The scars on my soul are telling a story

Dear Bloggers,

I'm having trouble working out where I am and who I am. Somehow, this isn't disturbing, it's simply puzzling to me. I'm in a puzzle and need to put together the clues to work out what this is all about.

Images are popping up in my mind and somehow the pictures are mixed up and there are people who have never been there before and that makes it complicated. I'm sitting in the centre of a row of beige plastic chairs. When I turn my head, I realise that my wife,is sitting next to me. A ring of beige chairs also lines the walls. Other people, scattered around the room, are sitting here with worried faces some of them are crying or looking down and shuffling their feet. I get the feeling that they don't want to be here.

A beeping sound is coming from somewhere. To my right, people are moving through an automatic door. I look up and see a young woman behind a glass window. She seems to be mentally losing it, as they just confirmed that her boyfriend has died in the chaos that is out there, and her dark hair hasn't been brushed recently. She's on the phone and taking notes. All of a sudden a few people show up to me and I realize that I can not see there faces and I frown when they approach me, as I don't really want to speak to them. I am not the one that should give them answers, I send them over to the other side of the room and I see them sitting down with the policeman who has a copy of the passenger list and they are being desperate for good news.

We seem to be in some sort of waiting room, but I don't know why. I am wearing my military camouflage uniform sitting with my helmet in my hands. We are sitting in a sports hall which has been decorated as a waiting area with here and there a few tables where policemen are trying to give as good and as bad information . For most of the survivors the waiting is hell.

The sunlight is slanting through the windows on the far wall is soft; it must be the morning light, then. My dear God we have been here for hours and still they are bringing people in. Local cops, people from the Red Cross and other persons like psychotherapists, priests,ministers. The major is running the operation. And our duty has been taken over by the own countries army and we are waiting to get the clearance that we can go back to our base

In one corner of the room, on a low table, there are piles of magazines. I walk over to pick up a crying girl and then sit down with her again. This is a young woman I guess in her late teens or early twenties approximately my own age but she has lost everyone that she was with. My heart breaks when I see her and send my buddy to find someone to comfort her. As for us it's about time to leave.

Off to my left, a child is whining. I turn to see a man and a woman, both big, with a girl aged four or five. They look tired, as parents do when they've been up during the night with a grumpy and worn out child. Soon I am absorbed by their interactions; it's like watching a show. The father lifts the girl on to his lap, looking strained. The mother holds up a children's book, reading to her. The child listens for a while, fidgets, and cries again. The mother tries to interest her in one of the toys from a box in the corner, but it doesn't work. Now I know what this is like; I'm a parent, too. They're doing their best in this bad situation.

How did I get to this room? A fragment comes into my mind, a dreamlike image of driving us to the chaotic scene and me being impressed by the sea hawk helicopters that are flying on and off. It is what I can see from our military vehicle window. Did this really happen, or am I imagining it?

I turn to my wife and see that she's crying quietly: her cheeks are pink; the rims of her eyes are red. She's sad about something, but I don't know what. I put my arm around her shoulder and pat her gently. "It'll be all right," I say. She quiets a little. All the other things are in some kind of blurred image. And I wander what her problem is, somehow I cannot reach her. It is a disturbing feeling and I feel powerless. How in the hell can I help her when I am in this state of mind.

As we sit there, I feel as if I'm in a sound bubble, into which the surrounding noises don't intrude. The crying girl doesn't irritate me as I think she might have at another time. Instead, I feel a well of stillness inside. I keep turning the pages of this story of my life. Get up soldier it is time to stand up to your troubled mind and help the one you love with all your heart. The road will be long and tough sometimes inhospitable sometimes, but she is not afraid as she has a well-trained soldier at her side. But there is no way back and it looks like our horizon on fire as the sun goes down slowly.

As far as I can tell, it's not long before we are taken through a door. It opens, like magic, into a wide, yellow corridor with a side table, a high metal chair, and shelves along the walls. Have we really been here? Did we do anything good for those people? And why am I mixed up with all those emotions. And why am I dressed in full combat gear with a loaded machine gun? I left the army in the autumn of 1987 that is more then 25 years ago.

A young military man who says he is a doctor asks us to sit in the chairs while he stands before us. He's wearing ordinary clothes and looks tired, speaking slowly and softly. He probably wants to go home. The doctor would like to thank us for the quick responding to the scene. And gives our sergeant a phone number for the ones who might need help. At the moment we do not need anything but want to go home. We are all trained to kill people but in this case this were civilians who just had a good time and were killed in a weird kind of disaster. In this case we could not save them. Man this has impacted our team the guys have gone quiet as we have seen all to much.The guys are all silent and some are staring with bowed head to the floor. the situation we ended up in was totally insane. And no one had the strength to say anything. It was quiet and lonely it felt like a slap in the face.

Memories lost: I don't know how long I'm with the doctor perhaps one or two minutes and when I look up he's gone. There's that puzzling feeling again: was he real, or am I in a dream?

Back in the corridor, a man and a woman tell me I am to have a EMDR session. The thought excites me. I don't think I've ever had one before, but I know what they are: I've read reports from EMDR patients as psychology fascinates me because the brain is something very special, detailing the effects of a brain that is able to send people in the right or wrong directions. They have a lounge chair and mentally they push me into another corridor of my mind. In and out of the disaster we go. It is sad and reliving it is absolute no fun.

They say the session is over, but I don't remember having it. How odd! I'm walking with a woman, also dressed in blue; she's told me that I'm having the next session next Thursday. I'm not sure if I've been in state like this before, but I'm so tired that I think it would be great to get my life back and being able to sleep without nightmares again.

The next morning is different from the day before. It feels as if I've woken from a dream. I'm sure now that I've been there and that woman next to me in my memory is not my wife but my late buddy who died of cancer a few years later in hospital, and that something really has happened to me. I remember more clearly the whole situation was so crazy before we came in. I'd woken with a headache, walked to the kitchen, taken a Panadol, and gone back to bed. That's the last memory I have on this weird mixed up dream.

The phone beside my bed rings, interrupting my reverie. It's traffic control if I could work today. “And I respond yes of course what time should I start?”

"I'm woolly in the head, as if I'm not sure I'm really here," I reply to my wife. "I've got a mild headache, too." and still you are going to work she says. I call it therapy as my brain has to work in a different way. I jump out of bed and head for the bathroom. Brushing my teeth, shave and hop into the shower.

It's three months after my initial psychologists admission, and two months after I was formally discharged from therapy again, where I spent eight unsettling and confining sessions. It's mid-afternoon and I'm reading a book. It's easy to follow, and it doesn't matter if I've forgotten some of the earlier details. I like the way of writing, and I am fascinated by the story: I'm not the only one on a path of survival. Initially I tried reading a story of a deeply harmed woman that has survived a war, but it was like struggling through thick, deep mud.

I would read a page, and by the time I reached the next, I'd forgotten what the previous one had said. I go back to reading, settling comfortably into my chair; the idea of seeing the doctor slips into my back pocket. But my brain continues processing this information in its own way.

Then, a thought comes suddenly to my mind: if I've had a set back, and that's not physical… I haven't had a mental breakdown. It all came up again due to a very different situation. They harmed my wife and the killing machine was woken up from the dead end corner of my brain. I was going to take this bad ass out of his magic life. And everyone that would be in the way. The bastard has been lucky that he wasn't home as I had figured out were he was living. I couldn't stop the blindness and the deep angered soldier that was taken over. Lucky part of the situation was that he was not home as I still see him as the enemy. Thank God I did not harm anyone. Relief floods through me. Fucking fantastic.

Recovery: All of this happened on the evening hours of the 6^th of March 1987 But cue seven months of visits to doctors psychotherapists and a series of tests. I've been told that I should exercise, walk on flat ground if I go for a walk, read nothing harder than the newspaper. I try to follow doctor's orders to take it easy and avoid stress. The stress thing is a process of discovery. The invisible hole in my head is a trickster; I don't know when or how it's going to trip me up next. My body's not behaving properly either. And that came up years later due to a stressed life.

I'm anxious to get on with my recovery, and the more I read, the more it seems like a computer-based cognitive training program is what I need. The program should concentrate on building the basic auditory skills first, and then the components of speech and finally comprehension.

Now the situation has stabilized and I am calm again, yet I must give closure to the old situation and learn to live with what happened then. Furthermore, I will have to build on a completely new start for my wife because she never will be the same again and will have to learn to live with her post-traumatic stress disorder. Will I ever find the peace and able to deal with the false world that simply seeks to amass money and is not looking for happiness.

It is the time that heals all wounds, but there is always a scar on my soul and that scar will fade with aging. Sometimes it will itch and sometimes it will be hurting and feel like stabbing but it will never disappear. It's something you learn to live with and gradually no one is sensing that you have a scar. "In peacetime you are much more affected by the war." said an old veteran a couple of weeks ago.

 

The Old Sailor,

An old fairy tale in a modern jacket

Dear Bloggers,

During the my wanderings through my funny mind.

I wanted to put an old fairy tale into a modern form. 

Everyone knows the sad story of the girl with the matches. 

As a young bloke this story made me cry and I realized that not everyone is 

that lucky in this life, some have to live under harsh conditions

This is my version of it. I wish everyone a warm and loving Christmas time.

It was a frigid cold night outside on the streets of downtown Groningen City, the coldest night of the year in fact. It was Christmas Eve and all along the littered and paved road were buildings with warm glows coming from the windows of the apartment buildings. Everyone was happily celebrating the Christmas spirit with glasses of brandy or a beer and a typical Christmas movie on their televisions. The snow fell down fast and thick, blanketing the sidewalks in a soft but chill powder. The snow ploughs would have quite a job clearing all the walkways and roads in the morning.

A public service bus emblazoned with Groningens famous grey and red dotted pattern managed to find a vacant spot along the side of the busy street and parallel parked, coming to a stop. The back passenger door opened and a man in a dark trench coat and dark hat shoved a young girl onto the unploughed sidewalk. The bloke threw a box at her, revealing quite a large stock of packaged cigarettes. “Now, I don’t wanna see you back on my doorstep until every last pack of smokes has been sold, you got that kid?” the owner of the hat yelled harshly. The girl sighed and shivered as the wind tore through her thin jacket and ragged jeans.

“Yeah, alright! I’ll sell ‘em!” she snapped back, thoroughly irritated with her big brother doing this to her again. He had sent her out in the frigid cold every night this week to sell those disgusting cigarettes his buddies smuggled in from other countries. She had gotten quite ill from her late-night job and even now, her eyes were streaming and her nose was dripping terribly. Her lungs felt about three sizes too small for her body and every now and then, she would be plagued with a wracking cough that left her gasping for air.

Of course, her brother would not take her to the hospital. He didn’t want to waste his precious money that she earned for him on something as trivial and unimportant as medical care. The bus slowly took off again and got out of sight again, leaving the sick young girl of about twelve years by herself on the streets of Groningen City.

She wore no gloves and her sneakers had holes in them that allowed the snow to soak through and freeze her toes. Her jacket was too ragged and thin to wear in March, let alone late December. Pulling the thin fabric tighter around her scarf-less neck, she put her head down and trudged her way through the bitter cold snow, being jostled back and forth by busy Groningers who were in too much of a hurry to notice her.

Finding a rather busy intersection, with bustling traffic all around her, the girl decided to advertise the cigarettes there. Placing the box in front of her on the ground and pulling out a brightly coloured, freshly wrapped package, she cleared her aching throat and shouted out. “Get your cigarettes here! Fresh, smooth cigarettes with a new mint flavour! Only three fifty a pack! A great low price!” she yelled out, displaying the carton as high up as she could to grab people’s attention. A few passing folks bought a package or two, but most just turned their heads and kept walking without a word. She had only sold four packages of cigarettes and needed to sell the entire box full before returning to her brother.

A bout of severe coughing caught the young girl by surprise. Doubled over, she hacked and spluttered until she thought she may vomit right there on the pavement. Luckily, the feeling passed although she was left gasping for breath, hands on her knees at the intersection. Of course, the bustling Groningers walking past paid no attention to her. The suffering of a little girl was no concern of theirs.

Wiping her runny eyes that were now mixed with hot, salty tears, the girl shook her head to shake the snow out of her hair. “Forget this! This is dumb!” she muttered to herself angrily, giving the box of cigarettes a good kick, leaving a sizable dent in the soggy cardboard. Picking up the box and continuing to walk down the street, she had to bite her lip to stop from crying out in pain. She was so cold she couldn’t feel her toes or her fingers and she was aching all over from the beating her brother had given her the day before for coming home with no profit.

“Psst! Hey, kid! You got some smokes there?” the voice of a homeless man wafted out from an alley. The young girl was not afraid of street people. Most of them were usually kind enough to spare an encouraging word or a few extra scraps of food when she made her rounds. She nodded and stepped forward. “Yeah, but I can’t give ‘em to you for free or else my brother will beat me,” she told him apologetically. The homeless man waved a hand as if to brush off her words.

“Ah, that’s okay kid. I got some matches though. Care to trade a pack of smokes for some matches?” he asked, pulling out a small handful. The girl was about to apologize once more and say that her brother would hit her for trading any of the cigarettes when a thought struck her. The matches would provide some kind of warmth for her numb fingers. Unable to resist, the girl eagerly nodded and traded the homeless man for the matches. “Thanks, kid. You’re alright,” the man complimented her, walking away with his new treasure.

Taking the man’s place in the dark alley, the girl struck one of the matches against the rough brick of the building beside her. Thankfully, the match wasn’t wet and a small fire glowed brightly in front of her eyes. Looking up, the young girl witnessed the most amazing sight. Before her lay her old living room from when her mother had been alive, decorated lavishly for the holidays. A gleaming pine tree covered in twinkling lights and tinsel shone magnificently and presents were laid underneath, covered in festive wrapping paper as a roaring fire spread its warmth throughout the room. As the girl reached out to touch her surroundings, the flame of the match flickered and died out; leaving her once again in one of Groningen City’s many dark and frighteningly cold alleys.

With a cry of fear she desperately struck another match. This time, she was in her old dining room, also decorated for Christmas and the table groaning under the weight of all the delicious food upon it. Roasted turkey with cranberry sauce and gravy, mashed potatoes, wine and eggnog all freshly made by her mother. The scent made the girl’s mouth water, but again the vision did not last and with the death of the match’s flame, came reality once more.

Just one more… the girl thought to herself hopefully, again striking a third match. Rather than seeing visions of her old home with food and decorations made by her deceased mother, she saw her mother before her. She was alive and well, looking healthy and jubilant. She smiled warmly at her daughter, holding her arms out to embrace her. Sobbing with joy, the girl frantically lit the rest of the matches she had, not wanting the image of her mother to fade away like the others had. “Mom! Mom, take me with you! Don’t leave me again, mom!” she wept.

“Come. I’m taking you with me, where you will never be sad or cold or hungry again. We will be together forever,” her mother’s sweet, gentle voice called out calmly to her. Smiling through her tears, the girl ran into her mother’s arms and they were floating higher and higher. As they ascended, the young girl could feel all her sadness, loneliness, hunger, and cold fade away, leaving her in a state of bliss as she embraced her mother. She would never feel these things again.

The morning rush hour traffic on the first day after Christmas was brought to a standstill as police tape surrounded a snowy alley. A female officer leaned over the body of a little girl, surrounded by lit matches and a box of cigarettes nearby. She cleared her throat and spoke into the walkie-talkie attached to her breast pocket. “We seem to have a Jane Doe here, approximately ten to thirteen years old; seems like she froze to death last night. We’ll have her at the coroner’s by midday. Over,” she told another officer. The officer sighed and shook her head. “Poor kid. Probably she was just trying to keep herself warm.”

Light a candle in these dark days for those who are no longer with us,

but somewhere up there waiting for us. And when our time has come 

to exchange the earthly to the afterlife. 

Whatever you believe and no matter who you are. 

Just remember Love conquers all. 

The Old Sailor,

Day Dreaming

Dear Bloggers,

A couple of days ago we had a bit of stormy weather and at these moments my brain is running like a ships main engine. Just running a bit faster in a tempo that can be followed. As the wind is howling around the bus and rain is bashing on the windows, I need to wait for a couple of minutes to start the next round again. 

My thoughts are drifting away again. I am memorizing my time and life at sea. A great time with some happy and some sad moments. Yes, I loved it and now I am getting too old with too many complicated extras being a diabetic and suffering from fibromyalgia a life at sea is nearly impossible. Yes, I have some odd fantasies. Wait, that sounds not right, maybe for some really bad. During stormy weather I day-dream a lot. When I day-dream I am getting carried away. Maybe it’s a normal human being thing. I cannot look inside your brain.

 

Whatever, I could day-dream for a whole day, and I have done that before. The good part is anything is possible in a day-dream. When I used to get really angry during my time just after my time at sea. I’d got to my island and cooled down under the palm trees. Yes, I have an island. I also have a ship. But it’s all in my head unfortunately. I turned on the Computer to see “The perfect storm”one of the films I really love to watch. Even though it is not all that realistic.

I day dreamed all the way through it because the film did not catch me this time. The thing I can remember was George Clooney is sailing out with his crew and I was a deck hand. I came around from my day at the day-dream merry go round and thought “what the fuck? This is even more fucked up than my normal day-dream” and went back to whatever else I was thinking about.

Today my fantasies merged with reality and I’ve been searching for small motor ships for sale on the Internet for the last hour. I should be sleeping as it is nearly midnight when I am writing this blog, but never mind. I wish I could buy my family a small motor ship like this.

It has to be the right kind of ship. It has to have the right shape, I found an awesome one with cannons, although I don’t think they are necessary on the Frisian lakes (tempting as it is to track down my wife her ex-boyfriends and enemy’s and fire at them). Burn bastards burn!!!

Problem is, I can’t afford a ship (although there are some smaller ships for sale here in the neighborhood that would cost the same as a car) and I do know how to sail a ship, I do know enough people so they could help me sail the ship, or the people who I do know who could help me to patch up the ship, plus I’d have to sail to get them. So that means no ship, no island with sand and sunshine and I’ll have to stick with driving buses because I currently have no back up plan, unless I suddenly become a famous artist or win a lottery. In which case this is an endless cycle of fantasy but maybe I’d be rich and then I could afford a boat and a new tattoo.

This is all pretty pointless but it’s better than thinking about killing yourself or other negative thoughts, You can call me sick but I am having funny and happy day dreams.

Anyway, a total pointless story, but it indulged my imagination for a bit. Now I’m thinking of my next tattoo…..

The Old Sailor,