Bittersweet

Bittersweet.  An oft used word when describing polar feelings.  It is defined as arousing pleasure tinged with sadness or pain.  When thinking back on 2015, afuckingmen to that.

Experts always say start with the good stuff first because your body releases dopamine, the "feel good" hormone, and that allows you to better handle the bad stuff that comes afterwards.  If you tell the bad news first and then the good, your body is already in a state of "depression" per se and concentrates on that without ever really hearing the good stuff.

Now having said that, on with the good news...I fell in love.  Okay, more on that later.

Next, the mental wellness initiative that I advocated for within my department is moving forward.  Key aspects of it are already in place or will be enacted within the first few months of the year.  The program will...

• conduct in-service training to sworn and civilian personnel.  The training will include mental health conditions, warning signs, intervention techniques, coping skills, and available resources.
• identify providers within our current Employee Assistance Program (EAP) that have experience in dealing with law enforcement officers and the trauma they face.
• conduct family support training.  This training is designed specifically for family members and loved ones and includes warning signs, intervention techniques, available resources, and forming a support system.
• provide for an annual wellness check-in for sworn personnel where they can meet with a mental health professional to review the year gone by and sharpen coping skills to prepare for unforeseen future stress and trauma.
• increase our department's membership with the county police peer support team.
• create publications to promote and educate about the initiative and wellness issues.  Materials will include business-sized cards for officers to carry on their person.  These cards will have available 24/7 resources and warning signs.
• identify already available 24/7 resources that focus on law enforcement mental health.  These resources will include online, telephone and text support options.

This initiative is comprehensive with the idea of it being proactive as well as reactive to mental wellness issues to not only the officers themselves, but their families and loved ones as well.

A big milestone, that was not originally in the initial proposal, occurred.  I was introduced to a key representative of our county's premier mental health services nonprofit.  I discussed with her the mental wellness issues involving police officers and the unimaginable suicide rate within the law enforcement community.  Despite working for this large nonprofit, she had no idea that police officers kill themselves at a rate two to three times more than they are killed feloniously in the line of duty.

Quite frankly, how could she?  That's simply not something our extremely tight knit, and tight lipped, brotherhood talks about.  When an officer commits suicide, the agency announcement is usually vague on the details.  For example, an active duty police officer within my county, killed herself this past year.  When her department sent out the press release on her death, they said that Christina Splaine died suddenly.  No shit.  A .40 caliber hollow point round traveling at over 1,000 feet per second and entering your cranium at very close range will certainly have that result.  We owe it to Christina and all the other police officers who took their own lives when they felt that they had no other option.  We owe it to them to talk about this, raise awareness, make a change, and break the stigma that has a stranglehold on our law enforcement community regarding this deadly problem.

So, this rep and I are doing something about it.  I have  personal experience and intimate knowledge about these mental wellness issues, such as depression, anxiety, posttraumatic stress, and even suicide, and how they relate to and affect our peacemakers.  And she, well, she has sick business sense, smarts and connections to move mountains and make things happen.  Her professional experience is invaluable.  In 2005, she helped lead the fight to have Maryland establish a teen suicide prevention program.  Together, we are looking to pioneer a comprehensive approach to battling these debilitating wellness challenges for law enforcement.  This public-private partnership will attack these issues on two distinct fronts with the hope of cracking the stigma, once and for all, that holds officers down, so those who we summons for help will know they, too, will have someone they can call on to help them.  More details in future posts on this exciting partnership as it progresses throughout the year.

Is the dopamine flowing?  Hopefully a little.  Now for the shit.

I was hired in January 1994 as a part-time park officer in Pennsylvania.  So, in a few days, I'll be starting my 23rd year in law enforcement.  During those more than two decades of police work, sadly, I have been to many line of duty death funerals.  Far too many, really.  But this past month saw a first for me.  One that I pray to God never gets repeated again.  It was the first time that I worked a scene where one of my brothers in arms was killed.  As one of my teammates was completing a U-turn to back up our brother, he saw the officer get struck, thrown, and run over by a small SUV.  My teammate called out over the air "Officer down!"  I will never forget the sound of his voice.  I was riding shotgun with one of my other teammates to pick up my cruiser after it was serviced.  Before the radio transmission was over, he already had his Crown Vic screaming down the road.  We got there moments later, one of the first cars on scene.  I can remember running up to our stricken brother.  He was lying in the roadway, still a piece of the striking vehicle's bumper laying across his legs.  I yelled for someone to get a first aid kit.  I'll never forget the far off look in his eyes or his shallow, labored breathing.  I could see the life within him slipping away.  Since there were countless other officers surrounding his body, I knew there was another aspect to this incident, so I found the driver and began part of the investigation.  I knew through instinct and experience upon contact with him that the driver was intoxicated.  The tragic irony is that my fallen brother was part of the holiday driving under the influence task force.  It was virtually an all night affair.

Officer Noah Leotta would stay on life support another week or so before his family had to make the heart wrenching decision to take him off of it.  I cannot even remotely imagine their pain and suffering.  Five days later, I volunteered to serve on my department's honor guard detail for Noah's funeral.  It was only afterwards that I saw a Washington Post photograph of Noah and my first thought was, "Oh, that's what he looks like."  The image of seeing him lying there in the middle of the roadway will be forever seared on my brain.

Through it all, the good and the bad, my body, mind and soul took hits this year, but it was buoyed by my love and the love of a woman.  After years and years of personal suffering, heartache, and mistakes, I found true love.  In her.  With her.  From her.  And I cannot begin to tell you how critical it is - how absolutely essential to your own health and well being - to have someone in your life that can lift you up with just the sound of their voice.  We need someone to talk to when we suffer from trauma and experience stress.  Believe it.  I am so blessed to have her in my life.  She is my rock and my sounding board.  My safe harbor.

So, for all of it, two thousand fifteen will be a year I will never forget.

Taking Chances

Taking chances.  Really no explanation needed for that two word statement.  Taking chances.  That's what life is all about.  You take a chance when you get in the car to go to the store.  You take a chance  when you place an order at the restaurant.  Or when you buy clothes for your picky ass kid.  Or when you purchase that refurbished "smart" TV on Groupon.  (What?...it still works fine.  I just need it to show Netlflix.)  Of course, there is very little personal risk with any of these meager examples (OK...maybe getting the right clothes for the munchkin...you always wanna keep peace whenever you have an opportunity to do so.)

But make no mistake, many of us take chances on a daily basis that affects our very lives.  One little fuck up could have enormous consequences.  Clearly, police officers make such decisions all the time.  And every time we do, we're taking a risk.  Most times, it weighs on us.  Taking a chance that we're making the right call.  That our decision, say, to not arrest someone in that domestic violence incident and instead "encourage" them to find another place to sleep it off will not lead to a deadly conclusion later on.  Or we take a chance when we're running lights and siren to that personal injury collision and, as we're working our way through shitty rush hour traffic, we're hoping no one will jump out in front of us or that car won't make that last second, unexpected turn and we make impact on body or automobile.

None of this, really, is a grand revelation.  And, quite frankly, even "announcing" that everyone takes chances is trivial.  We all know that we do.  Or, at least, I hope everyone knows that they do.

But some of our greatest chances are made from within.  I read a friend of mine's writing recently, which brought me to this theme.  (Admittedly, I "stole" her title to her blog and it now rests atop this one as well.  No...never said I was overtly creative.  And why reinvent the wheel?)  The risk taking arising from inside us can be the most significant we ever make.

The author wrote, "What holds you back from taking a chance on something that peaks your interest or from doing something you dream of doing?  Fear, usually.  The comfort of the known, maybe."  How very true her words are.

Fear.  And comfort.

She hit the nail right on the head with both.  When I talk to people about my own personal struggles, particularly with my ruinous relationship that constituted a marriage, I speak of the "known" and the "unknown."  If things were so bad for years, why did I stay?  Why did she stay?  I truthfully have no sure idea about her.  Maybe it was the last vestiges of hope in salvaging a sinking ship.  Me?  That's easy.  Well, easy to explain now that I've stepped out of it and can see with clearer eyes.  But not easy while mired in a sea of shit.

Fear paralyzes us.  Most are able to overcome it, but not necessarily when it comes to the big ticket items like changing a career or leaving or starting a relationship.  When we take a chance in one of those arenas we're in the big leagues.  We're playing with our livelihoods.  Our confidence.  And, in all likelihood, our hearts.  If we let that trepidation set in and let it slither through our body, mind, and soul, then it begins to rule our ability to make decisions.  We cripple at the thought of failure.  What if I take that new job, perhaps in another part of the country or even world, and I hate it?  Or suck at it?  Or what if I let my heart go and begin to let my guard down for someone else and then it doesn't work out?  We go our separate ways and I'm scarred.  Burned and hurt.

And that's where comfort comes in.  Those possible outcomes and their ramifications on our psyche, our spirit, can be devastating.  So, we just stay put.  It may totally suck where we've settled, but it's familiar.  We know what to expect.  The problem is, it's mostly bad shit.  But it's more comfortable for us.  Knowing what to expect lets us know to prepare our bodies and minds for the vortex of pain that usually comes when living and experiencing that "bad shit".  (I really wanted to drive the point home here...not too dramatic, I hope, with "vortex".)

That's the way it was for me.  I was miserable.  Arguably, we both were.  But I was debilitated by the fear of the unknown.  And accepting of the known however distressing it was for me.  My mind and, subsequently, my body got into a routine of preparing itself for the worst.  Constantly.  Although cortisol is an important hormone, particularly when it comes to our "fight or flight" mode, excessive amounts of it at sustained levels can have destructive affects on the body.  When we're in a depressed and sorrowful situation, we're in that "fight or flight" mode.  We're always prepared to fight our way out of a complete bullshit argument over dishes or to fly the hell out of that inevitable quarrel and seek refuge somewhere, anywhere, else and thus avoiding the real issue altogether.  I'm confident my cortisol levels were high.  All the time.  Yet even after the separation occurred, I desperately wanted to be back in that defective relationship for no other reason than because it was familiar.  Comfortable per se.

Yet, without having read her blog before, I did what my sweet friend was sharing and advocating.  I took a chance.  On me and what I wanted and needed.  And I lived.  Am living.

If you are there, in a place where you are gripped by fear or moored in a bad spot because you're "comfortable", get up, get out...and take a chance.  On yourself.  On someone else.  Rise up.  Live.  Your life is out there waiting for you.

P.S. A heartfelt thank you to her.  Her own message was an inspiration for mine.

Casualties of War

Casualties of War is a late-1980s movie staring Michael J. Fox and Sean Penn.  It was centered on the Vietnam War and based on actual events.   The story is related through Fox's character, a private in the U.S. Army.  It didn't get the best reviews and it was't up for any Oscars.  The film was, I dunno, trite, but it simply wasn't one that leaves an indelible mark on the brain like say, Platoon or Full Metal Jacket.  Casualties of War was actually considered a box office loss.

The premise of the movie is a flashback of Private Max Erikkson, Fox's character.  The long and short of it...Erikkson is part of a squad that kidnaps a Viet Cong girl to be their sex slave.  Erikkson is vehemently against this and tries in vain to protect her.  In the end, she is killed by the squad and her murder is covered up.  The whole thing is a traumatic experience for Erikkson, as one can imagine.  Someone even attempts to kill him as he pushes to tell the truth.


So, let's get a bird's eye view on this for a sec...this is taking place in Vietnam, arguably one of the shittiest wars the United States has ever been involved in for a multitude of reasons.  And Erikkson is a private.  Not a corporal or even a specialist.  A private.  There ain't jack below that.  And then, for the most part because of peer pressure on the weaklings, his entire squad is against him on this...the taking of someone who "belongs" to the enemy, the Viet Cong.  Throw in the whole someone tries to kill your ass with a splash of superiors who don't give a shit and you basically have a no-win situation brewing.  And yet, that dude does not give up.  He perseveres   And not only that, Erikkson brings the truth to light and members of his squad, who participated in the kidnapping, rape, and murder of that girl, are brought to justice.  That took balls.

And yet, there is fallout.  Losses.  Of course, the girl.  But also in and with Erikkson.

Without a doubt, there are those that lambasted him for "ratting" on his own troops and "sticking up" for the dreaded "VC".  But how about the reflections of the events that haunt him, arguably, to this day?  Trauma has consequences.  Perhaps Erikkson suffered from nightmares, flashbacks or unexpected outbursts as a result of it all.  Maybe he questioned himself for years after as to whether or not he could've done something more.  There's a good chance, despite the high moral road that he took to maintain his honor and try to save the girl, he lost friends.  Unexplainable shit like that happens.

The term "posttraumatic stress disorder", PTSD, grew out of the Vietnam War.  And U.S. military personnel suffered from it as a result of seeing or experiencing some crazy, fucked up shit...like this.  Clearly, the term casualties has several meanings with this film.  The obvious is the death of the girl.  But the demise of servicemen, morally and physically, to such a horrific incident can be seen as a loss.  However, since the story is told as a flashback for Erikkson, I think its safe to surmise that the greatest casualty of all is his loss of years of unencumbered mental and emotional anguish.  Erikkson suffered, I'm sure, greatly.

Of course, I didn't go to Vietnam.  Duh...um, not born yet.  And although I'm a reservist in the military (yes, the Coast Guard is technically a military service...get off my ass about it), the chances of me seeing combat or anything of the like are minuscule, at best.

But I've fought a war.

With myself.

For almost 13 years, I fought a conflict that I didn't really even know I was involved in.  And I got my ass beat.  Not knowing I was engaged in a struggle left me clearly not knowing how to fight it.  It wasn't until my marriage was finally and officially over (more officially than finally since it was certainly over before it became "official") that I could feel my wounds.  All those years of getting hit, from small arms (the everyday police shit) to the heavy artillery (big calls, like murders, deaths, or anything bad with kids), left me hemorrhaging emotionally and mentally.

There were most certainly casualties with my war.  The marriage.  Lost moments with my family.  And I believe I've healed nicely from those particular injuries.  I've moved on from the marriage and am looking at brighter horizons.  There has been more time spent with the folks, my siblings and all their munchkins.  But my biggest blow has been to some dear friends.  And that shit hurts.

I've got two buddies of mine whom I love dearly, but haven't spoken to, let alone gotten together with, in years.  Years.  I wish it was some lame dick excuse like they live so far away, like in another country, or they've gone off the grid and I simply can't track their asses down or whatever.  No.  I know where they live.  Even have their phone numbers.  I get why it happened.  And I absolutely harbor no ill will towards them.  Its just they have their own lives and my battles were more they could handle at the time.  That doesn't make them shitty friends or bad people.  People who suffer from PTSD and/or depression withdraw.  They isolate themselves from, ironically enough, loved ones.  Its what happens.  Its easier to simply not talk to or deal with personal issues.  Stuff that shit away in a box and stow it somewhere in a dark place where you hope you never have to go to it again.

Here's a tip...that doesn't work.  (pretend I'm whispering...)  Shhhhh...because its still there.  (talking normal again)  You HAVE to address it, process whatever is going on within you.  Your close confidants can be your greatest asset and most powerful ally in your struggle to break through the hurt and suffering.  Reach out to them.  Talk to them.  Simply BE with them.  As corny as that quote may be about a true friend, its dead-the-fuck on for those of us that have silently suffered.  I had many a talks with my friend, Al, about the difficulties of my marriage and how it was affecting me as a person.  He was a support, but I just could not get out from underneath it all.  Still, I needed him to be there.  But after a while, he wasn't.  And that was on me.

It is OK to acknowledge that you cannot win the war alone.  The pounding takes its toll and your resources to defend and turn the tide are simply too limited.  You need help.  I sure as shit did.  But I was knee deep in it before I realized what the hell was going on.  My family...I can always count on.  They are good to me.  Tolerant.  My brothers and sisters-in-arms...although may not be the most therapeutic bunch, are people I share my darkest moments with and that forges special bonds.  I will always need them.  Mental health professionals.  Well, come on.  Seriously?  Those fuckers are everywhere.  You just gotta find the right one and, thankfully, I did (shout out to Gary Bush and pointing me to Rapid Resolution Therapy).  And so there are the friends, an uniquely qualified core group of people who probably know you more intimately than any of those others.  Yet, they may be the first ones out of your resources batch to be jettisoned, consciously or subconsciously.

Hold on to them.  Cherish the multifaceted value they have in your life.  Do not let them be a casualty of war like some of mine were...they'll stick with you, if you let them.  According to the dictionary, the word "friend" is from an Indo-European root meaning "to love".

But even if some do stray or depart, for whatever reasons, circle around and get back to them.  Own your shit, especially the fuck ups you made to them.  (I know I had many.)  Share your struggle.  I'm betting they'll be compassionate as to what you had to go through in order to get back to where you need to be or where you are.

Me?  Well, Al and Bob, if you're reading this, I'll be calling soon.  If you're not, well, tough shit, I'm calling anyway.  Its been too long and I'm not where I was before.

Can't wait to talk to you guys again...

Faith: Hanging On By a Thread

Faith.  My iMac dictionary defines it as the complete trust in someone or something as well as the strong belief in God based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof.  Those two meanings are perplexing to me.

When I'm driving down a two lane road with my daughter in the car and there's an oncoming vehicle, I've got to have faith in that driver.  Faith that he will maintain his speed, stay in his lane and that he will forgo whatever impulse he has to text or talk on the phone, to search for a song on his iPod or whatever other possible distraction that could arise that would have him deviate from safely passing me in the spit second it takes to do so.  That is complete, unadulterated, trust in that driver.  Period.  If I didn't have it, I wouldn't drive.

Now take the second definition; the strong belief in God regardless of proof that He exists.  In general monotheistic terms, God is omni-everything...powerful, knowing, present and goodness.  God is good.  At least, that's the basic idea.  We have this understanding that God exists and set up some rules for us to live by.  People will, obviously, differ amongst sects as to the interpretation of the Bible and its literal or general meanings.  However, that's not the road I'm going down.  I want to keep it general.  I'm not up for a theological debate.  So, we'll just say that the Bible and God provide us with guidance on how to treat one another.  Its not rocket surgery...don't kill, don't steal, respect one another, forgive, yada, yada.  That's it in a nutshell, of course, but basically its common sense stuff on how to behave humanely and civilly towards other human beings.

Back to the oncoming car and the driver.  Do I need to have faith that he believes in these doctrines of God?...that he's not going to kill me and my child as we approach each other, head on?  I guess maybe I do.  I don't know.  Its not something I've thought about as I'm driving down that two lane road heading to my parent's house or going to the park for a play date or wherever.  But I probably should.

So, here's my issue...what if my faith in God is hanging on by a thread because of the horrifying actions of people, like maybe that driver?  How the hell do I come to grips with that?  I am losing faith in God because of the sickening deeds of Man, yet I have to believe that the individual driving the approaching vehicle hopefully has faith in God's creeds so I don't die.  What?  How does that work?  I have no fucking clue.

As I have talked openly about my own personal battles with posttraumatic stress and depression and how they played out with me and the ones closest to me, friends and coworkers have confided in me that many experience a real struggle with their Faith.  We see the most vile acts of one man against another, many times for no apparent reason whatsoever...just for the shit of it.  This country is Christian based.  Christianity is a monotheistic religion, so God is that omni-everything that I mentioned earlier.  Many of the shitbirds that I and my comrades deal with on a regular basis presumably hang their beliefs on Christianity.  So, if by deductive reasoning, these culprits are Christians, it shouldn't surprise anyone that many police officers wrestle with holding onto their faith in God.  If God exists and these people are Christians, why the fuck would one or a group of them randomly walk up behind a fellow human being and beat the dogshit out of them for, what, maybe a couple of bucks and an iPhone?  How is that following His doctrine on how to act with one another?  Shit...what does Mark 12:31 say, "Love your neighbor as yourself..."?  That is said to be the second greatest "commandment" of all.

So, I struggle.  I struggle to see how there is God when I bare witness to all the shocking and deplorable acts committed by His, presumably self proclaimed, followers.  Like this "Black Lives Matters" tag line...Sure they do.  As do white ones, Hispanic ones, Asian ones, and on and on.  But you'll see many, including preachers, pastors, and the like, in news clips and online videos chanting this mantra while desecrating and destroying the lives and livelihoods of their fellow human beings.  How is that Godly?  Of course its not.  And, of course, there's the argument that those people aren't "true" Christians, yada, yada.  I get that.  But when interactions and images like that are pounded into your psyche almost everyday of almost every week of almost every month of almost every year for 20 whatever years, that shit starts to stick and take hold and burrow its way into your soul, taking hostage of your righteous belief system.

I know, I know, the latter part of that second definition states "rather than proof" and therein lies the meaning of Faith.  Again, I get it.  But, like most police officers, I'm more or less a black and white kinda guy, so the concept of Faith is already, on its own, a struggle to preserve.  Throw in that other shit...and you can see why its unraveling within me.  Maybe that's why I tear up when I read, watch, or hear about stories of people simply helping people.  They're my last vestiges of faith...in humanity.

My Own Kingda Ka

According to the planet's foremost source of information, Wikipedia, the Kingda Ka roller coaster at the Six Flag's Great Adventure in New Jersey is reportedly the world's tallest roller coaster and its second fastest. The Kingda Ka is 456 feet tall, that's over 45 stories, with a top speed of 128 MPH, which is achieved in 3.5 seconds.  The entire ride lasts only 28 seconds.  That's insane.  And anyone who dares to ride that thing, for the brief 28 seconds or not of sheer hell, is nuts.  Take note, I think it goes without saying that I have no plans to ride that monster or any roller coaster for that matter...cuz I'd be this guy...

There's your fair warning.  Heed it or don't, but I do not do roller coasters very well, at an adventure park or in life.  I don't know anybody that really does.  But I'm sure there are...there's somebody for just about anything out there.

This last month or so for me has been my own roller coaster.  And there have been moments of sheer terror, of joy and, of sorrow.

I went out for the evening and to dinner one night.  By the end of it, a fellow officer from my department would be dead.  It was not a line of duty death and, sadly, it was expected.  It just wasn't expected to be on that day.  He and his family, his wife and daughter, had made plans to have a special daddy-daughter day at a city park.  He had stage 4 brain cancer and he knew he was going to die.  So, they set up this event to have one more lasting memory for his daughter.  She got a wedding dress knowing that he wouldn't be there to walk her down the isle when that time came.  Working the midnight shift, I wasn't there.  I saw the photographs later.  They were beautiful.  She was stunning.  As they were involved in this memorable occasion, my brother in blue would take his last breath right then and there.  How emotionally bittersweet.

He was laid to rest a week later.  As a member of the Honor Guard, I was privileged to be a part of this final farewell.  I served as one of the many casket guards during the viewing, standing right next to him as he laid there in his Class A uniform.  But it wasn't until the very end of the service, when family, friends, and other loved ones were making their way out and saying their last good byes and condolences to the family when it hit me.  I walked up to the edge of casket, came to attention, and rendered my own final salute.  And I looked down and saw him.  Saw him as the husband that he was...and the father, the brother, the son, and the friend.  It struck me like a ton of bricks.  Just out of nowhere.  I felt a tear roll down my cheek.  In an effort to maintain that proverbial "be strong for the family" mindset, I knew I had to end the moment.  I slowly dropped my salute and turned to his wife and daughter, telling them how sorry I was for their loss and how much he loved them both.  The next day, he was buried in Crownville Veterans Cemetery.

During this time, I was still making final preparations for the family of one of the officers, Lieutenant Thomas Forbes, whom I was going to be riding for in the Police Unity Tour.  An interview of one of the officer's daughters, Lauren, struck a chord with me.  So, I tracked her down and reached out to her.  Her father, a police officer for nearly 31 years, had committed suicide and now she was speaking out about it and mental wellness within the law enforcement community.  After I told her that I would be riding in the Police Unity Tour to honor her father, she spoke with her mother and sister.  They agreed that they would make the trip to our nation's capitol to be there when I, and the rest of the almost 2,000 members of the Tour, would arrive at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial.  I was so incredibly moved that they would make that journey, that I promised to cover their travel expenses.  But, as roller coasters go with their extreme ups and downs, my vision of riding onto the hallowed grounds of the Memorial came crashing, literally crashing, to an end less than a week before the start of the Tour.  I got into a bad wreck on my final training ride which put me out of the event.

Yet, this venture was never about me.  It was always about the family and their husband and father.  So, when they landed at Reagan-National Airport, I was at least their to meet them...finally.  I was humbled and honored.  My bad luck, though, didn't stop the Forbes' family and they continued with their pilgrimage.  As I talked to each one of the briefly while we made our way back to Reagan-National towards their respective departure flights, they all said that the trip had been a part of their much larger journey of healing.  Later, when one of them posted a photograph on Facebook that showed Lieutenant Forbes' picture deservedly taped to the Wall, like so many others who sacrificed, I was brought to tears.

On the day of the Tour's arrival, I had surgery on my left hand.  My gun hand.  I sustained a pretty significant injury to it in my bike wreck the week before.  As I took inventory of all of my injuries, I realized that my career hung in the balance of the success of this surgery, my healing from it, and then my yet-to-occur therapy and recovery.  The surgeon and the PA from the orthopaedic office all said "the surgery was textbook" and "it looks good", but there are no guarantees in life.  And certainly not with an offense to my aging body such as this.  Policing is a young man's game.  Sure, experience is crucial, but the bottom line is, if things go south, like they can in the blink of an eye, you gotta be, not only able to go from zero to a hundred in a nanosecond, but then finish the fight.  That takes strength and stamina.  I'm not saying I'm not strong or fit for my age (and size), but, let's face it, I'm dealing with shitheads half my age.  So, the question is then...am I strong and fit for their age?  When I lay down to go to bed at night to try and get some sleep with the wounds, bruises, aches, and pains that my body feels right now...I'm not so sure.

And that's the physical side of it all.  My mind is on its own Kingda Ka.  Maybe this is the life of a police officer.  Like I've mentioned before, politicians and media have been raking our asses over the coals for a while now.  It's no bullshit that that kind of stuff works over our emotions as well.  As a member of my county police's peer support team, we had been asked to respond to Baltimore to talk to those men and women in blue up there.  There's bound to be emotional and mental fallout from that.  Its been rough.  This up and down and up and down shit wears me out.  So, I dunno, is this the life of a police officer...?

Or is it just mine?

Suffering is Valor's Dark Shadow

In Valor There is Hope.  Those words were first said by the one of the greatest Roman historians, Tacitus. They grace the hallowed walls of the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in our nation's capitol.  And they are also tattooed on my right arm to serve as a reminder of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice before me and to honor those who continue to dedicate their very lives...mind, body, and soul...for their communities, their families.

But what is that phrase actually conveying?  What does it mean?  Of course, it varies with each individual.  For me, it means that, in the act or actions of courageousness or strength of character, there is hope for us as individuals and then collectively as a society.  I am inspired by others just like the next person.  And more so when its those who have devoted everything...sometimes literally and tragically everything...for the betterment and protection of the world we live in.  Firefighters, paramedics and EMTs, doctors and nurses, teachers and caretakers, and the like.

And yes, police officers.  Believe it or not.  Its not a secret that we've been getting the shit beat out of us in media outlets this past year, but I'm proud to say that I am part of this elite and devout brotherhood (please, don't take offense my sisters in arms...I'm just trying to keep it simple and maintain proper English to show that I have some level of higher intelligence.  I absolutely include you.).

So, police officers.  Who are these guys?  What are these people?  Who am I?  Lately, we've been monsters.  Murderers, to some, who have been given a badge and a gun and now have a legal avenue to start shooting the shit out of people for no reason.  "Fear for my life".  Pfffft.  Please...how easy of a fall back is that?  Cop out, right?  I read on a Facebook feed that someone (and I'm sure there's many, many more that agree) thinks that shouldn't be a defense for us.  That when we got into the job, we understood that people might be shooting at us or trying to stab us or trying to beat our asses with a bat, crowbar, sword or what the fuck ever tool that's now become a killing device.  Fuck that.  I reread my job description and, although we've had more training and  legal processes added to it, there isn't dick about its OK to try and kill me.

Homicide suspect, who returned to the scene of the crime
where a woman was stabbed to death, confronts police officers.

I am a human being.  I will react when confronted with a threat.  But here's the kicker...I'm a police officer as well. I have no duty to retreat in the face of that threat.  In fact, its my responsibility...my charge...to confront it so that others do not have to.  I got into an argument a couple of months ago with a family member about police shootings and "killings". Their stance, like so many who have no experience or true exposure and, therefore, no real understanding of the responsibilities and training of a police officer, was why can't we shoot to disable or disarm?  OK, beyond not truly understanding it from a law enforcement aspect, there is a lack of comprehension, or perhaps awareness, of the scientific, the physiological, side of how that idea is, well...ludicrous.

During a threatening incident, such as confronting a person with a gun or a knife or a sword or some other deadly weapon, your body...yes, everyone's bodies...goes into an autonomic response.  Its a hyperarousal state commonly known as the "fight or flight" response.  When this happens, the body goes into overdrive and changes occur that are out of anyone's control.  Adrenaline is dumped, blood vessels dilate for increased oxygen flow to the now much needed muscles, vision and auditory exclusions occur,  heart and lung activities increase, and intestinal functions are inhibited.  And my mind is functioning in the limbic part of the brain where emotions take a backseat and instincts kick in.  All of this in an effort for your body to react quickly and instinctually to the threat.   Everyone experiences this response to one degree or another.  Its our bodies.  We cannot debate this.

Now, take the situation at hand...let's say its a fight with a person who is reaching for your gun or who is trying to stab you with a knife.  The conditions are dynamic.  Bodies are moving, including their extremities.  So, when I'm in this life or death struggle, real or perceived after the fact...at that moment, its real to me...when my body is under extreme stress and experiencing all of the physiological responses stated above and extremities, arms and legs, are moving around like crazy, you want me to stop, take aim, and try to hit a small diameter, rapidly moving object?!  Ummm, no.  Completely impractical for the confrontation at hand and the responsibilities I have vowed to uphold.  So, I do what I have to do to survive it.

But what happens afterwards?  That adrenaline has to go somewhere.  Relatively speaking, my body returns to a normal functioning mode.  My heart begins to slow.  I start to breath easier and unhurried.  And, although I'm probably still functioning primarily in the limbic part of my brain, my emotions return.  And that's when it can hit me.

I'm still a human being.  I want to preserve life.  Mine as well as others.  Not only is that innate, but its also a conscious idea for me.  I'm a police officer, a public servant, because I truly want to help people, however that may manifest itself.  (And, however, naïve that sounds, its still true for many of us in this profession.)  That may be taking the life of one in order to protect the many.  But that doesn't mean I won't suffer somehow for it...for that decision and then my subsequent actions.  And no, I'm not at all talking about any legal bullshit that follows, but the suffering I may place upon myself.  That's a heavy fucking burden to bear to decide to take the life of another human being, regardless of their standing in life and how much of a shitbird they may be.  Whatever I do, I do it because I believe in it.  I believe in my virtues and the actions I take to uphold them.  But there will be a reaction for what I do...an emotional reaction that can come unexpectedly once my body returns to a more normal state.

Las Vegas Metro police officers react after two of their own
where assassinated while eating lunch.

Because I'm a compassionate human being as well as being a cop.

Billings (MT) Police Officer Grant Morrison is an excellent example of this.  He performed a traffic stop and confronted a suspected shooting suspect, whom Officer Morrison believed to be armed with a handgun.  After failing to comply with Officer Morrison's repeated orders to keep his hands in plain sight, the suspect moved them out of view.  Officer Morrision, already in his "fight or flight" mode, feared for his life...yes, feared for his life because cops can experience fear...and shot and killed the suspect.  This video shows the reaction that followed once Officer Morrison's body began to "normalize".  He cried.  No shit, right?  A police officer, a figure whom the public regularly treats as feelingless robots, showed emotion and felt a sense of humanity after taking the life of another.

I don't, even in the least, watch this video and then think that Officer Morrison is a pussy for crying.  No, not at all. I think he's human...a courageous man who stood up and committed his mind and body to serving and protecting his community.  I have the outmost respect for Officer Morrison and the deepest of compassions for him.  If it were me instead of him, I'm sure I would have done the same from the intense start to this emotional finish.

And, despite my convictions to the righteousness of valor, there can be a hidden, dark side to it.

Because I'm a human being.

OK, Huddle Up. Here's the Plan...

I was talking to a dear friend of mine a little while ago who, like me, had been going through a separation and subsequent divorce.  Its hard just talking about it...let alone living and experiencing it.  And they asked me what have I done to turn it around for me.  With the one year anniversary of my soon-to-be-ex-wife's announcement that she wanted a divorce, I guess its as good a time as any to look back and see what I've done to right the ship and keep her sailing true.  Perhaps it'll help my dear friend.  Or maybe some others.  It'll certainly help me make sure I'm still following my game plan. 

For anyone who has suffered an unexpected and intense loss, your world immediately gets caught in a free fall.  I know.  That's what happened to mine when she told me she wanted out.  As I've been told and have learned since, the end of a marriage is a loss.  Your mind can react as if it was the loss of a loved one.  My mind was out of control.  I couldn't shut off, or even slow down, the racing thoughts screaming through my head.  Sleep was nearly impossible.  I immediately took off a week of work to simply gather myself.

I had to do something to begin to regain some semblance of control with my life and put the brakes on that free fall.  For years, I didn't want to, or perhaps couldn't, admit that the job, my profession that I loved and sacrificed so much, was a significant cause to my now seemingly out of control life.  Having realized the probable affects of all the trauma, despair, and stress I've experienced throughout my career and the now very real need to vomit my thoughts and feelings on someone who could provide me with tangible help, I looked for a therapist who specialized in, or at least had been exposed to, posttraumatic stress like issues.  That...was step number one...

So, for those struggling to find their center, quiet the noise, stop the free fall, or however else you want to describe your desperate desire to pass through the storm, here's what I did and its worked pretty well...

• Professional help.  Yeah, it super sucks that you have to admit that you can't handle every major league crisis that presents itself in your life by yourself.  But guess what?  You can't.  And that's OK.  I've been a law enforcement officer for 21+ years and for me to seek out assistance was a big blow to my ego.  But it was the best decision I made throughout it all.  Mental health professionals are just that, professionals.  Helping people through rough waters in their lives and helping them self-evaluate is what they do.  People call the police to report a burglary because we're the experts.  They don't call an electrician.  Admittedly, my first therapist was good at listening and that was about it.  I needed more than that...my friends can listen and they're free.  I needed a no-bullshit assessment of me and my life.  But more importantly, I needed tools that I could take with me from my therapy sessions to utilize when something else came along down the road...because, inevitably, something would.  After my first one bombed, with some help from my support (next one on the list), I was able to find a kick ass therapist.
• Support crew.  Say what you want about Facebook, but it was a saving grace for me.  Because I wasn't finding solace with my first therapist and I was still trying to keep my head above water, I joined a couple of groups (open and closed) on Facebook, Police Survivors of PTSD, Damaged on Duty, Code 9 - Officer Needs Assistance, Surviving the Shield, and Serve & Protect to name a few.  People who like these pages and are active participants in the groups' discussions have been through their own trauma and depression.  They, too, are police officers or other first responders such as paramedics, firefighters, etc.  Joining in the conversation and realizing that you are not alone in your struggles is enormous.  My first open, public remarks about my own problems and my collapsing marriage were made on Code 9.  It was a gamble, but it sure did pay off.  Hundreds, literally hundreds, of people...complete strangers, but brothers and sisters in arms nonetheless...commented, supported, and shared.  It may seem morbid, but it was refreshing to see that I wasn't the only one battling demons.  It was therapeutic.
• Roots revisited.  Without a doubt, over the years, I drifted from those activities and places that made me who I was...backpacking, hiking, soccer, photography, and more.  I slipped into this mind numbing routine of finding an excuse to not get my ass up and moving to do those things I enjoyed, whether it was by myself or with someone special.  So, they fell by the wayside.  Get back to what made you whole.  I began playing soccer again in a local indoor league and I returned to the outdoors.  We've all heard it...exercise helps reduce stress.  For me, perhaps more importantly, the activities occupied my time.  I wasn't just sitting on my ass in my apartment staring at four bare walls feeling sorry for myself.  I knew I had to pull myself up from the proverbial boot straps and get moving.  So, I did.
• Do more.  And along with getting back to my roots, I decided that there was no better time than to try and do some activities I've always thought about doing.  I began swimming.  I always enjoyed swimming and, when I was a kid, my siblings and I were on the local pool's swim team.  But that was 30+ years ago.  And I also tried Bikram hot yoga.  Now, my brother swears by it and say what you want about yoga, but until you try the hot yoga, you don't know jack shit.  That first session kicked my ass...probably the most exhausting workout I've ever had.  Admittedly, I was just a tad underprepared...I didn't hydrate.  So, 75 minutes into the 90 minute session, I began to cramp up.  Bad.  My hands and toes curled up and my mouth began to pucker so much that I couldn't talk.  I had to crawl out of the room and into the hall where they gave me a drink powder mix that had electrolytes.  Within minutes, I was OK, but the experience had forever burned a memory into my brain...drink lots of water before yoga.  I went back the next day for my second season.  I loved it.  And then I also signed up for my first triathlon.  Yup.  At 44 years old with zero experience or exposure to such an event, I jumped right into what many in the tri-state triathlon circuit (apparently) consider one of the most difficult courses.  Fun.  Although my goal was to simply finish the tri, I seriously thought I was going to drown within the first hundred yards.  But I gained my composure and, sure enough, proudly finished my first triathlon ever.  I signed up to do five this year.

  

  
  

• Quiet time.  We all need it.  I know I did, but I never really set aside time to have it...peace and quiet.  I certainly wasn't going to find it at work and when I came home, although I just wanted to "veg out" and do jack shit, I sometimes felt guilty about not playing with my daughter.  But we all need that time to ourselves to recharge.  So, one of the very first things I did was sign up for gentle yoga (the exact opposite of hot yoga).  The first time I ever went to a yoga class, my wife had taken us.  I hated it.  I was the only guy and I didn't know "downward dog" from "doggy style".  I was intimidated by my very amateur level compared to all the women in the class, including my wife.  And for a cop, that's a horrible combination.  But I signed up for my first class during my free fall because I knew of the benefits that yoga can offer.  And when I arrived for that initial session, I was 15 minutes early and there before the instructor.  There was no way I wanted to miss it.  Since then, its been my anchor.  Its that one block of time during my week that I know, for sure, I'll have calm and peace.  That simple 90 minutes allows me to refocus on myself and my healing.  Its a cleansing.
• Open up.  Easily, however, the most critical aspect of my game plan was to open up about what was going on with me.  Although I've had serious traumatic events throughout my 21+ law enforcement career, the significant one took place in August 2001.  It wasn't until May 2014, after my wife told me she wanted a divorce and I was now sitting on a couch in my psychotherapy nurse's office that everything became so much clearer.  She's asking me questions, screening me, in an attempt to find out what's up with me.  At the end of her inquiries, I pause for a moment or two, anticipating her conclusion, but I got nothing.  I couldn't take it.  I needed to know.  So, I said, "OK.  What does that mean?  What do I have?  What's going on with me?"  She told me I had posttraumatic stress disorder and depression.  Holy shit, I thought.  What a relief...I now finally knew what had been going on with me all of these years.  I was seriously almost overjoyed.  Now knowing what was going on gave me the knowledge to then begin my healing.  For almost 13 years, the demons had been beating me down and my loved ones along with me, but no longer...it was my time to fight back.

  

That's what I did.  And am still doing.  Its gotta be on going, otherwise, I could slip right back into that well of darkness.  To each his own, of course, but if you're suffering and need some help getting back on your feet and pointed in a different direction other than down, I hope this helps.  Just do something.  And if you need an ear, please reach out.  healingtheblue@gmail.com

I Admit It, I'm a Fucking Asshole

I worked last night and it was, well...it was New Year's Eve...

Around 0430, I make a car stop.  It's a drunk driver.  A female.  And her boyfriend is in the car, his car.  I arrest her for the DUI and place her in the backseat of my cage car.  As you can imagine, the dude is not happy...his woman is handcuffed and in the back of a police cruiser.  His virility has been challenged.  So, he becomes a little bit lippy...whatever.  I could care less.

But he moves towards my car in an effort to try and talk to his girlfriend when my back up officer tells him to move back.  This pisses him off and says he only wants to make sure she's safe.  I tell him she's fine...she's in our care and custody.  He replies, "Fuck you guys. I don't trust you. It may not have been you (pointing to me) or you (pointing to my back up) that shot them, but you guys kill people.  The police have killed a lot of people.  And for no reason."

So, I ask him if he's being robbed, who is he going to call?  (Two things...Please don't immediately say or think "Ghostbusters" and please know that robbery is the taking of something by force or fear of force. Robbery is usually violent.)  He says, "I'm not calling you guys.  You guys are fucking assholes."

Yeah, I'm the fucking asshole that earlier in my shift was dispatched to a domestic violence in progress, but diverts to a "mayday" call at our county's crisis center because some crazy chick, whose real name is Princess, but believes she's God, is attacking a crisis counselor and security guard with a knife.

Yeah, I'm the fucking asshole who then gets dispatched code 3 to another domestic violence in progress, where the 12 year old caller is scared shitless because his mom and dad are fighting...again.

Yeah, I'm the fucking asshole who responds lights and siren to a suspicious situation for an open 9-1-1 line with sounds of screaming and yelling in the background to find out a boyfriend and girlfriend were fighting while her 4 year old was present.

Yeah, I'm the fucking asshole who stopped and arrested the drunk driver who was racing down a residential street, possibly preventing him from hurting or killing himself...or much worse, someone else...a family,  maybe.

So, yeah, I'm the fucking asshole that stopped and arrested your girlfriend, who was almost twice the legal alcohol limit, while she was driving you home.  Maybe she would've made it unscathed.  Or maybe she would've wrapped herself...and you...around that tree or light pole.  Our maybe she would've crossed that double yellow line and struck that family minivan as it was returning from a gathering of friends and family, hurting or killing all or some on board.  Or maybe she would've struck and dragged that pedestrian who was simply taking her regular early morning walk.

We'll never know because that didn't happen.  No.  I stopped her.  This fucking asshole.  You were able to go home with your buddies who came to get you.  After she was processed, she was able to sleep in her own bed.  That family made it home to spend more time together.  And that walker was able to complete her ritual to start her day.

I'm not looking for thanks...no way.   Not by any stretch.  I just want the respect for what I do.  I don't think that's much...you'd want it to.

So, on behalf of me and the other almost 800,000 fucking assholes I call my brothers and sisters in blue...Happy New Years.  I'm glad you made it home safe.