  The quiet allows me to find some peace, however brief most times, in the up-and-down, chaotic world of public safety.  During that solace, I can return to calm and allow, not only my body, but, more importantly, my mind the chance to rest.  I close my eyes.  Not to sleep, but to see those white capped mountains I go to when I'm in yoga.  To imagine the sunlight raining down and nourishing me.

Of course...If you have some fucked up things going on in your life, like me, then, well, dead as hell midnight shifts can sometimes suck.  Naturally, on this particular night, not too long ago, it did.  My mind was racing.  Again.  More intrusive thoughts, more wild imagination,  more feeling super shitty about my life.  And so, I got to thinking...I'm a police officer, right?  My job involves potential serious danger, life-and-death decisions, and regular interactions with shitbirds, right?  And there are significant benefits, from my employer, from the state, from the feds, from the FOP, and from others, that would be bestowed upon my beneficiaries upon my death if it were to occur while in the performance of my duties, right?  This bullshit with my wife and all the past, accumulated trauma, and depression hurts like a bitch, right?  And my interactions with her only bring her and me seemingly endless heartache and misery, right?

And then there it was.  That seed was planted in my itty bitty brain...if I were to suffer a line of duty death, problem fucking solved.  Right?  I mean, she gets a nice chunk of change to pay off the house and other debt, set aside some for our daughter's education, and probably even have a little left to play with all while the pain and bullshit - for everyone - goes away.  Now, there was no way in hell I would ever jeopardize another officer and I wouldn't alter my officer safety tactics.  But, you know, if it happened, well, it happened.  So, I got to thinking...is that any different than committing suicide outright?  I don't know.  I never had any of these thoughts before.  My life had never been in such despair. 

I chewed on that hard for the rest of the shift.  And the thought, however faint now, has been quietly buried in the back of my mind ever since.  But it's there.  Planted.  I don't think it'll necessarily ever go away, but I'm confident I'll plow over it and plant something else in its place.  Something fruitful.  I have no intentions of giving up the fight.  I am a warrior.  And my daughter needs me as I need her.  This illness that has invaded me will not prevail.  I will triumph.

But I know, it's still there.  Like the princess and that damn pea in the mattress...I can feel it still.  Buried. 

I dreamed I was missing
You were so scared
But no one would listen
'Cause no one else cared
After my dreaming
I woke with this fear
What am I leaving
When I'm done here? 
So if you're asking me I want you to know

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some
Reasons to be missed
And don't resent me
And when you're feeling empty
Keep me in your memory
Leave out all the rest
Leave out all the rest

Don't be afraid
I've taken my beating
I've shared what I made
I'm strong on the surface
Not all the way through
I've never been perfect
But neither have you
So if you're asking me I want you to know

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done...

Forgetting
All the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well
Pretending
Someone else can come and save me from myself
I can't be who you are

When my time comes
Forget the wrong that I've done...

Forgetting
All the hurt inside you've learned to hide so well...

"Leave Out All the Rest"      ~ Linkin Park

And Then the Proverbial Light Bulb Went Off...

I was about a month into my separation from my wife.   And I was hurting.  Bad.  Of course, it was the combination of the PTSD and depression now exacerbated by the separation that made things, simple day to day moments, difficult to maneuver through.  I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy.   OK, that's a lie.  My worst enemy...you bet your ass.  It sucked that bad.

So I was having a more than normal super rough day and now I was at work.  A bad mix.  A potentially life threateningly, bad mix.  I knew I had to square my shit away fast.  But my mind was racing.  There were, what seemed like, millions of thoughts intruding into the last vestiges of peace and calm in my head.  I felt like I was going to explode.  I couldn't control it.  I didn't know what to do.   Most of the thoughts were of my wife and the separation and, with that, my mind was off to the races.  My imagination was running out of control.  And now work related issues and past traumas began to sneak in every once and a while at first, but then grew with increased frequency and intensity as my mind lost control and my defenses continued to weaken.  And this was 30 minutes after breaking roll call...

So, I sent up a flare...I got on my MDC and sent one of my shiftmates a message asking to meet him.  This guy hasn't even been on my department for a year and he has quickly become one of my dearest friends and most trusted confidants.  He knows.  He's been there.   He came from another police agency and has six years of law enforcement experience total.  He's also a combat veteran, serving two tours overseas and seeing some crazy shit in the process leading him to post traumatic conditions of his own.  But what gives him the trifecta was that he, too, suffered through an unwanted separtation.  Sadly, he had become my brother in arms.

He pulled up next to me and I began to tell him what was going on with me.  Bottom line...I was losing it, drowning in my own quicksand of despair and I needed a life line.  Quick.  We talked.  The radio crackled in the background with calls for service.  Yet at this stage of the game, this took precedent over everything else.  I didn't want to go to a call, let alone a hot one, with the fractured mindset I was working with at that very moment.  But at that point, me talking and him just listening wasn't cutting it.  I needed something more.  I asked him what he did when he was where I was right at that moment.  He briefly paused and then started his reply with, "Now, I know you're not a religious person."  (Admittedly,  I'm not.)  "But I went to church.", he said.  "Not for the religious stuff, but because I wanted to be surrounded with good people. "

And then it goes off.  That proverbial light bulb over my head.  I compare it to that scene in the classic Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reindeer claymation show I used to watch when I was a kid (and still do).  At the end, Santa is ready to call off Christmas due to horrible weather when he sees Rudolph.  As Santa's making his announcement,  Rudolph's nose is blinding him with its brilliant light when Santa finally realizes the beacon through the storm...Rudolph's bright ass nose.  

It was like that for me.  I was Santa and my buddy's simple statement was the light to guide me through my storm.  I was almost instantaneously calmed, on the verge of approaching excitement.  I immediately thought of a nearby church I could go to.  But it didn't stop there and it wasn't just that.

I continued through my shift on point and mission focused to do my job.  I wasn't distracted or consumed with other thoughts.  And then I went home...or, should I say, my apartment.   I sat down and began trolling through the internet, searching for area activities and fitness classes I could become involved in.  I quickly began to fill up my days and my calendar looked purposeful once again.

With that statement, what my brother, did for me was to provide temporary shelter in the storm and point the way out.   It gave me guidance.   I made a plan.  Boy, was that...and still is...huge.   Huge beyond words huge.  For anyone caught up in such a cyclone of despair, the simplest of order, of a plan, can create much needed and desperate calm.

So for those of us still caught in the middle of the hurricane with thoughts twirling through your mind, there is a way out.  Make a plan of things to do.  Any plan to give yourself some order.  Ride a bike, go camping, take a cooking class, sign up for the gym, head out to a baseball game...or go to church.  I never made it to the church I initially thought of.  My work schedule hasn't allowed me the time, but now that my graveyard shift is transitioning to the other side of the week, I certainly plan to go.  My savior,  however, has been yoga.  Uh huh, yoga.  The first time I went was years ago when my now separated wife took me on a surprise date.  I was extremely intimidated and never did it again.  Until now.  It has been my lifesaver.  And I'm all in, head first and loving it.  I just ordered my very own mat.  Can't wait til it comes in...

It Started With AIDS

It didn't feel real, at first.  But it was...I was there.  Kneeling down and pumping on the passenger's chest.  He was an elderly man, probably mid-80s or so.  I remember it so clearly, but this was almost 25 years ago now.  The car had left the roadway at a sharp bend and slammed into a tree, coming to rest in the front yard of an old farmhouse.  Nobody was home, but it was estimated that the car and its occupants, an elderly couple, were there for at least an hour.  I was a rookie volunteer firefighter.  And now here I was helping to try and keep this gentleman from dying.  His ribs cracked.  And his breathing was fading.  There was blood everywhere.  We got him into the ambulance with the medics and off they went.  Lights and sirens the whole way.  We gave him a chance.

As I walked through the wreckage, I glanced down and went to pick up a personal item.  I don't remember exactly what it was.  But it was pretty much covered in blood.  Still, I picked it up and, before I could wonder the value it had for that couple, my captain hollered at me to put it down...it was the early 1990s and in the middle of the era of AIDS.  I dropped it immediately.

And that was it.  That's how it all started for me.  That car accident was my first critical or traumatic incident as a first responder.  I don't think it really adversely affected me, but I remember it.  Vividly.  I stayed a firefighter for a couple more years before moving into law enforcement.  By January 1994, I was hired as a county park officer in my home state of Pennsylvania.  I was later promoted to supervision.  It was during that time that I wanted to expand my horizons.  Explore opportunities.

I submitted applications throughout the country and traveled to states like Utah, South Dakota, California, and Washington as I progressed through various hiring processes.  And then in the early fall of 1998, I got the call.  I was headed West to become a peace officer for a large western state.  In March 1999, I graduated near the top of my academy class.  I was euphoric.  Proud of my accomplishments as I reported to my first station in the very busy, heavily populated southern part of the state.  I began to assert myself and get recognized for my efforts, receiving citizen compliments, department commendations, and later a state Mothers Against Drunk Driving award.  A few years later, a position opened up at another station within my district.  It was something I had been dreaming about my entire law enforcement career.

For as long as I can remember, since I was a very young child, my family had dogs.  There was Blackie, who, of course, was black.  And then Dandy, who was given to me as a birthday gift, but was never really mine...he was my mom's baby boy.  When I went to college in western Pennsylvania, one of my roommates "rescued" a puppy from a local shelter before wanting to return her a few weeks later.  So, I took her in.  Codi.  She was my loving and faithful companion for almost a decade.  She was later joined by Neshana, who was a muddy and matted yellow lab when I found her running alongside the road as I went to work one day.  The girls traveled with me out West as I started that new chapter of my life.  But within months of my academy graduation, Codi died.  I came home from work one day and wasn't greeted at the door by the girls.  Something was up.  And then I found her.  Lying on the couch, where we had spent so much time together.  Her last act.

So, that available K9 handler position at the other station was my holy grail.  And when I got it in the late fall of 2000, I felt like I had reached the pinnacle of my law enforcement career.  A passionate dog guy to the core and a dedicated public safety professional...now a K9 handler?!  I was on fucking cloud 9.  My police dog and I finished first in our handler class.  I was now headed back to my new assignment, in the busiest part of the state, full of renewed piss and vinegar, with a locked on German Shepherd at my side.  Look the fuck out, I thought.

Before the end of August 2001, however, my shepherd was dead.  My career, my whole world, crumbled around me and careened out of control...

And the old man from the car wreck?  He didn't make it.  Neither did the driver.  His wife.

What Does a Stranger at Dinner Have to do with PTSD?

On May 7, I finally decided to break my silence.  I had ignored it or simply been in denial of it for too long.  Way too long.  I spent four hours writing a draft before going "live".  It was five pages, front and back.  I wanted to get it right.  And yet, I had to keep it as brief as possible if people were going to spend the time to read.  The brief part...well, that didn't work out so well.  But people did read it.  They commented on it.  And shared it.

Days, even weeks, after I wrote it, I went back again and again to reread it and just to see all the comments, the showing of support and encouragement.  My therapist said it was, well, therapeutic.

So, this was the May 7 Facebook posting on the Code 9 - Officer Needs Assistance page.  Like I said, that brief part...not happening.  This is my first entry and will easily be my longest.  So, stick with me, there's more to come...

Yesterday, while sitting with two friends eating dinner, a stranger began talking to us.  What seemed friendly at first quickly turned to dislike and contempt.  Without skipping a beat, he told us he hated us and what we do.  Hours earlier, I had been asked to help a child protection social worker remove a one year old from his mother.  She was the only thing he knew in this world and in an instant, he was gone from her.  Her only child.  The pain that overwhelmed her seemed unbearable.  She fell to her knees crying...asking to die.  As a father myself, I could not imagine her agony.

So, who does this?  Who sits quietly, eating his only meal of the day, only to be interrupted and told he's HATED?  Or asked to take the child from a mother while she screams aloud as he looks on with innocent bewilderment?  Who does that?  Who volunteers for that?  I do.  I'm a police officer.

Since January 1994, I have been a law enforcement officer trying to maintain peace, protect the innocent, distinguish between right and wrong all while having to overcome my own fears and casting aside my own human emotions.  I have been to the head-on collision where the mother clutches my shirt screaming, "my baby, my baby!".  Or the domestic violence call where the woman's face is so beaten, she's hard to recognize.  Or the call for the suicide where the victim slices his forearms lengthwise and, as I'm putting pressure on his wounds, he's fighting me with every last ounce he has left.  Or the day I heard bullets rip past my head as gang members thought it was a good day to shoot at three police officers.  Or being the first on scene of a wreck where four people are critically injured and trapped...and one of them, a brother of a fellow officer.  Or the 250 lb, former military suspect in a domestic assault who'd rather fight it out with me.  Or the guy, alone, who feels its better to sit in the corner of a hotel room, put a shotgun in his mouth, depress the trigger with his toes, and scatter his skull and brains over the floor and walls?  Or maybe its just the "my kid won't listen to me" call and you get there and the house is a wreck...walls with holes, no food in the frig, clothes thrown around, cockroaches crawling past, kids are confused and malnourished, all while the "parent" is yelling and the TV is on.

I have seen just about everything - murder, rape, suicide, child abuse, domestic assaults, and on - in my 20+ years.  And for all of those years, I thought I was in charge, effectively managing the repeated attacks on my mind, body, and soul.  Just assault after assault, trauma after trauma.  But I was kidding myself.

On March 1, a week before our daughter's 6th birthday, my wife and I had dinner.  After eating, she read me a letter she wrote and told me she wanted a separation.  I was devastated.  Crushed.  Heartbroken.  My eyes welled with tears and I had to leave.  But leave where?  I had no place to escape this reality...

We have been together for 12 years.  And I love her.  But I became a monster, someone she did not recognize or, understandably, want to be around.  I had become isolated, distant, unaffectionate, and just plain angry.  There were times I'd come home and start looking for something wrong as if it was a call for service...instead of giving her a hug and telling her I loved her.  I wouldn't share my day, good or bad, and I'd give one word answers, if any at all, if she asked.  I rarely went out with family friends or to her work related events.  I was sleep deprived and, when I did sleep, it was restless.  I'd get angry when she cried, sometimes yelling at her to "suck it up".  I was closing myself off, pushing her away and destroying my marriage.  She tried to reach me, begged me to seek help through her tears and I'd say I would just to end the argument.  But I never did.  I promised her I would.  I made a list of things I'd change about my behavior, places we'd go, and things we'd do together.  But it wasn't lasting.  I remained bitter, hardened.  She stayed, so why would I need to really do anything?  We talked it out.  But that wasn't good enough.  It never really is and never will be.  Actions speak louder than words.

So, on March 1, she told me that the words alone weren't enough.  She wanted out.  She was done.

A week later, I attended a C.O.P.S. Traumas of Law Enforcement training.  It was a godsend.  I attended it as a member of my county peer support team with the idea that I would learn how to help other officers deal with trauma.  But I quickly realized, I was there for me.  Jack Harris, a retired Tucson, Arizona police officer, spoke about stress and trauma on officers and how it affects their families and loved ones.  It wasn't really a lecture, but an all day counseling session.  As he spoke, I reached for my phone and sent my wife a text..."I want to thank you.  You saved my life."

I began to realize I wasn't alone in my battles with these demons.  There are many of us who quietly suffer.  I learned about trauma and stress on officers.  Of PTSD in law enforcement.  And of CCTS, or cumulative career traumatic stress.  I've been punched, kicked, spit on, yelled at, head butted, shot at, and more.  We are human.  We bleed.  Hurt.  Feel.  And cry...just like everyone else.  But who do the police call when we need help?  I didn't call anyone.  I thought I had it under control and that I wasn't letting it "come home" with me.  But I was wrong.  Very wrong.

And I didn't know it until my wife told me, in so many words.  I needed help.  Badly.  The C.O.P.S. course was a great beginning.  The posts on Code 9 are inspiring.  I'm seeking peace and calmness in yoga (yup, yoga), and I'm talking to a professional .  I'm not running away from it or pretending it doesn't exist.  I can't.  For years, the demons beat me and, along with me, my wife and life partner.  But no more.  Its my turn to beat back.

We need to help each other.  Reach out to your partner or fellow officer if you notice something is wrong.  He could be in trouble and what you say could save his life.

As for us, whatever we had...its too late.  And I thank her for saving my life.

My name is John Pfaehler.  I'm a friend, a son, a brother, a father, a husband.  And I'm a police officer.