“No experience is a cause of success or failure. We do not suffer from the shock of our experiences, so-called trauma — but we make out of them just what suits our purposes.” — Alfred Adler

My body was stiff from the piercing explosive sound. It was a different kind of sound than anything I’ve ever heard. It was a sound so pronounced every cell in my body vibrated. Once I returned to the United States driving out the exit of Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital in May of 2005. I approached the first stop light just seconds from exiting the gate and heard it, and even saw that flash from the blast. I heard it again at the following intersection, and then again. Every 30 seconds I would revisit that moment of explosion in Iraq. This was my first recollection of the memories from the blast. I had learned about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) already, but I denied that was the cause of those reoccurring memories. Later in my recovery I learned some unconventional techniques on how to flip PTSD into Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG), which are explained more in later chapters.

I tried to ignore the flashes in my head, but I would flinch with each explosive memory like an annoying gnat in my face. Driving was clearly an ongoing reminder of my experience in Iraq. It took me two years after returning home before those flashing episodes of that mind-numbing explosion stopped. After a while I decided there wasn’t any use to get angry or upset, so I turned that annoyance into a game. Every time I was reminded of the explosion, I would try to time it with each passing space between the white markers dividing the highway lanes. I had to be creative with scoring. One of the many mind tricks I constructed throughout my recovery. I don’t remember when or why these episodes stopped, but now only occur once a year or less. Perhaps turning those traumatic memories into a game made it less of a threat.

As a combat engineer in the United States Marines, I’ve experienced countless explosions, but never anything like that May 30th afternoon. It was late afternoon, and I was driving a light armored Humvee through one of Saddam Hussein’s Ammo Supply Points (ASP). A group of us had finished stacking mortar rounds and priming them for the next morning’s demolition. On our way back to camp I drove over an Improved Explosive Device (IED). The IED was pressure detonated. The detonating device was made with a saw blade and electrical wiring from the road to the bombs. The weight of our Humvee was more than enough to send that electrical charge to the explosive materials buried underneath the sand on both sides of the road. The moment of explosion remains extremely vivid 10 years later. There are still occurrences when I hear it, and feel the vibrations of the blast at the most random times, like while dozing off on a plane, and awaking to say a rather embarrassing, “sorry about that” comment to my seat mates.

I recalled the two 120-millimeter bomb’s immense pressure and sound, and then faded away like fog rolling through the ambient area. After the pressure waves dulled there was a constant humming sound like being trapped in a hollow barrel with steal rods smacking together. My body became numb, with a burning sensation following an out of body experience. My attention turned to the damage of the Humvee. The front end was peeled back like a can of tuna. I could smell the diesel fuel that covered the windshield. The canvas top was completely ripped off, leaving only the mangled army green support bar, broken, and sticking out in each direction. Only a few minutes had passed, but it felt much longer regaining our bearings as we came to a rolling stop. I remembered the yelling from no particular person or direction. I looked at the black soot and diesel soaked windshield, and scanned down to the floorboard. I knew something was deeply wrong when I saw the blood on my arms and cammie blouse.

Whether I liked it not, war changed me.

Author: Kevin Blanchard https://www.facebook.com/kevin.blanchard1