“So, I started talking to them about it. If I was feeling overwhelmed, I’d tell them. The more I talked about the experience over in the Sandbox, the more it lost its power over me. I could admit it had terrified me, that I’d lost my best friends, and that I was afraid I couldn’t cope. The more honest I was, the less they reacted. They accepted my emotions, even if those emotions were anger or fear, because my words matched my emotions. They could tell I was honest, and that made them more comfortable around me, even when I was experiencing negative reactions to the shit in my head.”
“How long did that take?”
Tyler laughed. “Months. I felt stupid doing it and didn’t tell a soul. When I finally told Dad what I was doing, he told me it was a smart approach. Whenever he worried about things, he’d talk to his favorite horse, and things would get better. He thought it had to do with the relationship they had, but I think it’s about how they react as prey animals.”
“I get it. They watch their environment for things that are out of place, because their safety comes from things being congruent, including the surrounding humans.” Rob thought about it. “When we pretend to be all right and we aren’t, the horses figure there’s some danger that we see and they don’t. They figure they have to be watchful and ready to run away.”
“Exactly,” Tyler responded.
“I think PTSD has to do with being stuck in a fight-or-flight response. You aren’t still in the situation, but you’re responding as if you are.” He rubbed his chin and made a face. “It sucks.”
Tyler nodded. “But when you admit to others that you’re reacting from a memory of a situation you’re no longer in, it takes the power away from it. It’s like you finally register that the danger you experience and the terror you feel isn’t real. It isn’t happening now, except in your memory.”
“And those memories are a bitch,” Rob reminded him.
“Yeah, they are.” There was silence between them as they both thought about their own private hell. “Anyway, once I’d talked about it endlessly to the horses, I began to experiment with telling others—the guys in the support group, some of my friends who’ve been in combat or who knew people that were. Eventually, I told people I didn’t know very well.”
“How did they react?” Rob asked.
“Usually fairly well. Once in a while, there’d be people who’d act wary and pull away from me, but I figured, ‘fuck them.’ I don’t need people in my life that I can’t be honest with.”
Rob nodded. “Makes sense.” He let out a sigh. “Trying to keep it hidden is more of strain, and when I was trying to hide it from MJ, my symptoms got worse.” He looked at his lap and drew in a breath. “MJ woke me up from a nightmare one time, and I grabbed her and choked her.” He peered over at his friend. “Thank God, I snapped out of it before I hurt her. Scared her, though.”
Tyler nodded. “I’ll bet.”
“That’s what got me to call the VA. I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt an innocent.”
“You did the right thing, you know.” Tyler took the turn into Ridgeview.
“I know it.” They fell silent as they drove toward MJ’s. “I’m surprised at how much talking about it helps.”
“I felt that way, too,” Tyler agreed. “Just so you know, you can call me anytime.”
“Thanks. I will.” He felt grateful for the other man’s willingness to be open about what he’d experienced working through PTSD.
“Remember, you can come out and ride anytime. Or come out and talk to my horses. They’re good listeners, as long as you don’t try to hide your shit.”
They both laughed, and Rob got out of Tyler’s Expedition. “See ya.”
Tyler stopped him. “I meant to tell you. I called my neighbor, Jethro Gordon, and he’ll let me know when he can get together. Maybe later this week. I thought you’d like to meet somebody who raises cattle. He’s a good guy.”
“I appreciate it.” Rob closed the door to the SUV. For the first time in a long time, things felt like they were falling into place.
The light over the kitchen sink was on, but the living room was empty. He found MJ lying in bed reading a thick book encased in a brightly colored dust cover. She looked up, and he leaned down and kissed her.
“How was your group?” she asked, closing the book and setting it on the nightstand.
“Good. Interesting. Helpful. I had a great conversation with Tyler on the way home.” He’d told her about their budding friendship, and his successful trail ride. MJ hadn’t met him yet, but they would meet next week for Thanksgiving dinner. He gave her the rough outline of their discussion about talking to horses.
“That makes sense to me,” MJ said. “I read a book about horses and humans partnering together for workshops and corporate training. The training uses the fact that horses react when humans fake their reactions, like when humans pretend to be confident when they aren’t, or when they try to lead a horse toward a goal when they’re ambivalent about it. The book said that horses watch to make sure that humans are authentic, and that what they’re expressing outside is in line with what they’re feeling on the inside. I guess that’s what you meant when you said ‘horses don’t lie,’ and they know it when you do. It was fascinating. I’ll bring it home. They talk about how horses serve as therapists in substance abuse programs. Like that movie with Sandra Bullock.”
He looked at her, gobsmacked. She had such a wide range of knowledge about so many things. Most things
