P.T.S.D.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I was diagnosed officially in April/May of 2007. It wasn't a surprise. Some people wanted, even tried for those words. People who were getting out, looking for that little bit of disability.
Of course I wasn't sleeping. I avoided stressful situations of any sort, I had problems with crazy drivers. I wanted to be armed 24/7. I knew the signs. I just wanted help.
The Doc for my unit couldn't confirm it, so he sent me to the Floor Seven of the hospital. Within an hour, I got the official word. It didn't help. In fact, it probably hurt more than it helped. If I had not known, I probably would have forced it away. More on the possible good/evil of that later.
I spent four months talking to my doctor. At first, I felt better. My words were rushed, at first, because I wanted so much to completely spill what was driving me to all sorts of paranoid and skittish. But when I felt I had started to get something done, my hour was up. It hurt. More than most people ever know.
After that first one, it felt like I was forcing myself to spew my feelings, so I could get as much done as possible. Therapy had, in one session, become like every other aspect of my life. It wasn't worth it. I got a few tips that helped me sleep, but the biggest problem, my anger, never dissipated. So I eventually got to the point where I told the Doctor that I had no more issues, because as much as I liked getting out of work, I hate wasting my time.
So almost a year later, here I am. Deployment is advancing on me again, and I am more nervous of returning home twice as jacked up as I was last time, which would definitely not bode well for the marriage that I love so much.
Back to that thing I mentioned before. I don't worry about the deployment. I have a specific job, and certain personnel requirements within my unit dictate that I stay decently safe, or at least within five minutes of my work, where I will be required to answer a ridiculous question before I can leave, that means I shouldn't be doing grunt work. Not that I want to, I had enough of that last time.
But now I worry about getting nervous about the little things that most people don't know about, but most Marines and Soldiers, along with certain Sailors and Airmen can attest to. They say it's the little things that can kill you. The Details that you miss and boom! You no longer make witty comments.
My fear of fearing these things once I return is what bothers me now.
But my hope is that my means of deployment will assist the healing before I even get home, and once I do, my beautiful wife will be there for me, like she always has.
I just hope I can open up to her this time, without worrying about scaring her away.