So I went to my appointment at the VA yesterday. My doctor was Dr. Ahmed. And he was middle eastern. The irony did not escape me as I followed him back to his office. I am not that closed minded or judgemental about people of middle eastern descent. However I wondered how people who have come from Iraq or Afghanistan feel about having him as a doctor.
I was fine driving to the office. But getting out of my car I suddenly got really scared. I can remember years ago having my whole family go talk to this psychologist that I just absolutely hated. I hated being forced to go talk to someone about my "problems" when the problem in our family was my mom.
I got in to the office and just kept getting more and more anxious while I was waiting in the waiting room. Dr. Ahmed finally peeked his head out the door and called my name. He asked me tons of questions about my family, the year in Iraq and my time since I got home. I answered them all. The one question I had the most difficulty with was answering the questions about if anyone I knew died while we were in Iraq. It was like the wind was sucked out of me. It took me a while to say it. I had the words on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't say them. For me the hardest part is vocalizing Rachael's death. I can go days without thinking about it and be fine. But thinking about it inevitably ends with a painful lump in my throat and the threat of tears. Talking about it is something I really have difficulty saying.
I told Dr. Ahmed how I watched the video the terrorists put online of her accident. I told him how no one would show it to me and I finally begged until I got what I wanted. And I told him how I would watch the video four, five, sometimes six times in a row. Youtube finally took it down and I had to quit. I told him about the arabic writing and the creepy music and the singing in the background. I told him I knew I shouldn't have watched it because ever since, I make up in my mind the events inside that truck after it was blown up. I don't know the details of the end of the story, so I make them up in my head and can't escape them. I wonder if he felt any guilt about the video I explained to him. I wonder if he was ashamed to be lumped in to the same group as those other hajjis.
He told me he was giving me an antidepressant and an anxiety medication. I wish I had them right now. Rick's son is such a trigger for me. He made me so mad today that I picked a glass up off the table and threw it at the wall. It busted in to a million pieces and made a really satisfying crashing-crunching sound when it hit the wall. But it didn't make me feel any better. I am just as mad now, three hours later, as I was then.
I have never done something like that before.