When I Grow Up

When I grow up…

By: Felicia Whatley

I came home from Bosnia in October of 2003 with an experience that will last a lifetime and some heath problems that may hunt me until death. I had compartment syndrome and bursitis, which pretty healed within year. I didn’t know how to deal with a lot of the stress; I was deployed with a Twilight Zone Postal Mission and as an out I published articles for Public Affairs and Psychological Operations.

            Many things that shouldn’t happen did. There were abuses of power, environmental disasters, unexplained illnesses resulting from the power plant pumping out all kind of chemicals, poor moral, and danger and fear from many, many forms. There were so many IG and EO complaints our commander was forced to retiree.

             I fought when I could but mostly internalized everything. A month left into the deployment. I stopped sleeping.  

            When I got sent to Landstul, Germany for a full body bone scan we found out I broke my tailbone for a bonus, but still no relief for the compartment syndrome. Next stop, with some congealing from my best friend and battle buddy Cheryl, I went to see the shrink. I explained my issues with not being about to sleep at all for weeks on end.

When I completed the tour I was diagnosed with bipolar and PTSD. Not before getting beaten, raped, and arrested, and for awhile broke and homeless.  Life has been challenging ever since. Trying to find a med that will help me sleep, balance the mood, and squish the depression, and avoid weight gain has been quite difficult considering the side effects are often worse living with than without.

I did well on Zyprexa and Prozac. I gained like 50 pounds, but I was happy. Walter Reed sent me to Iraq in 2007 with a full waiver for bipolar and a year and a half worth of meds. I did fine; I published a handful of photos and stories. But there were problems in the PA unit. There were chain of command issues that caused unnecessary stress and an emphasis to loose the weight or not be able to re-enlist. The Command mental eval-ed over 80 percent of the unit and article 15-ed half of us.

On my off time I went to the gym a lot, focused on my studies, and dated when I had time. I befriended the Iraqi interpreters, the guys in my unit, and some of the Brits.

A lot of power and control was pushed unnecessarily in the unit. Everyone in the unit was threatened to lose their careers and get sent home. Nobody did anything major. It was unreal. I got tired of being taped and reminded I was fat, so I went on an unrealistic diet. My commander supported me halving my Zyprexa. Not sleeping well enough or eating much, I got very sick with some infection and flu. I got in trouble for leaving a piece of equipment on the Humvee, so I go extra duty. I got more sick.  I got quarters. I had the next day off. Then the next day I came into work at the Central Press Information Center in Baghdad. I was told Iran’s President would be coming today here to speak.

I said, “If you put me in a room with that terrorist piece of shit with a loaded weapon, I might want to use it.” There were other Jews in the unit that threw similar tantrums, but I was the only one diagnosed with bipolar. A few hours later my Sergeant Major committed me.

I soon flew out of the country escorted and bedded down in pjs to Lundstul, (here, again?) where they messed around with my meds. Then they sent me to Walter Reed a week later. The intake doctor said, “You have been fat long enough.” I felt like punching him in the face. What a horrible thing to say!  They put me on Geodon and I never slept well ever again. They took away my anti-depressants. They said I was having too much fun.

I spent the next two and half months as an out patient finishing up my senior year in college. I took a GRE prep class. A tutor came to my apartment. Then I took a cab into DC to take the GRE.  I took leave for a few days to visit my classes at UMass Amherst and the instructors to make sure I had all my ducks in line to graduate.

I saw the shrinks when I had to and continued to debate the difference between political, religious, and military desistence and a psychotic episode. I told them I did not want a medical discharge—a welfare disability check. Being belligerent is a separate crime and should be treated as such.  I wanted to go to grad school. I still don’t think there is anything crazy about feeling that way about Ahmedijad.

I put in leave for graduation and was able to go home and graduate with my class like I had never even left. Then the same doctor who wrote me the waiver to deploy came back to the ward. We talked and the next day I was released—returned to duty set to demobilize with my PA unit who were coming home in two days.

I saw my newest shrink last Friday, Dr. Agosti at the Brockton Veteran’s Affairs Center. He had me on the Abilify, but there are too much side effects I can’t tolerate anymore, being it causes more insomnia, blurred vision, and dehydration. He wasn’t sure what to do so he went another doctor.  

After much discussion about whether a bipolar diagnosis should be given anti-depressants or not the other doctor said I should choose between being able to sleep or function. I said, what do you mean- like end up on SSI? She said, yes.  She said well you obviously aren’t functioning very well out there. I said, “You need to take that back; I have a job, I’m a graduate student, and I am in the Army.” She said, well you think can you survive out there? I picked up my purse and water and walked right out the door.

I went straight to the pharmacist and explained I needed to pick up my Ambien. The pharmacist said she could not refill it because the dosage was just too high, too scary. The hold was done by the head pharmacist over a month ago who had gone home for the day. So I understand the bureaucracy but, can you just call the doctor? Reluctantly they tried; it was like 5pm and no answer. Ok then nevermind I will just go without the meds. I have Adovan and Clonopen as well.

I have an Army PA seminar all day tomorrow. I have to drive an hour and a half each way on little sleep. So I left.

The Female doc Soman called while I was driving and left the message that was she sorry I felt that and had to leave. Agosti, my shrink calls me later, again leaving a message, sullen and says for me call him.

 I had already driven halfway home by now and am eating comfort food-- pizza at a local place in Walleston.  The Female shrink calls; I don’t answer. Her message says again she’s sorry for me feeling that way and having high expectations.

After finishing the pizza and calming down, I can't get a hold of my shrink or get any of the meds. I am depressed and frustrated. I just want a happy, normal life when I can go to bed and I can sleep well. I can excel in all the wonderful opportunities I have in front of me. I wish I didn’t need some shrink or family member telling me this big awful illness will ruin my life. I can do it. There are plenty of successful people with bipolar.  I just need help.

A lot of people go undiagnosed in fear that it will forever hurt their careers. It is a stigma that needs to go away. Not every bipolar person is suicidal or homicidal or manic. Political disobedience is not a psychotic episode. And to top things off, out of the docs out of the blue, they reminded me I have PTSD too. God help me because the VA definitely isn’t. All I want is some reprieve without all the awful side effects and not have to fight to stay a Soldier or loose my scholarship for college.

Having asthma and chronic dry eye is a big enough deal. They are manageable, but challenging and painful. The eye problems I didn’t have until I came home from Iraq. All that sand and dust, I can’t help but wonder if it contributed to that. At age 27 I should be totally healthy.

How do I advance in the military? What would I put on schools’ entry or mobilization forms when they ask what medications I’m on and what for? I have all my limbs and full capacity to do my job, I just need meds to manage some afflictions. If I put what I am honestly on, I risk being sent straight to mental health for an evaluation, which could lead to a refrad, chapter, or medical discharge.

Walter Reed gave me a profile that says “No austere conditions.” What does that mean? Am I non-deployable? Is that debatable? If I can’t deploy, I can’t reup. I don’t even know where that profile ended up at this point, probably somewhere in my permanent military file in Texas.

            I wrote this article because in a way it is one of the bravest and hardest things to do. I can only imagine what coming out of the closet must feel like. For me, this is my dirty little secret. There are plenty of military doctors that would love to med board me based on that diagnosis. But they don’t know me. They don’t know how motivated, hardworking and dedicated I am. I want to be an officer so bad, but fighting for care and proving I am “sane” enough to handle it is such a roadblock. I know how to handle myself and lead others. The doctors just need to find something that doesn’t hinder my endeavors.

            Tomorrow I think I am going to look for a new doctor. One that doesn’t try to overmedicate me on sleep meds or another who tries to tell me I will end up on SSI, homeless, or worse. Something tells me that just isn’t therapy. I need to hurry up and finish grad school so I can get a real job with real medical benefits.

            As for my military career, I don’t know if I will ever get the chance to lead others—to treat troops the way they should be treated, with discipline but motivation. I am intelligent with over 100 published articles and a bachelor’s degree in journalism, but nine years and still an E4, I must have done something wrong. I am grateful that I am the 1% that gets to stay in the military after the Walter Reed experience and diagnosis, and even more grateful I get to be this unit and have the opportunity to go to grad school. But the best part about our unit is everybody else's job.