SEPT 2026. Blues Vol 42 No.9

FROM THE WEST COAST PTSD

FROM THE WEST COAST PTSD is real! And it's damn hard to get rid of. There are some things in life you experience only once. And then there are things you relive over and over again—even though they happened only once. For me, that happens every night. I close my eyes, fall asleep and suddenly I’m back on the PCH in the middle of the California wildfires. Fire swirling all around, the bright embers falling like snow shows. The smell of smoke, the sound of breaking glass and sirens. Lots and lots of sirens. And then, somehow, I'm back on that same road again only the fire is gone, but I see blinding headlights and next thing I know I’m hit head on by a wrong way drunk driver. Technically I died - twice. That’s how many times I coded in CareFlight. Dead! Twice! I don’t remember the accident at all. I woke up a week later in the hospital. But thanks to PTSD, I’m recalling it all with vivid memory. For the longest time, I didn't understand what people meant when they talked about PTSD. I understood the words. I'd heard stories from police officers, firefighters, paramedics, first responders and my boyfriend who is with LAPD. I'd listened when he talked about nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety and memories he 14 The BLUES SEPTEMBER ‘26 couldn't turn off. But listening to someone describe trauma isn't the same as living it. Now I understand. My nightmares aren't simply bad dreams. They're more like being transported back into moments I desperately wish I could forget. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, and somewhere in the night I’m back in the middle of the wildfires racing to escape certain death. I can feel the heat of the fire and I’m choking on the smoke. Sometimes I wake up and I’m still choking and the smell of smoke is so strong I’m sure my apartment is on fire. It’s a terrible feeling and there is no way to make it stop. Then I fall back asleep and sometimes I’m back on the highway when I’m blinded by those headlights. Then I’m in the helicopter and I hear the blades smashing the air and the aircrew yelling clear. Not the clear you hear right before the engine starts, but the clear they yell before they shock you back to life. Then I wake up. I'm confused about where I am. My heart is pounding. It takes a few moments to remind myself that I'm home. That the fire isn't happening. That the crash isn't happening. That I'm alive. But my body doesn't always understand what my mind knows. That's something I've learned. You can tell yourself, You're safe. Your brain can understand that the event is over. But your body still acts as if you're right back in the middle of it. And that has changed the way I look at first responders now. Before my own experiences, I just saw PTSD from the outside. I had no idea how police officers struggled after shootings. Firefighters who couldn't forget the homes they entered. Paramedics who remembered the patients they couldn't save. And the children, my God the children they lost. Officers who attended funerals and then went back to work the next morning. I truly don’t know how they do it. Now I have renewed respect for their courage and the dedication to their job. I understand what it means to carry something that nobody else can see. I understand how a person can look completely normal on the outside while fighting an entirely different battle on the inside.

I understand why a loud noise can suddenly make your heart race. Why a smell can bring back a memory. Why a certain road, a certain sound or even a particular time of night can make you remember something you desperately want to forget. And I understand something else. Surviving the event isn't necessarily the end of the battle. Sometimes it's the beginning of a different one. First responders know this better than almost anyone. They run toward the things the rest of us run away from. They walk into burning buildings. They respond to horrific crashes. They see people on what may be the worst day of their lives. They hold victims. They perform CPR. They make decisions in seconds. They see death. They see suffering. And then, when their shift ends, they're expected to go home and somehow become husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters and friends again. They try and put what happens at work in the back of their mind and go about being normal. Then in the middle of the night, it all comes back. Now I’m beginning to understand, but I damn sure don’t know how to fix it or make it stop. I wish I did. Michael Barron, who he himself suffered for years, says one day it will just stop. So, I guess until that day comes, I’ll just try and survive. The BLUES - SEPTEMBER ‘26 15