Tale of an Unexpected PTSD Attack

When I deployed to Iraq for twelve months, I primarily stayed at one location. When I did travel, it was by way of Blackhawk or Chinook. Some might classify me as a “fobbit,” someone that doesn’t leave the FOB (forward operating base). Still, even as a medical administrative officer, I had to prepare for war. I participated in extensive training exercises at Ft. Stewart, GA in the field and then at the National Training Center at Ft. Irwin, CA, in addition to the countless hours of learning how to deal with direct fire, conduct an ambush, and knock out a bunker during my time in ROTC.

As part of an infantry unit, every soldier had to know the basics of being a rifleman, how to respond to incoming mortar attacks, and carry weapons in 30 pounds of gear everywhere. In preparation for deployment, trainers threw a variety of scenarios at us at various times of the day and night, without regard for the time or what else was going on, just like the enemy. We learned how to keep patients safe under fire, how to relocate our casualty collection point, and maintain accountability during a mass casualty event. By the time we shipped out to Iraq, I felt completely prepared. Or as ready as possible.

My time in Iraq went quite smooth by all accounts. We all came home, fixed up our friends who got hit during patrols, and saved lives along the way. After redeployment, I answered the standard post-deployment PTSD screening questions without hesitation because I didn’t see or experience direct battle. I wasn’t part of any fire fights. I didn’t shoot anyone. No one shot at me. I thought I went unscathed from the invisible scars of war…that is until my nephew’s third birthday party.

About five years after coming home from Iraq and moving back home to NH, I enjoyed attending most family events since I had missed so many beforehand. I was happy to attend a birthday party for my nephew. Food and giggling from little people filled the room. Music was playing. And there were balloons. A lot of balloons. Balloons which would become the bane of my adult life. Out of sheer excitement, creativity, and probably boredom, tens of children started popping balloons, one after another. POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! POP! Shouting overlapped the sounds of the popping. The popping sound that I had learned to associate with gun fire many years ago.

During the onslaught of popping, I was hunched over my youngest daughter changing her diaper. I froze. I had nowhere to hide. No where to duck. No weapon to grab. My heart was racing like a NASCAR driver in the final lap. I was shaking and I was crying. POP! POP! POP! It continued.

I could barely move, except for my head. I met the gaze of my husband. He knew what had happened. Although he didn’t serve in the military, he had served two tours in Iraq as a contractor and he learned the sights, smells, and sounds that I had. Within moments, he ushered me away from the crowd while I continued to hyperventilate. 

No one else in the room had been to a combat zone. No one understood. All of sudden, all the adults at the party were crowded around me innocuously asking, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” That was not a good time to be asking. Luckily, and I mean very luckily, my husband just held me and let me go through the involuntary process until I was able to speak again.

After that event, I went through intense imposter syndrome. I had heard of these sorts of things happening, but I didn’t feel I had merited this battle wound. I didn’t shoot anyone. I wasn’t a hero scarred with the memory of real battle. PTSD doesn’t care. It chooses those with the intense training and memory of long-lost experiences. It’s muscle memory to another degree, just not the good kind. What’s meant to be a protective measure then becomes a debilitating seizure.

Now, I live in perpetual fear of balloons, but it’s a little more controlled. My physician helped to validate my experience and make me feel like I didn’t need to compare my experience with others; it was my own. My therapist educated me on the cognitive behavior therapy options I could participate in if I feel balloons, and popping in general, inhibits me from living life. My husband lets me cry when I hear unexpected fireworks on the day before and after the 4th of July. 

I have learned to anticipate sounds and remind myself what the sounds really are. But sometimes, I just can’t predict. On a trip to Las Vegas, a group of work friends and I saw the show Tape Face. I never heard of him, but I guess he was on America’s Got Talent, or something like that. The guy had a mime act, and it was generally funny. He did pop a couple balloons which I expected him to pop. But then, my worst nightmare manifested in front of my eyes. The show attendants brought out bags and bags of balloons. I looked at my military friend with a huge gaze, he gave me an affirmative nod, and I excused myself from the room. I could still hear the popping from the hall, but the sound was dampened. I was able to keep it together, although I admittedly did have a frog in my throat.

And this is my life now. I have accepted that my experience in the Army has left me with an uneasiness related to unexpected noises. My kids are gentler with noises as they come to learn of my disdain for popping noises. Even though I refuse to play the “how many balloons can I pop” game with the little people in my life, I would not change anything about the opportunity and events I have participated in. My mere aversion pales in comparison to the ultimate sacrifices others have made. At least I get to enjoy other joyful sounds of the world, like the laughter of my daughters when they dress up like the characters in Harry Potter, the silly music piped into the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney, and words of love from my family. It’s all worth it and I have immense gratitude. But I still hate balloons.