PTSD The Demon Within

By George Morring

PTSD awareness written by a combat veteran. Take a walk, and a ride through any given day in Iraq.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George Morring
• Release date: Mar 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386185154

Book preview

Courtesy Warning

This book contains graphic depictions of violent events and thoughts that may prove to be triggers for those of you with PTSD and other stress- or anxiety-based disorders.

Dedicated to my captain.

Sir, if you read this

and you ever need me, call me.

I don’t care if we’re going to the Gates of Hell;

I’ll kick that fucker open for you.

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A portion of this book’s proceeds will be donated directly to funds that support veterans.

Thank you for your service.

First Foot Patrol

Downtown Samarra

Here’s this one instance I want to tell you about, so when I’m talking shit later inside my head, you will understand why. This one defined me as to what I needed to know about myself.

Like usual when I’m on duty, I’m bringing up the rear on my first foot patrol ever! So fucking motivated, let’s go!

We’re barely inside the city when I turn and see a man with a bag of oranges. We make eye contact, through my sunglasses. I turn back around to see what other people are doing in the city. Is there anyone on the rooftops; is there anyone behind those windows?

I call out to the man in front of me, Make sure you watch that building in front of us. Don’t look at the rubble. Look behind the fucking shit, and check those rooftops.

Laughing, he agrees and says, I’m on it.

First off, I don’t question him or his ability. He is a driver for our convoy, a fellow Hell Kat. I know his weapons are clean. He’s not my driver, but he’s been everywhere I have. Again, our first foot patrol. I’m a gunner, giving my knowledge, because I’m fucking amped!

I turn back around, and the man with the oranges is getting closer. Not ass-puckeringly yet. I take a few more steps, but not many, friends. I turn back around. This old man and his fucking oranges are getting too close. Haven’t you ever watched The Godfather!? I stop in my tracks. I no longer see the teenage kid wearing a FUCKING BLACK AND GREY RAIDERS STARTER JACKET IN THE GOT-DAMN SUMMER! Or the two women that were chatting in their little flea-market space with a blue tarp.

I’m no longer aware of what the driver is doing behind me. Complete tunnel vision — just me and this old man dressed in all white, his red fucking headband, dark brown eyes, long grey beard. His elbows are locked; his hands are boney. I can’t read his expression. Is it I’m sorry, is it scared, or is it just oranges?

I’m screaming in my head, What the fuck is in this bag of oranges?!

I hear my voice say Stop in Arabic; I can feel my arms raise the M249[1] as I step toward him. From my right, out of nowhere, an IPLO[2] (International Police Liaison Officer) comes and pushes the man back. I can’t tell if he’s calling me stupid or himself for getting so close. Either way, situation handled.

An IPLO² is an American civilian, and the ones I worked closely with were police officers back in the real world, who come here to help us with our mission. Not sure about this guy; he wasn’t a Hell Kat[3].

He comes to me and tells me, Do not let anyone get that close again. Drop that fucker next time!

You got it, boss.

A few more marching steps forward, we’re halted, and I remember that my driver is still in front of me.

After some time passes, we continue our march. I remember seeing one of our terps[4] wearing our uniform. I don’t want to give away too much about this