Twenty Years of Ghosts

Twenty Years of Ghosts 

I am often visited by ghosts. They haunt me. Their visits became much more common over the past twenty years. Sometimes, they visit in my sleep. Sometimes, as I passed through certain areas or smelled a particular odour. Sometimes, they visit because the light of the day was a particular hue. They manifest their faces in my dreams and at other times they present as a feeling in my gut or a heightened emotion. These ghosts started appearing one by one over the past twenty years. They were only visible to me but those who knew me well could see the effect that they had. Those who know me saw that I withdrew from family members, I drank more than I should have, I experienced anxiety and as the ghosts accumulated the anxiety grew. The presence of the ghosts made me consider ending my life and possibly joining them. However, I really didn’t want to be a ghost for a brother, sister or any other family member. 

Most front line first responders have ghosts. Some have more and some have less. Many of these ghosts are well behaved and don’t interfere with the first responder’s daily function. Some first responders refer to their ghosts as demons but I don’t think that’s correct. Demons are malevolent and seek to possess the mortal. However, the ghosts that haunt most of us are not evil themselves. The ghosts that I have live mostly in my thoughts, feelings and memories. They arrived at different times over my twenty year career as a police officer in a large Canadian city that has been transitioning away from an industrial city to one that relies on technology and medical research. I have no idea how many ghosts I have acquired over my years. Some of those ghosts are murder victims, some are victims of collisions and other accidents. Some of the most difficult ghosts are my brother and sister first responders that I lost to suicide. They all show up at different times and places. It seems that when one ghost goes silent another speaks up. I don’t hate the ghosts. I hate that both the ghost and I can’t let each other go. My oldest ghost is Mary. Mary was a drug addicted prostitute that I arrested when she used a stolen credit card. I was in my first year as a new officer and felt I needed to carry myself as a tough street cop like the ones on TV or in movies. I callously told her that if she didn’t do drugs she wouldn’t be in this mess. I didn’t take into account the parts of her life that had drawn her into this lifestyle that sapped her soul. When I asked her “Why the Hell did you use a credit card that wasn’t yours?” Mary calmly and honestly answered “I just didn’t feel like being a prostitute today”. Her simple answer cut into my soul. I really wasn’t a TV cop. I was a real cop and my role was to serve and protect all victims so that they didn’t become further victimized. In Mary’s case she had been abused and then she eventually became indentured to drugs and found her way into the sex trade for survival. I promised myself that in the future if I saw Mary I would be a kind police officer and buy her a coffee and a muffin. She probably had very little kindness shown to her in her life. A few months later, I learned that Mary was missing and was presumed murdered. Her body was never recovered and no arrests were ever made. Mary’s ghost has visited me since that time and quite often. 

Two years ago, my wife had enough of the ghosts interfering with my my ability to carry out normal everyday tasks such as self care and the ability to decide what to eat for supper. She insisted that I see my physician and I was diagnosis with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). This is a common mental injury for first responders. I was no longer going to work on the front lines of policing. I continued to struggle with my PTSD.

In January of 2020 I attended a treatment retreat. The key to living with my PTSD would be for me not become disabled by my experiences but learn they existed to give a purpose to my life. I had no idea how I could do that. I wasn’t in a position to start a new business, I didn’t think I had any special skills that could make a world changing influence. 

A few days after my arrival at the retreat I lay on my back in an upper room. As I concentrated on my breath I slipped into an altered state of consciousness. My purpose began began to be clearer. The image of a heart and a notebook were formed in my mind. Maybe this was my purpose coming to me. I knew I was probably somewhat capable of creating a character of love. I knew I would need to drop some fear that it might not be reciprocated. I had to learn to love myself and offer a courageous agape or altruistic love to others that had nothing to do with reciprocation. If I offered kindness to another and it was not returned I would need to understand that was as a reflection of where that person was at and not me. Writing may be another challenge. All my life I had wanted to be a good writer. Over the past thirty years I have bought numerous quality pens, high quality paper and many notebooks. I kept journals for an average of three days before losing interest. From time to time I would drink beers at an empty pub and write in a newly acquired book. The book would soon find it’s way into the trash. I didn’t really think I had a story to tell, or the imagination to create one. However, I was charged by my vision that I did have a story and a purpose. I knew I had to show love to myself, others and maybe some ghosts. I was not going to do that by song, dance, or visual creations. I had been assigned to use writing in my vision. So I left the retreat knowing what my purpose would be. 

When I arrived home I did what most would do after being given a task by the universe. I did nothing. Two months passed. My ghosts became a little quieter and kinder for that time. Just as March began I knew I had to start on the writing. I reached out to a wonderful friend who gave me little push to start and a few more pushes to keep me going. I began to keep a journal and began a story. However, Mary is a particularly insistent ghost. I assume that is because she received so little love, compassion and kindness in this world that she still needed it. I wasn’t so sure that I was ready to write a story of Mary. So I brushed her off. I wrote journal entries, and writing exercises in my newly acquired Leuchtturm1917 notebook with an $11.00 pen. I even started a longer story not involving Mary but she was quite insistent that we both get the attention that we both needed. 

I finally gave in at the beginning of April and began to write the story. It was slow to write. Sometimes, just a line or two. Other times I didn’t look or think about it for weeks. At times Mary would not let me sleep and I composed much of her story while I was tying to sleep and would have trouble the next day trying to remember the wonderful line that I meant to include the next day. I wrote of her struggle with drugs and the way her soul was diminished by the abuse and the constant craving for drugs that would never really give her the love and joy that she sought. I wrote of her arrest and my lack of kindness for her. I put off writing about her murder for three weeks because I wanted to honour her by writing it with the best emotion that I could. When I finally decided that it was time to murder Mary. I sat out on my deck and opened my computer and imagined the horror of the night for her. Thankfully, I had been taught by a wonderful physician that the pain in death is only very temporary and that her body will sooth and comfort her as she departs. When I was done writing the scene I closed my laptop and felt emotionally exhausted. I stopped and thought for a long time and cracked open a favourite craft IPA and toasted Mary for what she had taught me. Mary was never just a drug addicted prostitute. Mary was a human. I was never just a beat cop. I am a human. Mary and I share that with every person in the world. 

Mary’s ghost no longer haunts me. We have been able to let each other go. I will never forget the lessons that she has given me about love and kindness. I am certain that her soul has been restored and she now lives in a place with the love that she should have always had. 

"The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited." 

— Stephen King (Bag of Bones)