19th Alive Day

May 25, 2004, is a date that has permanent residence in my brain. Throughout the years, I have tried hiding from the events of this day, I have tried out running the traumas, I have spoken out about them, and finally, I have faced those memories.

If you have been on this journey with me since I started this blog, then you may be familiar with this date and the memories that surround this date for me. If you are new here, scroll down on the blogs and read the first blog, "It's Not All Her Blood." Go ahead, go back and read it, and then come back to this blog.

Okay, if you are still reading, I will assume you read my first blog. Disclaimer- I am not a medical professional, nor do I speak for the masses. I tell my truth and my experiences.

Going through any trauma, specifically trauma from war, changed me. I was 23 when I left for Iraq and felt like I was 60, coming home- mentally and physically. The war and everything I saw in Iraq took me decades to come to terms with. I held one of my closest friends, my little brother, in my arms while I prayed to any higher powers for him not to die.

For years, I tried acting like I was okay. I would put on a smile for work, but in reality, I was dying inside from being around too many people. I would act like my sleeping habits were great when I was lying in bed at night, paralyzed by what I thought were the sounds of machine gun fire in my backyard.

I played the tough guy card and said I didn't need therapy. I began obsessively running for over a decade, claiming that running alone had cured my PTSD. And although running is excellent for your mental health, when you start running 25+ miles a day to keep the trauma away, perhaps it's time to seek professional help.

It would take the pandemic for me to face my past finally. I went through yoga teacher training because I learned that mediating and practicing yoga was what my body needed more of versus running.

After 17 years of Emly taking up so much space in my brain, I began writing the Always Forward series. And that is when I realized I needed professional mental health treatment. Writing Emily's story helped me, but somehow, it brought back all my traumas too close to the surface.

I got into therapy (And yes, there is a blog about that, too!), which made all the difference. After two months of prolonged exposure therapy, I had to relive May 25, 2004, repeatedly. I had to face the worst day of my life, write about it, and then read it to my doctor.

Was this hard? YES.

Did I cry every week? YES.

Did I want to cancel sessions? YES.

Was it scary having to face my worst core memory? ALSO YES.

Did I complete the course? YES!

May 25, 2004, is still one of my brain's core memory and traumatic event. But working with a mental health professional allowed me to learn how to address these memories, sort through them, and identify my triggers.

As I sit here on the eve of the anniversary of the worst day of my life, I am grateful for every day I have been gifted since May 25, 2004. Many Veterans call the day they were injured their Alive Day. It's like our second chance at life, and I live every day like it may be my last because tomorrow is never promised.