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.