My journaling began in June 2016, just as I was going completely off the rails. Sometimes it was just a few words penned into a notebook or a stream of consciousness typed into my laptop. I did two types of writing:
** I wrote about anything that popped into my head and;
** I was more deliberate. I would pose questions, often not sure of the answers. For example, on Aug 11, 2016, the day I was admitted to the Ward 17 psychiatric unit in Melbourne for the first time, I wrote: “Namir and Saeed. Maybe the key is to come to some sort of acceptance and then seek atonement. How does one atone for 9 years of guilt? Moral injury. Feel this describes me.”
(Namir and Saeed were my two staff who were killed by a U.S. Apache attack helicopter in Baghdad in 2007)
I would keep coming back to those lines in the months that followed.
While in Ward 17 for five weeks from Aug-Sept 2016, I took copious notes on the sessions with my treating team, conversations with other patients and what insights I was gaining. That meant I usually had questions at the next therapy session. My treating team expressed concern on several occasions that I was reading too much about PTSD and war and writing too much in my journal. My response was: “That’s what journalists do.”
Writing has allowed me to process my trauma at my own pace. I don’t touch-type, which slows down my thinking. I can think only as fast as I type.
Writing about my journey with PTSD and moral injury has been incredibly important to me. Sure, it’s been painful at times. I’ve had to confront my guilt and shame over Namir and Saeed. I’ve been forced to recall things in my personal life that I am not proud of. I’ve had to sift through traumatic experiences and images.
During my first admission to Ward 17, my Iranian-born psychiatrist suggested I write a letter to Namir and Saeed to tell them how I felt. It was a great idea, but it took 10 months to find the courage. It was only during my second admission to Ward 17 in July 2017 that I put pen to paper. I handwrote a 4,800-word letter over six days. Once done, I finally understood why I felt culpable over their deaths and why I felt shame for failing them in later years.
I found the answers to the questions I had been asking myself.
