The Things We Don’t Say After the Sirens Stop

I’ve been a paramedic long enough to know that some calls don’t end when you clear the scene. They follow you, sometimes for a day, sometimes for years, sometimes for the rest of your life.

There are voices I haven’t heard in twenty years that I could recognize in a crowded room. There are faces I couldn’t pick out of a photograph anymore, but I remember exactly how their hand felt in mine. And there are people whose names I have forgotten who I still think about.

That might be the part that makes me feel the most guilty. Because how do you forget someone’s name when you were the last person trying to keep them alive? But that’s what happens.

There are too many. Too many calls, too many bodies, too many families screaming. Too many times having someone say “Please don’t let me die.” And sometimes we couldn’t. We just couldn’t.

We don’t like to say that. We’re supposed to be the calm ones, the professionals, the ones who walk into chaos while everyone else is falling apart. We’re supposed to know what to do. But sometimes we walk into a room and there is nothing to do. Nothing that medicine, training, experience, or sheer stubbornness can fix. And you know it.

You know it while you’re still doing compressions. You know it while you’re hanging another bag. You know it while you’re shouting for another medication. But you keep going. Because stopping feels like admitting that you lost. And we hate losing, especially when the person in front of us has someone screaming their name.

I’ve been angry at dead people. There. I said it. Angry because they drank too much. Angry because they didn’t take their medication. Angry because they drove drunk. Angry because they went back to the person who hurt them. Angry because they ignored the symptoms. Angry because they smoked. Angry because they were young. Angry because they were old. Angry because they were someone’s child. Angry because sometimes death feels so damn unfair. And then the guilt comes. Because who gets angry at someone who is dying? Apparently, I do. And then I feel like shit for it.

I’ve also been angry at families, at doctors, at dispatch, at the system, at the ambulance that wouldn’t start fast enough, at traffic, at the weather, at myself.

I’ve sat in the truck after a call and stared at nothing because I couldn’t make myself go inside the station.

I’ve sat in the bathroom because it was the only place nobody could see my face.

I’ve driven home exhausted enough to cry and too numb to actually do it.

And sometimes I’ve laughed. That’s the part people don’t understand. We make jokes….terrible jokes….wrong jokes. The kind of jokes that would horrify people who don’t work in EMS. Sometimes we laugh at the worst possible moment. Not because we don’t care, but because sometimes if you don’t laugh, you will scream.

Dark humor is sometimes the pressure valve. It’s how we stand next to something horrific and remain functional. We joke about things we shouldn’t. Then we go quiet. Then we go back to work. And somewhere underneath, the joke is the thing we aren’t saying: “That was awful.” “I’m not okay.” “I don’t know how much more I can take.” But you don’t say it because there’s another call. There’s always another call. So you clean the blood of the stretcher. You throw away the gloves. You restock the drugs. You wipe down the equipment. You finish the paperwork. You grab something to eat. And then the radio goes off, and you go again. That’s how you can become numb without realizing it.

At first, every death hurts. Then some deaths hurt differently. Then you start noticing that you’re not feeling much at all. You think you’re becoming stronger. Maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re just becoming tired.

There were times I wanted to quit, not because I didn’t love the job, but because I loved it so much that it was taking pieces of me.

There is a strange cruelty in loving a profession that constantly reminds you how fragile people are. You see people on the worst day of their lives. You see things families will never forget. And then you go home and somebody asks, “How was work?” How do you answer that”? “Fine.” “Busy.” “Nothing much.” Meanwhile, there is a face sitting in the back of your mind. A child. A mother. A man who kept asking when his wife was coming. Someone who died alone. Someone whose family wasn’t there. Someone whose family was there and watched everything. Someone whose last words were, “Please.” And you heard them. You always hear them.

There are words that stick to you. Sometimes they’re the last words. Sometimes they’re the first words. “Help me.” “Don’t let me die.” “Tell my wife I love her.” “Where’s my mom?” “Am I going to be okay?” We become the keeper of those words. And nobody warns you about that.

Nobody tells you that years later, a completely ordinary Tuesday can suddenly turn into 2004 because a song came on the radio. Nobody tells you that driving past an intersection can make your stomach drop. Nobody tells you that you might recognize a house before you remember why you recognize it. Nobody tells you that sometimes you will wonder what happened to the families. Did they make it? Did the kids grow up? Did the spouse survive the grief? Did anyone ever tell them what happened after we left? Did they know we tried? Did they know we cared? Did they know that after we called the time, we stood outside and took a breath because for just a second, we didn’t know how to walk back into the world?

I don’t know. There are so many things I will never know. And that is another thing paramedics carry. Unfinished stories. We enter people’s lives for a few minutes and then disappear. We don’t get to see the ending. Sometimes the ending is death. Sometimes it’s recovery. Sometimes it’s something in between. But we rarely know, and yet, we remember.

That’s the contradiction of the job. You learn to let go because you have to. And you never really let go. You become very good at putting things away, until something opens the drawer. A smell. A song. A birthday. A child’s age. A name. A face. And suddenly you’re there again. Older. More tired. More experienced. But still that paramedic kneeling on the floor, desperately wanting a different outcome.

I used to think being a paramedic meant saving people. I don’t believe that anymore. Sometimes being a good paramedic means fighting like hell for someone you know you’re probably going to lose. Sometimes it means telling a terrified person the truth without taking away their hope. Sometimes it means holding someone’s hand while their family arrives. Sometimes it means being the calm voice in a room full of screaming. Sometimes it means doing CPR even when your body is exhausted and your heart already knows. Sometimes it means cleaning up afterward and going to the next call. And sometimes it means going home and finally admitting: That one got me.

I’ve lost people I never met before that night. I”ve carried people I’ve never spoken about. I’ve cried for people whose name I couldn’t remember. I’ve been numb when I thought I should be devastated. I’ve been devastated when everyone else thought I was fine. I’ve laughed when I felt like I should cry. I’ve gone home and hugged the people I love a little tighter because I had just spent the night watching someone else’s world disappear. I’ve wondered how many pieces of myself I’ve left behind in the back of an ambulance.

I don’t have an answer. Maybe that’s the price. Maybe every paramedic leaves a little piece of herself behind on every call. A little piece with every death, with every child, with every family. But there are pieces we get back too. From the person who survived. From the family who hugged us. From the stranger who called months later to say thank you. From the patient who walked back into the station years later and said “You saved my life.” Those moments matter. They have to. Because otherwise, what do we do with everything else?

I have finally stopped apologizing for being human. Because underneath the uniform, underneath the protocols, underneath the tough exterior and the dark humor and the years of experience….I’m still just a woman who cared. A woman who showed up. A woman who fought. A woman who sometimes lost. And a woman who has spent decades carrying the voices of people who trusted her with their last moments.

To the ones I couldn’t save: I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you I don’t think about you. But I do. I wish I could tell you I don’t wonder if I could have done something differently. Sometimes I still do. I wish I could tell you every call became easier. It didn’t. I just became better at carrying it. And maybe that’s what experience really is… Not becoming immune to death, not becoming harder, not learning how not to care. It’s learning how to carry the weight….and still answer the radio, still put on the uniform, still walk through the doors, still kneel beside the next stranger who needs you, still reach for their hand, still say, “I’m here.”

Because after all these years, that’s what I know for sure: I couldn’t save everyone. I was never going to. But I was there. And when someone was scared, I held their hand. When someone was hurting, I stayed. When someone was dying, I didn’t look away. And when I couldn’t change the outcome…I made damn sure they didn’t face it alone.

Maybe I have to let that be enough. Maybe it has to be. Because tomorrow, the radio will go off again. And I’ll answer. Not because I haven’t been broken by this job, but because somewhere along the way, I learned that being broken and being able to keep caring can exist at the same time.

The sirens will start. The lights will flash. I’ll take a breath. And I’ll go. Carrying every voice I’ve ever heard. Including the ones that still whisper from the past. You were there. You tried. You cared. And maybe, after all these years, that’s the part that matters the most.

I Detest Mother’s Day!!!

I truly detest Mother’s Day! Please allow me to explain. My first exposure to one who called herself a mother, was my own incubator. I don’t say “incubator”  lightly or to be ugly, but because there are females in this world who are far from deserving the name of mother. 

When you leave your infants in dirty clothes that have been spit up on day after day, expecting someone else to change them and wash their clothes, you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you don’t allow your child to be a child and make a mistake or accidentally break a glass without punishment, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you tell your child to repeatedly slap her own face until something deep within yourself is satisfied, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you give your child the silent treatment for hours or days at a time, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you spank your child because she fails a test or quiz, to the point that she begins cheating on quizzes and tests, for the simple reason she feels she has a chance of passing, instead of helping her study and being positive and encouraging, you don’t deserve to be called a mother.

When you don’t teach your daughter about how her body is changing, when you don’t teach her to stand up for herself, when you don’t allow her to develop her own interests, and character traits, you don’t deserve to be called a mother.

When you make excuses and have your own secret stash of food, but send your own child to bed hungry, you don’t deserve to be called a mother.

When you meet your own desires instead of providing for your child when she needs shoes or a winter coat, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you teach your child that her own dreams and aspirations are wrong because it’s not what you want, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you allow your husband and your own mother to call your daughter fat and you don’t stand up for your daughter or fight for her, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you are far more concerned about how you think you look to others than about the safety and welfare of your child, you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you leave bruises on your child from punishing her, when her “please stop” means nothing to you, you don’t deserve to be called a mother.

When you teach your child that a man is in charge and always has the power, except of course in your own marriage, you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you don’t teach your child about the real world so that she is prepared and ready for adulthood, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you don’t come to the hospital when your daughter is shot twice and shouldn’t have survived, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you hold a person, who is dead and lying in a wooden box, as far more important and valuable than your own daughter, who is lying in a hospital bed and should have been in a wooden box, you don’t deserve to be called a mother.

When your daughter decides she wants to go into EMS and your response is to literally start world war 3,  you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you hover over your daughter claiming it’s to protect her, when your daughter makes negative choices that potentially would have never happened had you been the mother you should have been, you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you refuse to go to your oldest daughter’s wedding because “you don’t feel invited” when the truth is your oldest daughter is no longer willing to play your games, yet you went to your youngest daughter’s wedding because your husband was walking her down the aisle, you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you are unwilling to admit you are wrong and apologize to your child, but instead put all of the blame on her when you are 100% responsible, you don’t get to be called a mother.

When you tell your child that if she does anything to upset you or make you look bad, you will pull up her dress and spank her regardless of the location, you don’t get to be called a mother. 

When you don’t believe your daughter when she tells you that she’s been hurt sexually, you don’t deserve to be called a mother. 

When your daughter tells you that her husband is abusing her and your only response is telling her that she should stay because “it’s not as bad as what Jesus went through”, you don’t deserve to be called a mother. 

When you don’t teach your daughter that’s it’s ok to be human and make a mistake, you don’t deserve to be called a mother.

When you play victim saying things like “after all I have sacrificed for you” when in reality it wasn’t even the bare minimum, you don’t get to be called a mother. Your daughters didn’t ask to be born. It was your decision to have sex, and by having sex, you are promising your potential child that you will provide for them, love them unconditionally, respect them, and prepare them for adulthood. And you failed miserably. 

When you don’t respect your daughter’s boundaries, when you make an important event in your daughter’s life all about you instead of celebrating your daughter, you don’t get to be called a mother.

Do I sound angry towards my mother and life? Maybe. But maybe it’s because for the first time, I’m verbalizing the truth. For the first time, I no longer have to hide and pretend something is when it isn’t. Am I angry towards my mother and the hand I’ve been dealt? No! It’s helped to make me who I am today. It’s helped to push me to want something better, to be a better woman, a better version of myself. It’s made me be a better paramedic because I have an empathy and compassion for others I likely wouldn’t have otherwise. I’ve been able to pick up on certain situations and see through the bullshit and lies of one in order to get real help for another. 

I was well into my 30’s before I began to learn how a mother is supposed to be. I was also well into my 30’s before I started working to learn the basics of adulthood. I’ve always felt like I was playing catch up. 

There have been 3 important woman, who at different times in my life, have loved me with a mother’s love. A love that is unconditional, respectful, and encourages growth. For these women, I’m incredibly grateful for because I wouldn’t be who I am today without them. It is these 3 women I say “Hqppy Mother’s Day” to. 

I also detest Mother’s Day because of the 4 babies I have never been able to hold in my arms or hug as they grow older. I’ve never been able to teach them to throw a ball or ride a bicycle. I’ve never been able to watch them grow as a human being and be the person they would have been born to be. I’ve never gotten to hear a baby cry for his mother and get to be that mother. I’ve never gotten to be what a real mother is supposed to be to her children. But I also know that one day in heaven, I will get to meet my children. I longingly look forward to that day. 

I’ve learned to make the best of the hand I’ve been dealt and develop and change for good what I can. At different times in my life, I’ve been able to spoil and hopefully, positively impact other people’s children, even if it’s just a matter of having a safe place to be weird and allow my inner child a day of fun and being real. I’ve also grown in my love of animals. While I may never have 2-legged children of my own on this earth, I will always have 4-legged babies who I love more than anything. I’ll be the best fur mom I can!

Real Talk

You’ve been a first responder for a long time. Maybe 5 years. Maybe 25. Either way, it adds up, and quickly. You’ve seen things most people will never understand and lately, it feels like it’s stacking faster than you can shake it off. Then you go home, and the thoughts don’t stop. Your relationships are strained. Money is tight. Your kid is acting out. And now, stuff you thought you buried years ago, such as calls, old memories, and things from your own childhood, have started working their way back in.

Unfortunately, that’s not rare in this job. A lot of us came into it already carrying something. Sometimes that’s what makes us good at our jobs. But it catches up. All of it.

You stop doing the things you used to enjoy. You don’t call your friends back. You start keeping to yourself. You show up to work, do your job, maybe even do it well. But internally…it’s getting heavier and you don’t know what to do. And you tell yourself the same things most of us do: “Don’t say anything.” “They’ll talk.” “They won’t get it.”

You’ve heard the way people talk after certain calls. You’ve seen what happens when someone gets labeled in this field, so you keep your mouth shut. You don’t go to your supervisor because you don’t trust it won’t come back on you, in some way. You don’t talk at home because they don’t understand this world, as you see it anyway. So, you carry all of it. Quietly.
And after a while, your head starts going to places it shouldn’t. Maybe it’d be easier if I wasn’t here. Maybe everyone else would be better off. That’s a bad spot to be in. And more people in this job hit that spot than want to admit.

Two years ago, I too was in that dark hole and believed this world would be better without me. Much of my life has been filled with trauma and abuse. But another event occurred that became “the icing on the cake”. I couldn’t deal anymore. I finally told my therapist, who specializes in first responders, exactly where my head was at. She didn’t call the police or force me to the psych ward at the hospital, both of which can be very traumatizing for a first responder. She told me about a facility in Florida (FHE) that has a specific program (Shatterproof) for veterans and first responders struggling with addiction and/or mental health. I spent 40 life changing days there. I still have hard days. I still have struggles. But the difference is the tools I have in my toolbox to help me through and knowing I’m not alone in my fight. I have multiple phone numbers of people I consider friends to call if I need to.

Please hear this from someone who’s been around awhile: Peer support and CISM exist for a reason and it’s 100% confidential. Not as a checkbox or admin fluff. But because people in this job were struggling and nobody was saying it out loud. You don’t have to spill everything. You don’t have to trust it right away. But you can start somewhere, anywhere.

There are people who understand this job. People who won’t judge you for it. People who’ve been in similar spots and have made it through, even if it were messy. Asking for help doesn’t make you weak. Pretending you’re fine when you’re not, that’s what breaks people, especially alone and in silence.

If you are struggling, reach out to someone you trust. And if you see someone else pulling back, check on them. Don’t assume they’re fine because a lot of the time, they’re not. Even if it’s just a bad moment. This life is better with you here.

Silence is Ok

It happened again, where someone asked me the name of my abuser. I told them because they claimed it was to protect their friends. I didn’t want to tell them, but I thought I didn’t have a choice.

I have heard much about being a survivor, like I should tell the truth. I’ve been told to not make it a big deal because “it happened so long ago” or “you’ll ruin his life”. But what about mine.

They talk about strength and that voicing what happened gives me the power. Instead, it feels as if some just want the juicy details to decide for themselves if my story truly happened.

I am ashamed of many parts of my story and do not ever speak of them. It’s embarrassing. I don’t want to talk about the darkness. I don’t want to write about it.

I don’t want someone to look at me as if I’m brave, or as if I’m broken and damaged goods. Or to look at me at all.

There are times when my heart is breaking and other times when I’m just tired. Much time has been spent arguing with myself, do I speak or stay silent. I often forget the hard work I’ve done to help myself move forward.

The times I was too scared to speak. When my abuser was listening or they would talk to me. When this person demanded to know the name of my abuser. When my stomach was in twisted knots and feeling required to speak.

My silence hugged me tight as if to say “only tell them if you want to”.

So to the quiet one who has kept it all inside, I see you. I believe you, even when you are silent. I believe you are afraid. I believe you carry heavy pain. I believe when you say that you loved them, but then you didn’t. I believe your confusion about forgiveness and wanting justice.

Please believe me when I say, Quiet one, that you’ve done nothing wrong. Speaking of it is neither right or wrong, but only your choice. You speak if, and only if, you are ready. Your silence doesn’t make him free. You survived a monster, and a monster he remains.

Please know this, Quiet one. I know a girl. I do not blame her nor her silence. My silence hears this writing, looks at me with tears flowing from her eyes and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve hated you and have tried to destroy you. I always thought you were the sickest part of me, the part that had to be destroyed, yet the part that needed forgiveness the most. But it isn’t like that. You were the first who didn’t ask me to prove it. You are the only one who believed me before speaking of it….and after.

And now, when my silence gives me a hug, I hug back and say “I know”. I say “Thank you”. And now, I mean it.

A Letter to the Perpetrator:

You know what you did to me 2 years ago. I don’t have to go into detail. But you need to know what it did to me. You won’t care, but I’m going to tell you anyway. So buckle up!

I thought you were someone who I could trust. I have a difficult time with trust anyway, but especially with the male population. Now, I find trust even more difficult, thanks to you. When I first came to your church, I didn’t know what to expect. But I knew I was looking for something deeper than what I had been taught growing up. When I had been invited to church, I was curious. It was completely different from any church experience I had known. And over time, I grew spiritually.

I love animals, and your dogs were no exception. I had called one my 4 legged BFF, but she had died of cancer. I honestly believe that had she still been around, you wouldn’t have been able to do what you did. She would have stopped you. Maybe you knew that, and that’s why you waited to start acting weird and treating me differently.

Speaking of treating me differently, why did you force me to sit on your lap to get a hug after having a bad call at work? You would also smack my butt. One time you changed clothes with me in the same room. Why did your wife not have any visible reaction when you did these things? My theory is that you’re abusive to her and have trained her to not respond on the outside. On the inside, I’m sure she reacts.

But when “things” started happening, I began to question everything, from the things you said and taught at church to my own self worth. Maybe the problem was really me because SA had happened before. I was the common denominator. I felt dirty and used. When the detective said he wasn’t going to do anything, I felt like no one believed me. Maybe I should have kept it to myself and not reported it. 80% of SA go unreported. And I can see why with how the police responded. But by reporting it, I found out I wasn’t your only victim. You had also hurt a 14 yr old girl. There are 2 known victims, where are the other 8? You know, the 80%? BTW, was her name Michelle? Is she the “friend” you claimed to have had back in the military? It’s one thing to SA an adult woman, but it’s on a whole other disgusting level to SA a child! You are one sick bastard!

I fell deeper and deeper into the dark hole of depression. No one knew where my brain was truly at, and I couldn’t tell them. The first person I told about the SA was a friend in Georgia. She encouraged me to report it to the police. The detective will answer one day for his decision of how to respond. And when another victim has the courage to report her experience, they will also learn they aren’t alone.

My brain got very dark after what you did to me. I was hurt and angry, but I used my anger to give me the courage to confront you at church. I wasn’t alone in my corner that day because I had told the elders what you had done. I read what I had written out in front of everyone there. Then you told your own version, which was mostly lies. Do you even realize that your actions of that one night destroyed your church and reputation? Oh, maybe it’s not right away. It may not be obvious yet. But it’s there. Then lying about it and denying the truth only hurts you and your family. There are always consequences for every action and decision made.

I struggled seemingly alone in my head for months until I broke down and told my therapist exactly where my brain was at. Over the next few months, with the help of others, I pulled myself out of that hole of suicide ideation. Those people who truly had my back are part of my support system now. I still struggle with what you did to me, but I no longer think about suicide as an option.

Your wife is just as guilty as you are. She stood up for you, knowing that she was telling lies when I confronted you. She knows your history. She wasn’t there, but she knows I’m telling the truth. You know I’m telling the truth. One day, you will answer for all the women and girls you have hurt and tried to destroy their lives. I will continue telling my story so that other women are warned about you because once a perpetrator, always a perpetrator.

What is Pickle’s Story?

A long, long time ago, in a cucumber patch far far away…… just kidding. 😜😝🙃

I’ve been in EMS for 25 years. But besides the work trauma and bad calls, I’ve dealt with personal trauma too. From childhood trauma and parental abuse to abusive relationships to an abusive marriage. I’ve had miscarriages and have faced plenty of loss and heartbreak. 

I had tried numerous times to find something to help, from alcohol to therapists who didn’t know how to handle the traumatic experiences I shared with them to organizations claiming to help first responders, but who in reality did more harm than good. I had gotten to the point of giving up trying and just accepting that my life sucked. I felt like some of these organizations were nothing more than a bandaid and didn’t really help.

March of 2023, I responded to a call at work involving 3 children.  I struggled with this call a lot but didn’t know how to let it go. I went to the FDIC in Indianapolis that year to help an organization with their service dogs during the event. While I was there, I met a guy who helps first responders find culturally competent therapists. I didn’t have high expectations but he found a therapist for me. 

I didn’t trust her but little did I know how much I would need her. June 16, not even 2 months after I started talking to this therapist, I was sa by the pastor of the church I had been going to. It became the icing on the cake that put me in a deep, dark hole. But I didn’t tell my therapist that. I didn’t tell anyone! Every other therapist said they would call police or send you to the psych ward if you have suicidal thoughts. And I wasn’t about to do that! 

My therapist knew I was struggling and she would promise me she wouldn’t call the police or send me to the psych ward if I told her I was in a dark place. But I didn’t believe her, so I continued to struggle on my own. January came and I decided to stop taking my medication but I would still have them filled at the pharmacy so that I could stockpile them, “just in case”. I didn’t have a specific plan or timeframe. 

February came and I couldn’t deal with what was in my brain anymore. I broke down and told my therapist exactly where my brain was at. She kept her promise to me and suggested I go to shatterproof in Florida. It took a lot of patience on her part while I freaked out several times along the way. But in a nutshell, shatterproof and my therapist saved my life. 

Life now isn’t perfect and I still have my hard days. But I now have a dependable support system, which is also the best support system I’ve ever had. I’ve learned to keep going even when I’m struggling because the next thing might just be what works. I’m doing ketamine treatments and neuro feedback and will soon try TMS therapy. If one thing doesn’t work, try something else. If you are struggling or someone you know is struggling, don’t give up on them or on yourself. There is help out there. You are worth fighting for. 

Just One More Day

I’ve been in that deep, dark hole of depression. The one that convinces you that no one in your life truly cares; The one that tells you that you are worthless; The one that figuratively beats you over the head with a 2×4 because all you are is a fuck-up. 

I had a hard call at work. I had been sexually assaulted by the pastor of the church I had been attending. I had been learning to set boundaries with my twin sister and parents, but they were refusing to respect those boundaries. The people who had claimed to have been there for me, no longer were. I felt completely and utterly alone. 

Except there was a guy I had met at the FDIC in Indianapolis, IN. He had helped me find a culturally competent therapist. I had been talking to her maybe 2 months when the sexual assault happened. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t trust anybody. How could I when a pastor, who claimed to love God and love his congregation, had played mind games with me and then hurt me deeply? It rattled my world!

I felt like I was a shitty paramedic. This call I had responded to unknowingly triggered a call from years ago, a call where another child had died. But I didn’t realize that until I had been talking to a friend when he asked what else it brought up. I felt responsible.

No one could know I was thinking about suicide. I had stopped taking my medication and began stockpiling them “just in case”. I had no specific plan or timeframe. I just knew that I was hurting.

My therapist and I had talked about suicide several times. She had promised me that if I was to ever tell her I was thinking of suicide, she wouldn’t call the police or force me to go to the psych ward. I’ve had people, who claimed to want to help, try these avenues. They only cause more trauma and damage, especially when that person makes up a scenario so that they can be the “hero” in a situation that doesn’t exist. 

The holidays are a struggle for me, since everything is seemingly about family, and most of my family wouldn’t care if I disappeared. But January was finally here. I felt like maybe I could breathe again. But the load I carried was still heavy and weighing me down. February arrived and I was falling apart inside. I didn’t know how much longer I could exist and carry this weight. I broke down and told my therapist exactly where my brain was at. 

She kept her promise to me and never called police or forced me into the psych ward. This experience, as well as going to Shatterproof (an in-patient program specifically for first responders and military struggling with addiction and/or mental health) helped me learn to trust my therapist. It also saved my life. 

Please don’t listen to the darkness. Don’t allow it to convince you that you would be better off not here, or that your family would be better off without you. It will be one of the most difficult things to do, but please, hang on for just one more day. 

Please don’t listen to the chaos inside your mind. The trauma that’s been done to you wasn’t your fault. Even if you’ve never told anyone; or maybe you did, and they didn’t believe you. Hang on for just one more day.

Some say that suicide is selfish. In reality, the selfishness falls on the people surrounding you yet oblivious to your struggles and pain. Walking alone takes an inner strength you may not feel you can muster. But please, hang on for just one more day.

As long as you are breathing, there is hope. There is culturally competent help. If you have no one, email christyvanderaa@gmail.com and I will do my best to help. You aren’t alone. Please, hang on for just one more day. 

One Year Anniversary

This month is one year since admitting that my mental health had taken a hard, deep nosedive south. The sexual assault that had occurred became the icing on the cake. Prior to this, life had gotten hard both at work and personally. I felt alone, worn out, and in a dark place.

I had dark thoughts but I wasn’t about to tell anyone! I was talking to a therapist, but in my experience, most therapists didn’t know how to talk to someone thinking about suicide. Nor did they want the responsibility upon them. Instead of taking care of their own client, they’d call the police or force them to the psychiatric ward. There wasn’t any way I was about to be honest with my therapist and tell her where my head was at exactly.

I had been talking to this therapist for several months but I still didn’t trust her. She had told me many times that if I was ever to tell her I was having suicidal thoughts, she wouldn’t call the police, or force me to the ER and psych ward. I didn’t believe her, but I had come to the point that I had to do something. Either I had to tell my therapist where my head was at, or I had to follow through with my thoughts. I didn’t really want to die, I just wanted the pain to stop.

This particular appointment in the middle of February, I finally told my therapist exactly what was going on in my head. I told her I had stopped taking my meds but that I was still having them filled at the pharmacy in order to stockpile them, you know, just in case I needed them. I didn’t have a specific plan, but I was heading down a very dark path.

My therapist talked to me like a human being. She never called the police. I never saw the hospital or the psych ward. But she did tell me she wanted me to go to Shatterproof, a program in Florida specifically for military/veterans and first responders. That terrified me! But through lots of talking and convincing, that’s where I went a couple of weeks later. Usually, I wouldn’t have been allowed to take a couple of weeks, but I had a couple of BIG projects I couldn’t leave unfinished. I also kept in regular contact with my therapist.

I was at Shatterproof for 40 days. Sure, I could focus on the issues and negative experiences I had with the staff, especially before getting to the actual Shatterproof program. But I won’t, because those problems were confronted and I learned to stand up for myself. Overall, the program and people there changed my life.

One of the biggest things that happened for me was Ketamine. We carry Ketamine on the ambulance at work for pain and behavioral. I had never heard of Ketamine being used for depression or PTSD. But here I was. The downside of Ketamine is the cost. They wanted $500 a treatment and encouraged you to do 6 treatments while there. Now, I didn’t have $3,000 in my possession. I told my therapist at home this, but she encouraged me to ask a few friends for help. I detest asking people for money or help! But I did it anyway. Within a short time of sending out a text message to max of 12 people, one friend in particular responded and said that through a group he works with, the entire $3,000 would be taken care of! Whoa!!! I was absolutely floored! This is the shit that happens for everyone else and never for me, yet here I was. I will be forever thankful to this friend and his group because for me, Ketamine has been life changing.

The other best thing about being at Shatterproof was my roommate. We’d have our nightly debriefings about the day’s events, and the bullshit some people had thrown out into the group sessions, instead of actually being honest. There was plenty of drama, but you’ll have that in a group of 50+ people. We stayed away from it. My roommate loved the days I had a Ketamine treatment and refused to allow me to cook anything on the stove! I guess she was convinced I would burn down the state of Florida! 🤣

Shatterproof has a zoom meeting every Friday night. It’s a time to check in and to seek/give encouragement as needed. We also have a chat with peeps who attend the zoom meeting in order to continue the support during the week, and not just on Friday evening. These peeps have become my people. I check in on them, and them on me. They will also call me out on bullshit or if I’m not being completely honest.

I became known as Pickles (surprise, surprise) and made pickle related food each weekend for the cookout on Sunday afternoon. I even made pickle ice cream, and 2 other flavors, which were a hit. I will be forever thankful for most of the staff at Shatterproof, those that truly love their work, because it shows.

The last year has been hard but full of growth. It has also been the best year of my life when considering the things that truly matter, such as having support and friends to lean on. It has also been lonely because not everyone who had been in my life was ready for that growth. They get left behind because they no longer know me. And that’s ok.

I tell my story to tell you that while it’s cliche, it’s still true that it’s ok to not be ok. It actually shows courage to ask for help and is in no way weakness. And for anyone who is struggling, please talk to someone you trust. If you don’t have anyone, leave a comment with contact information so that I can help you find resources, especially if you are a veteran/military or first responder. There is help out there. You aren’t beyond help. You ARE worth fighting for.

The Pain Behind Coping Mechanisms

Alcohol. Food. Sweets. Work. Cigarettes. Drugs. Vaping. Shopping. The list of coping mechanisms goes on. Some appear more healthy than others, but all are used to cope with life.

Everyone has a story. We’ve all been through something. Some have been through more than others, but what’s bad for you may not be bad for me. What’s hard for me may not be difficult for someone else.

It’s easier to hide the pain of trauma or grief behind the more acceptable coping mechanisms, such as pouring oneself into work and picking up a lot of overtime. Or drinking alcohol socially, but maybe you drink more behind closed doors. Smoking cigarettes or vaping is heavily acceptable.

What does this have to do with being a paramedic? If everyone goes through stuff, what about that patient on your stretcher in front of you? The one you may refer to as a “cockroach” because they won’t die, or a “dope head” because calling them less than makes you feel better about yourself. “I’m better than them because I don’t use/do xyz.”

If you look deep enough, you can see the pain in his eyes. If you listen carefully, you will hear her story. You likely won’t hear them sharing their story verbally, but you can still hear it. Maybe she was raped as a little girl, or even as an adult. Maybe the people who should have believed the truth didn’t. Maybe he was abused as a boy and now his wife also abuses him.

If we have all been through something, why do we judge those who at a particular moment are down in their lives? Why beat them down further? Why don’t we show our patients that we actually give a shit about more than just our paychecks? Many of us first responders have a long way to go when it comes to being respectful and empathetic towards those people stuck in addiction. Yet, we all have unhealthy coping mechanisms in our lives. Just because I’m addicted to Dr.Pepper instead of alcohol doesn’t make me any different or better than the man on the street corner addicted to heroine. Maybe we should become addicted to showing kindness and respect.

This song from Jelly Roll says it perfectly.

https://youtu.be/62vnVl0seMk?si=FcxbQirtQgdLnhOc

If You Could See Inside:

A friend wrote this. I feel this in my soul. With her permission, I posted this.

If you could see the storm within,
The chaos where my thoughts begin,
The highs, the lows, the endless fight,
You’d understand my world’s not right.

I wear a mask, a practiced smile,
It hides the war, though just a while.
Each word you say can cut so deep,
Or lift me high, where dreams don’t weep.

I love too hard, I break too fast,
Clinging to moments I know won’t last.
One look, one tone, and I come undone,
A battle lost before it’s won.

I wish you knew the fear I feel,
The doubt that nothing’s ever real.
Do you love me? Hate me? Will you stay?
These questions haunt me every day.

I’m not the monster you might see,
I’m just a soul who wants to be free.
To feel at peace, to know my worth,
To find some calm within this earth.

But how do I explain the mess inside?
The shifting sands, the changing tide?
I wish you’d see, not turn away,
To hold my hand and simply stay.

I don’t want pity, don’t need your tears,
Just someone to stand beside my fears.
To hear my heart, to understand,
And anchor me with steady hands.

For I am human, flawed but real,
With wounds that time will never heal.
So if you try, look past my pain,
You’ll find the person I hope remains.

-Courtney Anders