Charles James
If I had a choice, if the world was a perfect place (which it most certainly isn't), these would be the small gatherings I would always spend my time with. Within this small church hall, there's a relaxed air, all sitting in no particular seating arrangement, plumes of steam in the air from the white polystyrene cups of tea or coffee from the omnipresent Cathy and her trolley of drinks and stale biscuits; and you know everyone is going to share their experiences - well as soon as Cathy has finally left the room.
I'm able to 'people read' - the young squaddie, anxiously turning his wedding ring - he'll be having relationship problems. The Sergeant Major, who'd made sure I'd known his rank from the minute he'd stretched out his hand in welcome; he'll be struggling with the day to day normality of life without the Army.
My life is still as far from what I had imagined that it could possibly be, a year since I'd turned up in a suit and regimental tie like a prannet, a fear greater than being a target for the Taliban at not saying the right thing but needing to make a difference. Why I thought I could say the wrong thing I'll never know. We all have at least one common denominator - we're fragged. The chance to talk about it, to anyone, will never be rejected.
The door closes, a loudness to the sound that can only happen in a cold, airless hall. We all startle, the after effects of one too many traumatic events, each finding our own coping mechanism - mine to stupidly take a sip of the scalding hot tea, burning my lip - focussing on the sharp pain rather than the flashbacks trying to push forward in my mind. It works.
Blowing this time on the dangerous liquid, I patiently wait on a Corporal try to find the right words to explain quite how much guilt he's shouldering because he survived when his best mate didn't, I'm also amused at the irony, that I, who prided myself so often on being an Officer of the British Army, now find myself most comfortable with the regular soldier. They're the salt of the earth, the ones who will cry, won't be afraid to admit where they've gone wrong, and probably, the ones that have helped battle my demons the most.
Leaning forward, placing my cup on the floor, I give the Corporal my undivided attention. A reassuring half smile when he briefly makes eye contact, before he finds solace on the floor again - still I wait, it's enough for him to hesitantly start speaking. "If I could have given up my life, for his, I would." He says quietly, eyes focussed on my cup. "My wife doesn't understand, can't understand why I wouldn't want to see my son grow up."
His words are said in such a way, I get the impression he can't quite get it himself.
"How old's your son?" I ask. I've learned I'm not here to provide all the answers. I'm here to talk, listen, offer advice, ensure no-one feels alone with their PTSD.
Ian, the Corporal, mouth twitches, trying out a smile, then his face crumbles into despair again. "He's 5 now, I hadn't even met him when it happened. He was born when I was on my 2nd tour. I missed his birth."
"Aw shit son."
That's the other surprising fact about a room full of veterans; they are the biggest bunch of soft bastards you have ever met.
The small group falls silent, only to be interrupted by a squeak of a shoe on the old parquet floor, or a chair scraping as someone moves uncomfortably in their seat. Each person with their own thoughts on how fucked up their lives have become.
"What's his name?" Asks the gruff Sergeant Major, his body language when I look, is textbook defensive, arms crossed and chin angled to deflect from his personal question.
"Conor, he's called Conor, and I love him to bits, he's a great wee lad… but Simon, my mate, his son was 7, he'd have known he'd lost his Dad. I knew what that kid would go through when he got the knock on the door. I couldn't bear that…"
"Have you told your wife that, exactly that." I say, leaning forward. "That you wanted to take the pain away from a 7 year old kid?"
"No."
"Try it, just try it." Sitting up I look around each participant, willing them to listen. "Communication, we don't always get it right, but we're never going to get it right if we don't try."
"I nearly hit my wife."
The room was still before, but now, no one is breathing yet I feel all eyes in the direction of the voice. This is always the difficult subject; when the pent up emotions, the inability to communicate manifest in the taboo of society - violence.
"But you didn't?" I ask carefully.
"It was close." He whispers. "I was so close… I've moved out."
"You did the right thing."
"Hitting your wife, you can't ever go back from that."
I let the group add their comments, watching the guy called Steve the whole time. I'd hardly noticed him before, he was the quiet one of the group, insular, the one I would never have thought would have told this story. I'm surprised - though I shouldn't be, I should have learned that by now. "What did your wife say about it?"
He takes a moment, speaking in a group obviously isn't easy for him, and it's a testament to him that he's here. "She, she said she was worried I might hit my daughter… but I wouldn't have. I promise."
The Sergeant Major, leans forward, and pats the guy on the shoulder. I give him a small smile of gratitude.
"She wants us to go to counselling, but I don't know if I can, it's fine talking here 'cause you lot understand, but sitting there with someone who's just going to judge…. I'm not sure."
"Their job isn't to judge. I promise. If your wife thinks it would help, I'd go, show her you are willing to work with her. Has your CPN reviewed your meds?"
"I haven't told him…. Incase he takes it further…. I don't want to be stopped from seeing my daughter."
"You shouldn't be, if you are trying, but you need to involve the professionals. They're the ones who know… believe me, you can't do it alone, and if you ever need me to speak to anyone for you, then let me know. You've all got my contact details."
"My mate." It's the Private this time, his wedding ring has been worn away with all the pressure he's been putting on it.
Resting my elbows on my knees, I give him a nod of the head. "It's Kyle isn't it?" Get on first name terms, they'd told me. After the session go back to nicknames, but for the hour or two, try and see past who they were on the front line. Surprisingly sound advice.
"He's havin' a bother in the bedroom department, you know, just got these tablets for the anxiety, and the depression, and things ain't quite happening how they should."
I let the sound of quiet sniggers finish before clearing my throat - you can take a squaddie out of the platoon, but you'll never take the squaddie out of the person. He's not the first to do the age old 'for a mate' deflection; and he won't be the last. We all know it's him, the beetroot red blush on his cheeks give him away. "Your mate isn't the only man to have this problem, Kyle. In fact I think with all our histories, you'd be surprised by the percentage of veterans who have to seek medical support for PTSD for erectile issues."
This group isn't going to let me down, a few of the guys are already nodding, it gives the confidence to raise my hand. I don't always share this side of my life, my pride doesn't want the whole world to know, but I'm trying to fix the small things, one veteran at a time. "Well tell your mate, it happened to me. And I know the hell he's going through."
"And me."
"Me too Sir."
"See, he's not alone and it is nothing to be embarrassed about. But, he has to go and speak to the Doctor, tell him. A sex life is important in any relationship, there's other medication, solutions out there. Just tell him not to do what I did; stop taking the tablets and stop trying to have sex. I would say that was my first step on a very slippery slope."
"Why Sir?"
His question is genuine, which is good, means it hasn't yet got to a crisis point. Maybe, my experience is helping him. "Do you know what my wife said the first time it happened? She reminded me I still have a working tongue… and fingers…"
"I'm liking the sound of her Sir."
"... And she'd said, the rest has always been a little bit overrated in her opinion anyway. She didn't tell me it happens to all men at some point, or that I had nothing to worry about… she gave me an opportunity to look at it all from a different angle, that until we'd worked through everything, we didn't need to lose that connection in our lives… but no, I shut her out. I put the barriers up and rather than admit I had a problem, I made her think she was the problem."
"But if you're not able to get your end away-?"
"I believe I would have 'got my end away' quicker Kyle, if my wife and I had continued to work together, and I have no doubt, she wouldn't have lain there expecting all the pleasure to be hers, night after night." I shake my head, still surprised when a male squaddie gets it so wrong. "Don't ever underestimate a woman, they love, they cherish, they nurture, give them the tools to sort the relationship and they'll do their damndest to make everything better. What does your wife say about it?"
"She says I don't find her….." His face excels in the beetroot stakes when he suddenly realises he's outed himself. Thankfully, there's silence from around the room. "Attractive anymore… and I do. I swear to god I do, it's just easier to pretend I don't want it than lie there with a lifeless dick."
"Have you spoken to your Doctor?"
"I went, but it was one of the women ones… I wasn't telling her."
"Make an appointment again, ask for a male doctor."
"Sorry for asking this Sir."
"Let's not worry about titles eh, call me Charles." Five times tonight I've asked them to use my first name, 20 times the week before, these days I'm no 'Sir', I'm still not sure who I am anymore outside of the army, except for a medically discharged ex Officer, but I'm working on it.
"Charles, Sir, but how did you and your wife eventually work through it?"
My thumb seeks the empty space on my ring finger, the skin, rather than a gold band feeling wrong to the touch even after all this time. "My wife and I are no longer together, we're separated, every day I expect divorce proceedings to arrive with the postman."
Picking my cup back up, I sit back, fighting against the internal struggle to shut the fuck up and go home to my lonely house and sit with all the ghosts of the past for the night, instead I smile, give the impression I'm in a place where I'm happy to talk about all this shit.
"Did she leave you?"
"Eventually. With a lot of persuasion. She, she tried her hardest but I allowed myself to get into such a spiral of self-loathing and regret there was nothing she could do. I was diagnosed with uncomplicated PTSD and major depressive disorder. She was living with a bastard who hadn't touched her in over a year, and I don't just mean sexually, I… I couldn't bear the slightest bit of affection… a held hand, christ I'd even pull away from her foot bumping against mine when we were sleeping - became safer to have separate bedrooms - my insistence. I wouldn't talk to her, didn't show an interest in her life and the sad thing is, the one thing if any of you guys can recognise, feel it's the same and stop this happening to yourselves - she was my world. I'd had a plan if she ever.. Well when she left, that I'd end my life but …. Sometimes you need to hit rock bottom before you accept the help or are forced to take the help that's out there."
"Are you still in touch with her?"
"Haven't spoken to her since the day she left. My doing. I sold our house, blocked her number, did everything possible to make sure she couldn't ever come back to me. But she's doing fine, I know that much."
"Does it help? Knowing she's fine?"
"She was my Medic, on my 4th tour-"
"Bet you got into a bit of bother for that Sir."
I raise my eyebrows, to show that yes, it didn't exactly go down well, then continue. "...I fell in love with Molly because of the innocent, kind, funny human being she was …. And I'll say this because I'm amongst men - I fucking fancied her, never fancied anyone like I did her…. I can't bear that for nearly a year I made her life miserable, that the spark went out of her eyes and she started to doubt her own attractiveness and self worth… the fact she's in love again, it goes a long way to making the world a bit of a better place…. I also have this hope that she'd see the good in what I've become, that I'm using my negative experiences to hopefully help others….that's the motivation to get up each day - to one day make her proud of me. That's what makes living without her just about bearable."