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[magicalfirehideout]

Chapter One: Ghosts and Demons

As I reached the landing on the back porch, two dark crimson-colored droplets of blood began to pool on the concrete with each beat of my heart. I tried to cover up the blood by grinding the bottom of my shoe into the concrete, but it only made it worse, and it was quickly replaced with more.  I was trying to come up with a story or at least an explanation, but I was at a loss for words.  Although my mind was in a dense fog of self-doubt and frustration, each step closer to home was starting to snap me back into focus, but not enough to compensate.  One of the things that continually ran through my mind during the walk home was the old notion that life was full of choices.  Tonight, I made several bad choices that led to unnecessary bloodshed. 

          When I stumbled my way towards the back door of my house the motion light clicked on from dimly lit, to a melt-your-eyeball mode.  I was blinded. I put up my bandaged hand to protect my eyes, forgetting about the flowerpot I put there last week to spruce up the property.  My right foot contacted the large ceramic pot, causing me to fall face-first.  I was able to catch the doorknob with my right hand, but the momentum of falling forward made a large crashing sound as my body contacted the storm door.  I was able to pull myself upright and as I stood back to dust myself off, I noticed the large blood smear I had left on my injured hand.  I stood there for several seconds, transfixed on the smear's downward arc that was encompassed by a large dent in the aluminum door.  I could hear movement in the house, and I knew what waited for me on the other side of the door.  Should I just walk away?  Should I go back into the fog and never come back? I immediately pushed these thoughts out of my mind and tried to work on my story about what happened and why I was covered in blood.  A lie only hurt when the truth was exposed, right? I took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds, before slowly releasing it through pursed lips. It didn't help. It never did.

            I turned the knob with my right hand and spilled into the house holding my left thumb and hand slightly above my heart. The bleeding hadn't let up a bit on the walk home. I could feel the throbbing coming from the tip of my thumb, which was partially missing and bleeding profusely into the makeshift bandage of tissue and electrical tape. I tried direct pressure, but the pain was almost unbearable.    

As I made my way through the three-seasons room and into the kitchen, I left droplets of blood that could easily be followed. I tried to bend down to whip away the evidence, but it only made it worse.    Shit!  I thought as I stood up and looked down at my new gray Under Armor t-shirt under the sobering glow of the hallway lights.  The blood had already dried into the light gray fabric, and I could feel it sticking to my chest and stomach.  Between the blood-stained front of it and the strong smell of the campfire, I was starting to get queasy. For a second time, I tripped over the door's threshold and almost fell into the wall.  I had been meaning to fix the loose board for the past two years. It was on “the list” of things I would never get to but I kept adding to every chance it went unchallenged.      

            As I stood in the six by four foot newly remodeled bathroom, just off our bedroom, I was disgusted at what I saw looking back at me in the mirror. When I redid the bathroom last year, I added three high-voltage lights to better illuminate the bathroom.  I regretted the decision to upgrade the light because it brought up every detail of the carnage. I reached out for the facet value with my good hand and fumbled with the faucet handle, trying to wrangle it loose to get some cool water on my eviscerated thumb. The pain was shooting up my left arm and I could feel it deep within my core.  It is impressive how quickly pain can remind you of the human side of life and the impact of a stupid decision.   

How many drinks did I have at night?  It started out with one mixed but quickly turned into another.  With each sip of alcohol, my anxiety was melting away and I was starting to feel invincible.  Invincibility was something I needed at this point in life.  In fact, if I could, I would pack up my things and hit the road before the true story came out. But, more on that later.  I needed a change and maybe things were “too hot” to stay behind and face the consequences of my decisions.  Alcohol has a funny way of turning off the rational side of your brain and making you think about things that you might not think about.  Like, for a brief second on my walk home, I thought about ending it  It wouldn’t be hard to do.  One simple act to end it all.  As quick as this thought entered my head, I snapped back to reality. Too many people care about me to end it. Plus, I couldn't do that to the boys and Lucy. Not tonight. Not ever. One attempt was enough and the fallout was horrible.

I started to dissect the bandage by unraveling the blood-soaked paper towel from my thumb. With each pull and tug, I could feel the exposed nerves rapidly firing throughout my body. For such a small part of my body, it was causing me a huge amount of pain. I welcomed it. I wanted to feel pain. Feeling pain meant I was alive. It meant I still had fight left in me.  I took several deep breaths and looked away to regain my composure.  Blood never really phased me. In fact, a week prior I had sat through an autopsy where I watched a sadistic Doctor cut the ribs away from a homicide victim with a set of garden sheers. As the Doctor chomped on spearmint gum, he was chatting away about how unfair the police were being treated and how he felt the defunding effort was bullshit. It was almost comical, except for the fact a dead guy was lying face up with his wide open with a bullet hole in his head. He had a shocked look on his face and the more I studied it, the more it sent chills up my spine.   After transitioning to a soup ladle, the Doctor began pulling the excess blood from the abdominal cavity and pouring it down the drain, much like someone would do when filling up a bowl with tomato soup.  In fact, other than some loose tissue, it was similar in consistency. It made my stomach turn.

As a took in another deep breath to slow the peeling process of the last bandage, I could still taste the tinge of blood that was still attached to my nose hairs from the autopsy. “Don’t go there,” I said to myself.  "Stop it!" I closed my eyes and took another deep breath. "Fuckin' Stop it...  I can’t take another flashback."  Not now.  I continued to slow my breathing and tried to focus on the task of removing the last bit of the bandage.  Normally, this sort of weird behavior during an autopsy or even a sadistic thought process during police work did not bother me, but lately, I was struggling to keep my head straight.  My mind was constantly racing with random thoughts that at times didn’t make sense.  Suicidal thoughts were popping into my head more frequently than at any point in my life and it was becoming more and more difficult to dismiss them.  They were more of suggestions to deal with the flashbacks and trauma I faced as a police officer. The inner voice was telling me it would be easier to end things than to deal with them anymore. it scared me, but I could control it with alcohol. At least, I thought I could.  It had been years since this was a problem and the last time I dealt with it, I thought it was over.  It was a secret I kept with me every day and something I refused to talk about. At times, I tried to find the words, but they escaped me when I tried to push them toward the surface.  

Often, in times of crisis, we look toward the cause or at least try to pinpoint something that is a mitigating factor to our behavior. ��Prior attempts at therapy had taught me the importance of recognizing the warning signs and “backing off” when things became too difficult to deal with.  Several months ago, I took a promotion to Detective, and it was shortly after this that things began to fall apart.    Each case I took on exposed more of the cracks in my psyche, and unlike before, I refused to acknowledge them.  Again, I kept it a secret and met each assignment and day with a smile. Deep down, just below the surface, I was struggling. With each death I was exposed to it was as if they were talking directly to me. They wanted me to join them.

Instead of turning to a healthy outlet, like therapy, or fitness to reduce anxiety, I did something that was easy and convenient.  I self-medicated with alcohol. It started out slow.  A tough week? A drink or two in the old recliner after work. Shitty day? A drink or two turned into a four to six. What started out as drinking on the weekends, slowly bled into the work week and eventually became a nightly ritual.  A few drinks a night, quickly turned into shit-faced drunkenness. I slur my words and slump into bed exhausted. I was on a repeat cycle of behavior and each night I would come home, pour a glass of whiskey, and try to forget the inner politics of the job and the horrors of human existence.  I felt like no one understood me and the only answer was the drink more. My sleep was poor and the more I drank to sleep, the less it came each night. I was running on fumes of alcohol and exhaustion.

Shit that hurts! I thought as I peeled away the final piece of tissue paper that was attached to what little skin I had left on my left thumb.  “I need stitches,” I said to whoever was listening.  My wife, Lucy, was in the next room tending to our two boys and yelled “why is there blood everywhere… are you okay?” 

“No worries… I am fine” She was getting tired of my drunken endeavors and the last thing I wanted to do was further concern her about my latest alcohol-fueled shitshow.    I closed the door and locked it.  I didn’t want her to come into the bathroom and see me covered in blood.  I turned on the shower and quickly balled up my clothing, placing them at the bottom of the hamper. I felt as though I was cleaning up a crime scene and hiding evidence, but honestly, that was exactly what I was doing. I was good at hiding things from those I loved.   I was hiding another mistake.  Another choice that resulted in a shitty outcome.  My life was full of them lately and it was only getting hard to cover my tracks.  

I start to run cold water from the sink over what was left of my thumb.  I looked in the mirror and again was taken aback by what was staring at me. I didn't recognize myself.  My eyes were bloodshot.  My cheeks were puffy.   “Damn,” I said out loud.  “What are you looking at you piece of shit?” I looked like the classic alcoholic. Flushed, bloated skin that was oozing pure ethanol from every pore.   I was my father. I was my grandfather. I was every family member who was alcoholic. I had finally made the transition.

  The cool water helped a bit with the throbbing, but after some of the dried blood washed away, I needed a stitch or two to close the wound. I continued to inspect the wound and weigh the consequences of getting stitches versus letting it heal on its own.  I couldn’t go to the emergency room in my current state and there was no way I was going to ask Lucy to drive me.   I started to play with the flap of skin, moving it from side to side, not out of any real medical reason, but more out of curiosity.  Bright blood continued to drip and glob onto the white porcelain sink and clean tiled floor, and with each droplet, I tried to find meaning.  “Why am I here anymore?”  I ask out loud to an empty bathroom.  “What did I do to deserve this… I did everything right… gave it my all… and for what?  To piss it all away.”  

“Lee, are you okay?” Lucy asked from the other side of the door.  “Let me in… you are obviously hurt.”  

“Fine… just a little cut on my hand I am cleaning up,” I replied.  There was no sense in trying to explain it.  I wasn’t even sure I could explain how I did it since it was somewhat of a blur. 

“Bullshit.  Let me in to help.  You’ve been drinking... I can smell it through the door... and YOU need help.” Lucy wasn’t having it and I could tell by the tone of her voice that she wasn’t happy.  

“I’m good… heading into the shower now.  I just need to get some water on it and then get some sleep.  It’s been a long day.”  I replied. I quickly entered the shower and began washing my chest and stomach.  The dried blood started to wash away, and I started to feel better about my decision to not seek medical help.  “I am not actively bleeding right now, and I will bandage it up when I get out of the shower.  Can you grab the medical kit?”

“If I do… will you let me in?”  She replied. 

“Yes, of course,” I replied. 

  She met me when I opened the bathroom door and handed me the first aid kit.  “Thanks,” I replied. 

“Let me see it,” Lucy replied while shaking her head. 

I showed her my thumb and she immediately gasped.  “It looks better now that I took a shower... just a flesh wound.”  

            “You need to go to the hospital for stitches… the top of your thumb is missing.”  She replied. 

            “I’m fine. I will butterfly-stitch it.  I want to get some sleep.  It has been a long day.”  I replied while reaching for the kit.  I started to rummage through it for the gauze and bandages.  

            “Stop, you are getting blood everywhere. I will do it.” She replied as she grabbed my left hand and began to put pressure on the wound.  “I’m gonna cut some strips of tape and butterfly it.  Just try not to move.” 

            “Well, it hurts… so that means I didn’t sever anything internally,” I said with a smile. 

            “Yeah, I’d say.  But you still need stitches.”  She replied. 

            “I’m not going.  Not like I need my thumb for a while… remember, I am on administrative leave pending investigation, right?” I replied with my smurk.  

            “All preliminary right now and you shouldn’t be stressing yet. How much did you drink tonight?” She asked. 

            “Two beers.” I quickly replied, fully knowing it was a lie. 

            “Bullshit, try again.”  She replied as she began to wrap my thumb tightly with gauze. With each turn of the gauze, she pulled it tighter and tighter. My thumb was throbbing, but I didn't want to complain.

            “Okay, fine… four, tops,” I broke the silence.

            “Again, bullshit. You can barely stand.  The boys can’t see you like this.  In fact, I don’t like to see you like this.  You need to get ahold of this.” She replied. 

            “I will.  I promise.” I wanted to end the conversation because history taught me it was heading down a path I didn’t want to walk tonight.  I wanted to sleep.

            “I am going to get some ice and hopefully it will help with the swelling.  Don’t worry about cleaning the blood. I am on it. I want you to sleep this off and we need to talk in the morning.  I can’t keep this up night after night.  It’s not fair.  Okay?” She replied.  

            “Okay,” I replied. Honestly, it was the only thing I could say. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her what happened and why I was on leave. I wanted to tell her I knew I was turning into an alcoholic and self-medicating my depression and PTSD. I wanted to tell her everything, but it wasn’t the time and the words were lost in my mind because of the alcohol-fueled mix of emotions.

            I stumbled over to our bed and plopped down onto the bedspread.  I didn’t bother pulling down the covers and just laid there staring up at the ceiling.  Although I was exhausted by the day, my mind kept going back to the conversation I had with the police chief earlier in the morning.  His words kept swirling in my head over and over like a broken record.  “Lee, you need help.”  One might think his statement was endearing and he had nothing but the best intentions, however in my mind these words translated to “Lee, your career is over.”  I kept going back to the idea of not being a police officer and what life was like without the identity it gave me.  For almost seventeen years I identified as a police officer and within seconds my career took a turn for the worse.  I went from the best in the field, to someone who was viewed by many as reckless and untrustworthy.

            “Lee, are you okay?” Lucy asked from the doorway.  I wasn't sure how long she had been standing there, but It was as if she didn’t want to enter the room for fear of what I might say.  

            “Yeah, just a bit tipsy and my thumb is killing me.  Otherwise, all is good.” I replied. I was trying to stay upbeat, but my mind was racing.  I knew what tomorrow meant and quite frankly I didn’t know if I wanted to wake up and face my demons in a sober state.  

            “Well, here is some ice for your thumb.  The boys should be asleep shortly and we can talk if you want.” She replied. 

            I took the ice and placed it directly on my thumb.  I immediately felt a sharp pain shoot up my arm.  “Not tonight.  Soon, okay? I am tired and I need to sleep it off.” I replied.   I could tell she didn’t want to wait until morning, but I couldn’t get past the sudden feeling of dread.  It scared me and I needed more time to think things through.  I needed to be sober.  I needed to feel in control.  I was too vulnerable to open now.  

            “Okay, that’s fine.  I am going to sleep in the boys’ room tonight to give you room. I don’t want to bump into your hand during the night.  Please wake me if you need anything.”  She replied. 

            “Will do.  Thanks.  Love you.” I replied. 

            “I love you.  Again, I am worried. We will get through this… please promise me that.” She said as she stood up from the bed.  

            “Always,” I replied. 

            Sleep didn’t come easy.  Between the room spinning from intoxication and the throbbing pain in my thumb, I couldn’t summons it.   I felt stupid.  Earlier in the day I was put on administrative leave from the police department pending the outcome of an internal investigation into my conduct.  Instead of immediately seeking help or at least talking with someone about it, I decided to drink myself numb the minute I came home.  At first, it was a temporary solution that made me feel better.  In my ever-increasing drunk state, I had a sense that no matter what, I was going to be returning to the job I enjoyed.  But, at some point, my blood alcohol level reached a point of no return, and it sent me down a dark hole of despair.  My sudden confidence turned into self-doubt, then frustration, and eventually into self-loathing anger.   This is way outside of my normal behavior, but it had been building for a while and I couldn’t keep it down any longer.  

As I sat around the campfire with neighbors, hashing out the next steps of handling an internal investigation in my head, I took the fire poker from the pit and began smashing it down in a fit of blind rage.  I don’t remember how many times I smashed it into the rocks or exactly what I said or did, but I only stopped when I saw the tip of my thumb hanging off like a strip of flaccid lasagna.  When I looked around there was a sudden look of fear among those who watched and instead of justifying my actions, I quietly walked towards the direction of my house. I could hear them shouting for me to stop, but I kept walking. My neighbor caught up to me and silently handed me some paper towels and electrical tape to bandage my thumb. I quickly wrapped it and handed it back to him. We said nothing, but his look told me everything I needed to know. Pitty. Doubt. Sadness.

My mind shifted gears as I started to drift off toward sleep.  Again, as exhausted as I was, I was fighting to sleep. When this happens, I can't help but think about the past.  It was something I did often.  My demons were always ready to boil up into my consciousness and remind me of their presence with subtle hints along the way. When I drank, it was like opening the floodgates of hell.   I thought about death.  Not my own, but rather everyone or every event I had witnessed in life.  I thought about a little boy who died in my arms. I thought about the young mother who hung herself n the closet. I thought about the decapitated teenager who was rushing home to beat his curfew. Death was a part of me and my existence in the world.  Each death scene took a piece of me and there just. wasn't anything else to give. I eventually slept, but restless, and not without the nightmares.    

            Looking back, I could catalog this point in my life as being an all-time low or even a tipping point towards turning things around, but unfortunately, my story didn’t end or start this night. If anything, it was a continuation of an underlying darkness in my life.  In fact, until recently, there were only a few that know my story. With time, it has become easier to talk about the darkness.

My story started one sunny spring day in May of 1990. I was ten years old when I saw my first dead body. He was the closest thing I ever had to a brother and after his death, I walled myself off from the world. I hid myself brick by brick and refused to allow anyone in.  His death was burned into my memory and haunted me at my deepest core.  

On that fateful day, my innocence was ripped from me, and my life was set on a crash course that I continuously navigated, but rarely understood.    Often, I blamed myself for his death and I fantasized about trading places. What if it was me that day laying lifeless in the street?  Should it have been me?  Eventually, this line of thinking quieted a bit in my teenage years, and I was able to develop a plan to make things right.  I felt obligated to prevent what happened, and the only way I could surmise doing so was to become a police officer. The thought of working in a career that was built around protecting others consumed me and eleven years after my friends death, I entered the police academy.  At the time, I was ready to lay down my life for others. I felt a calling so deep in my soul that I refused to think about anything else.  I didn’t care about the mental toll it would take on me or the impact it would have on my interpersonal relationships.  If anything, I was young and naive.  

My life story is about the journey I took to find hope and meaning in life.  It has taken me many years to find my voice and to be honest with myself and those around me.  It is not easy to talk about one’s demons, but I have learned that the minute you shine a light on them in your darkest hours, they no longer hold power over you.  In fact, the brighter the light you shine, the more likely it s that you will overcome them.  It has taken me a lifetime to learn about facing my demons, and I hope you can learn something from my experiences that will help you in your own life.   Trauma is all around us in life and no one needs to suffer alone.

Sadly, during my 19-year career as a police officer, I became consumed by my demons.  They would often visit me on sleepless nights or drunk endeavors.  I would try to hold them off by rationalizing my work or the potential to save a life.  The darkness of “the job” wreaked havoc on my life and at times robbed me of a piece of my soul.  Over time, I began to give up on any hope in humanity and gradually developed a serve case of cynicism that often led to arguments with Lucy and other family members. I was lost and suffering, but instead of seeking professional help, I went down the rabbit hole of dispair and distruction.  

All I ever wanted to do in life was help others in the wake of my friend’s death, but ultimately, it almost cost me my own. I hope you enjoy the ride because it is a wild one.