Preface
Here is my life condensed to 90000 words. I'm thrilled that I can now share these words with you.
I've attempted to be a storyteller while remaining as factually accurate as my memory would allow. When it failed me, family, friends and work mates came to my aid.
In relation to my time spent as a Firefighter, I would have preferred to write an unexpurgated account of events, but the fear of a lawsuit tends to restrict one's capacity for the 'whole truth'. I found it impossible to include every incident, acquaintance, twist and turn. I could have added another 100 pages - maybe next time.
While writing my autobiography, I was very mindful not to overdose, you the reader, with pages and pages of tortured prose. The Firefighter Blues is a book full of adventure, humour, fear, elation and sadness, with an unavoidable hint of bitterness and frustration.
Regarding certain delicate issues, I've sought consent where possible, otherwise, names, dates or locations have been changed for privacy reasons.
I've done my best to describe my feelings during the more traumatic incidents rather than focus on the gruesome details, but there are instances where I couldn't separate the two, so you may find certain events disturbing. My intention was never to sensationalise any particular incident, but rather, provide some insight into how and why I came to suffer the debilitating effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). My story is constantly interrupted by random calls to fires, car accidents, rescues and other unsavoury incidents, hopefully giving you, the reader, a taste of what it’s like to be me.
I've always been a ruminator, a ponderer of the past, which is a wonderful attribute to have when writing an autobiography. Sadly, it is also a curse. Warm and fuzzy recollections share equal billing with the more horrific memories that cling to my brain like barnacles on a rusty hull. Perhaps its a trait that all PTSD sufferers share.
Writing The Firefighter Blues has opened some old wounds and healed others. The experience has been cathartic, painful, hilarious and heartbreaking - I wish I could do it all again.
PROLOGUE
I hate this place. The patients scare me, the staff scare me, the locked doors scare me. The instruments with their jumbled mesh of wires and tubes, the guarded drug cupboard, the crisp, folded bed sheets, the soiled linen basket, the beeps buzzers and bells, it all scares me.
I don’t belong here.
I was once a young, fit firefighter, proud, confident and optimistic. Back then, nothing scared me. Now I find myself languishing in a mental health institution in Sydney’s south-west. I feel old beyond my years. A sideways glance in the mirror near the nurses’ station is confirmation enough. That grey, unkempt beard, those dark lines under the eyes and that pale, hoary skin belongs to someone else.
Surely that’s not me.
I’m shaking in my socks as I join the conga line of quivering ghosts, all heading for a hole in the wall where an overly cheery nurse doles out our morning medication.
Who are these people?
If they do happen to glance my way, their eyes offer nothing. Surely I’m not one of them – they are soulless, vacant, hollow. It’s like invisible, emotion-sucking vampires have drained them.
I’m sure the young girl ahead of me in the line has left her self-esteem on the other side of the locked entrance door. Her matted hair hasn’t felt a brush in days and her grimy toes can be seen protruding from her extra-large, extra-grubby, faded pyjama pants. It’s obvious that dignity is far less important on this side of the door.
I don’t belong here.
I’m a decorated firefighter, or at least I used to be.
Twenty-five years ago, I was at the NSW Fire Brigades’ Training College. I was a keen recruit, bouncing from one training drill to the next. Physically and psychologically, I was in my prime with the world at my feet. The instructors trained me well. They taught me everything they could then sent me off with all that I needed to become a proud member of the New South Wales Fire Brigades.
They told me their war stories, showed me videos and photographs of what I might see. They did their best to prepare me for what lay ahead. What they couldn’t teach me was how I’d feel, what I’d hear, what I’d smell and what I’d remember. They didn’t tell me that I would, initially, receive very little help dealing with the aftermath of horrors that can’t be unseen.
Had I known, would I still have signed up? Some days … yes, some days the answer is a definite NO.
Back then they didn’t tell me I would be locked up in a mental health ward, yet here I am, inching closer to the hole in the wall where the nurse will watch me throw back a small plastic cup full of coloured pills. The only view of the sky is from a small rectangular yard with three-metre high, concrete walls. The area is continually shrouded in cigarette smoke. It smells disgusting, like a soggy ashtray. Lately, smells trigger dreadful memories, so I avoid that place at all costs. I’d rather spend my time staring at the dreary walls of my room. After all, I’ve spent my life hiding behind walls, some that I’ve created, others built by those close to me.
A favourite saying of mine …
‘Will anything you do today make a positive difference to your world? If the answer is no – then stay in bed.’
Lately, all I want to do is crawl back under the covers. I feel I have nothing worthwhile to contribute.
Someone in the lounge area is listening to the radio. I’m torn. My ears strain to make out the tune but my brain tells me …
No, block it out, don’t listen.
Will I ever enjoy music again?
How could they do that to me?
The bastards took away my music. They took the one thing that brought me joy then used it against me. I was so naive, I thought the insurance company had a duty of care, I thought they were there to help. In the beginning, they appeared to understand what I was going through. I thought my caseworkers had a true understanding of PTSD and depression. Things changed pretty quickly once my condition worsened and I fell into the ‘too-hard basket’. Dealing with flashbacks, nightmares, alcohol abuse and the never-ending mood swings is difficult enough, but no-one suffering the effects of PTSD can fight the battle on two fronts. The insurance companies are too big, too powerful and have all the time in the world. I’m tired of fighting them, I’m exhausted and ready to accept any crumbs thrown my way.
I remember where I was when man landed on the moon; I remember being told that John Lennon had been killed; I remember Gough Whitlam getting sacked by the Governor General. How is it that I remember all these important events but I don’t remember getting PTSD? It just snuck up on me, stealthily slicing my life in two. My world is divided into the years before PTSD and the years after. I prefer the former but have to live in the latter.
Like a thief, PTSD burgled my brain, stealing all that was good – courage, drive, passion and optimism – leaving me with nothing but useless, dangerous, negative thoughts and emotions.
My ability to concentrate is fading fast so I’ll head to my dorm and scribble down a few more lines of this book. A soothing blanket
