Invisible Wounds

by Katie S.

‘We are on the front lines.’

The most cliché phrase became a reality, but I didn’t understand it for years. I couldn’t.

If you have survived a prolonged deployment and spent the majority of it going outside the wire, you’ve heard that phrase—probably often. War became normal, just a part of life for those 12 to 15 months. I spent such a deployment that way. From the moment we arrived in Kuwait, my boss, the unit chaplain, thrust me into combat training. A PSD (personnel security detachment) range, extra weapons qualifications. Then we entered Iraq and began almost daily ‘ride-alongs’ with our unit’s men. Being the lone female in a combat engineer convoy soon meant being the lone female at each location as well. We traveled nonstop, hopping from one base to the next.

The first IED blast happened within the first month, then the second, then the third. I had already lost count. Combat engineers conducting route clearance either find the IEDs, or they find them.

We took the largest blast in December, on Christmas Day, three months into the deployment. I remember most of it, but not all. We never received treatment afterward—none of us did. At the time, unless there was blood, none of the men went to the aid station or sought medical attention for repeated blasts. It just wasn’t done. A seemingly invisible wound, as it would later be called. Wounds we experienced with every single IED that sent a blast wave through us. Blast waves are fascinating things. They travel through hard objects, inflicting worse internal damage to your body than if you were standing out in the open. Learning this later on actually helped me in a way.

Suffering from repeated and prolonged invisible wounds would be the hardest thing I have ever faced. And I have experienced much more than just my deployment. These wounds altered my personality, my memory, and how I process information. It was hard to cope with once I got back to my duty station. At least a hundred blast waves had traveled through my body and hit my brain. Two left me with horrific concussions. I was diagnosed with severe TBI (traumatic brain injury) but remained on active duty. It was a different time back then—far less medical attention was given to those returning during the surge era. But the invisible wound persisted.

Once out of the military years later, I still hadn’t fully faced what had happened to me over there. Only recently did I begin to process and search for more answers—answers to why my brain is the way it is now. More studies of veterans, especially those deceased, have emerged. They now know that our brains post-blast are far worse off than those of car crash victims or athletes with head injuries. And yet, we can appear absolutely normal. Our bodies seem ‘intact.’ But they aren’t—not internally. There is scarring, deep and irreversible. Pathways can be severed. The parts of the brain that regulate emotion, decision-making, and memory, among others, are damaged. I had never been told there was a difference. Instead, I was compared to those who fell off ladders or suffered minor head injuries.

Startling as it was to learn the specifics of my injuries, I felt a modicum of peace. Finally, I could come to terms with my TBI. No recognition from my unit—or especially the units that followed—had conditioned me to ‘suck it up’ in silence. They didn’t understand the hundreds of missions and thousands of hours I had spent riding along routes to hunt for IEDs. They didn’t always believe me, either, even with my measly CAB (Combat Action Badge) and TBI and PTSD diagnoses. After all, I was a female in a support MOS. It never happened. My boss had put us through something that wasn’t done in my line of work. We became combat engineers for 15 months. And we did so undetected.

Now, I am processing the invisible wound, trying to understand it the best I can so it won’t feel so hopeless. Living with such an altered brain is more than just blanking out on details of your day. It is a nightmare in many facets. Sleep is disrupted nightly. Short-term memory is difficult. Moods fluctuate without consent. And there is never truly a feeling of safety. All without me doing a thing. It just is. So how do you move forward? This has been a question I have answered each morning in quiet desperation.

I have to.

There are various reasons for everyone, but for me, it is simply because I won’t give up again. I tried after coming home and failed—twice, thankfully. I have a son who is almost a teenager. He knows a bit about what I experienced but not a lot. One day, I hope to show him the videos and pictures I have stored on an old USB stick. I wrote out my story in a full-length memoir, and I am actively searching for a home for it in the publishing world.

Some of us walk around with invisible wounds, unable to change them but fighting like hell to adapt. My story isn’t unique in the military world. Many combat engineers suffer from this, along with others in different MOSs. Most of them are now veterans, long removed from the military, undoubtedly facing the same struggles. Will we ever fully understand the effects of what we went through? I hope that one day we will, as long as the studies continue. From as far back as World War I, blasts have left men—and a few women—permanently damaged.

‘We are on the front lines.’

I was. I still am. And as a writer, I will give the invisible wound a voice.

Hopefully, society keeps our stories alive.

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Katie S. is a disabled Army veteran and thriller author writing under the pseudonym KE Jennings. She served in various locations to include Kansas and Germany. Katie spent a 15-month deployment with 1st Engineer Battalion during the surge of 06-08. Instagram handle: @kejennings7787 

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.