Memorial Day

[Cyrus Cassidy #45437]

Memorial Day: It's the one day every year I stop trying to forget. I've buried 19 friends, and I don't even remember the number of deaths I've witnessed. I've seen peoples' insides on the outside, body parts burned, shredded, and ripped from their once-living bodies. I've sat with toddlers who have been molested by relatives or sold to drug dealers to pay for their parents' filthy habit. I've held the hand of an old woman when I told her her husband of 50 years was dead. I've notified parents their child was dead. I've lived and relived every type of trauma that most of you don't know or won't admit exists.

 

The average person experiences 5 traumatic incidents within their lifetime. My number is somewhere around 1000. If you think PTSD is a crutch or a made-up excuse, you live in a fantasy world. I spend every moment of every day trying to forget, but my brain won't let me. My brain is constantly in survival mode, mistaking every sudden noise or movement in my peripheral vision as a deadly threat. My heart races and adrenaline pumps through my body, anticipating another deadly encounter that instinct forces me to confront to remain alive.

 

I sit with my back to the wall so I can observe everyone coming or going. I visually check them for weapons, watch their body language, and analyze their every move. I remove my seatbelt before parking because my brain tells me failure to do so will result in being attacked while helplessly strapped to the driver's seat. I leave escape routes when I drive, and take note of all exits and chokepoints when I enter a building for the first time.

 

Smells trigger memories, and my memories would make you cry. Whenever you have a nightmare, it's some strange, inexplicable, and impossible occurrence. Mine are real, horrific events that I witnessed. I try to forget, but the memories refuse to leave. They haunt me when I'm awake, and when I'm asleep.

I use medications to sleep, but it isn't enough. I'm tired all the time because my brain refuses to believe there is a safe place where it can let go. It refuses to forget. I'm always on edge, alert for whatever danger may be lurking around the corner, even when my body and mind are exhausted.

 

People wonder why I've put so much into umpiring baseball. The answer is simple: It makes me forget. For two hours or so at least, the images, memories, sounds, and smells of war and hell are gone. The adrenaline is tied to the excitement of the game, and to wanting to be so good at my job that I know where to be and what to do so that I'm right every time.

 

The sound of the laces cutting the air on a fastball to the outside edge of the zone, the pop of the catcher's mitt, or the ding of the bat are the only sounds that I care about for those two hours. The only visions I have are of what could happen next so that I'm ready. The only smells are of nasty, fried carnival food, sweat, and leather. All the others -- the ones I want to forget -- go away for those two hours.

 

I want the players and their ability to decide the outcome of the game, not me by having gotten a call wrong. But if I do get one wrong, I take solace in the idea that no one is going to die because of my mistake. At the end of the game, we're all going home. Someone may go to their grave cursing me as an umpire and having robbed them of their shot at glory, but it isn't true, and no one died.

 

At the end of each game, I walk off the field with my partner, debrief my actions so I'm better next time, and start stripping my gear to go home. But I know as soon as I pull away, the memories will come back. As much as I try to forget, they always come back.

 

Except for Memorial Day; this time of year I remember on purpose. Each of those 19 friends I have buried believed that others were worth their sacrifice. Each died a hero. Each deserves to be remembered for their kindness, nobility, and character.

 

So today I stop trying to forget, and I remember.

[Utah Bob #35998]

I feel you, brother. I feel you. 

[Henry T Harrison]

13 minutes ago, Utah Bob #35998 said:

I feel you, brother. I feel you. 

The memories run deep and hard. Please ask for help I did and it saved my life