J. P. McMichael
It was a beautiful October morning in 2003. Sitting in the sun that was shining through the screen of my front door, I wrote the final words in my suicide note: “I am sorry, I can no longer deal with this pain. I am sorry, please forgive me.” I raised the barrel of my service weapon to my temple and began to pull the trigger back as I closed my eyes one last time. Then…
“We Are Under Attack!” On September 11, 2001, the courtroom door flew open. An attorney interrupted the court to inform us that a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers in New York City. A brief time later, a second notice came as the other tower had been hit. We were under attack.
“The Pentagon is on fire!” came blasting across the dispatcher’s radio. From the 11th floor of the Arlington County Courthouse, the smoke was visible. “I’m on 110. A plane just flew over my location and into the Pentagon!” came a familiar voice across the radio just seconds later. Within minutes, I was there as a first responder, face to face with the aftermath of the actions of terrorists and staring into what I can only describe as hell on earth.
While we worked to rescue those trapped and injured in the Pentagon, the audible tone of the radio broke the eerie silence. “There is a plane five minutes out, four minutes out, three minutes out.”
“We are going to die here,” I said to the officer working beside me as the countdown blared. Then we learned that it was one of the friendly planes that would later intercept Flight 93. My memories of that day are of bodies, flames, smoke, the smell of jet fuel, the chaos, the screams, the cries, and the thousand-yard stares. These images overtook what had begun as a beautiful September morning.
That September morning changed my life. From a happily married and relatively new officer, I changed into a broken shell of a man.
No one knew my wife had left me in May. I was not sleeping, nor I was eating. The flashbacks, the sounds, the smells, and the vision of death and destruction from that day at the Pentagon continually engulfed me. Many nights I returned home from work, only to lock myself in a dark room, tortured by what I could not un-see, often crying until my eyes burned and my head ached. Inside I was dying a slow, agonizing death from this battle with what I would later find out was post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and depression.
In my mind, I had destroyed everything I loved or that had brought me happiness. I was left with nothing; alone as the final battle would play out night after night until that day in October when I could no longer endure the pain anymore.
After waking up that morning, I walked downstairs and opened my front door. I was calm. Today would be my last day of suffering. Sitting on the my couch, I wrote a long note to say goodbye to anyone who cared—although I felt truly alone.
Loss of Identity In my local coffee shop this morning, I realize once again just how close I came to making the biggest mistake of my life, because at that single moment I was unable to see any other path. The best explanation is that I was enveloped in a fog. I could not see the light through the fog of pain and suffering that PSTD had created.
Doug Monda, cohost of the Trauma Behind the Badge show and the owner of Survive First with J.P. in November of 2021.
It is amazing what happens in your mind when you are in situations that challenge you to the core of your being.
Like my brother and sister first responders and veterans, I am so much more than the job I perform or the title I hold.
J. P. and Rachel Loyle Zubrzycki, widow of Sergeant Ed Zubrzycki who lost his battle with PTSD.
I have heard people say those who end their life are weak; however, I was a professional wrestler and a cage fighter, a competitive martial artist. I considered myself far from being weak either physically or mentally.
PTSD has a way of taking hold of your life—no matter how good your life is—and dismantling every ounce of it. Slowly and painfully, often making you believe you are going crazy. For military and first responders, this creates a fear of asking for help. A fear of being viewed by your brothers and sisters as being broken and unworthy. A fear of having everything taken and being left with nothing, including your identity.
As often is the case, our career becomes our identity. “Tell me about yourself” we are asked, and our first response is always, “I am a cop, deputy, correctional officer, firefighter, marine, veteran….” When our career becomes our identity, we set ourselves up for failure. When we suffer trauma, when we retire, when we are no longer in that career or the possibility of no longer working in that career, our identity is no longer existent, and we see no value in ourselves. Hence the high rate of suicide in retirees and death a few years after leaving.
Obviously, that morning in October did not go as planned, but more on that later. Fast forward to 2012. As I mentioned earlier, I was a professional fighter and that would bring about the second biggest hurdle of my journey. Yet it would also weave the path of my journey together in a way that I could never have imagined possible. In the fall of 2012, I was training for a fight in New Jersey when I felt a pop in my neck. Then I felt nothing—literally nothing.
Holding his fingers in the shape of a circle, the surgeon explained, “If this is your neck, you have less than a quarter of it that is not broken. Had you gone to fight and received a heavy strike or kick to your head, you would be paralyzed.” He then told me that they would have to fuse C5-C7 in my neck, and while it might be possible to go back to fighting, he would not know until he performed the surgery.
Two weeks after the surgery I had my follow-up visit with the surgeon. I had just gone back to the gym and was feeling great. However, the appointment did not go as I expected.
Instead of giving me the green light to return to fighting, he told me, “You can never fight again.” His words echoed over and over in my head as I sat in the parking lot afterward. Fighting was part of my identity and now it was gone. On top of this, my PTSD had reared its ugly head in full force when I lost two friends: one to suicide and one to cancer.
When we lose people who are our age or younger, it becomes a reality check of our own mortality and how quickly life can be gone. When we are in boot camp or in the academy, we feel indestructible. We tell ourselves that people in our field die but it will not be us. That is, until it is someone in your field who dies, like both of my friends. They were good guys; it was not supposed to happen this way.
A Vicious Spiral After their deaths, I began to spiral again between the depression and the nightmares. One of my friends had completed suicide due to PTSD by jumping from a bridge. Night after night, I would see him jump, yet his body would then turn into mine, and I would wake up from the dream helplessly falling. I began to train more to try to provide an outlet for the stress, anger, and pain. I was in great shape, yet inside I continued to battle.
Unlike many of my brothers and sisters. I did not turn to alcohol or drugs. My father was an alcoholic, and I knew to avoid that road. Instead, I would drive for hours in an attempt to clear my head. Later, I learned that my family never knew if I would return home from those drives. I could not see how my PTSD was impacting my family—the vicious mood swings and “we walk around on eggshells because we never know what side of you, we are going to get from one minute to the next.”
One afternoon as I lay in bed, my young son stared at me. “Daddy,” he said, “why won’t you play with me?” When I looked at him, I realized that I was no better than my alcoholic father. His question led me to reach out, to shatter the stigma I feared, and to say, “I am not ok”! I went to counseling, did EMDR, journaled, and worked out. For the first, I focused on helping myself. Yet I still faced another hurdle.
J.P. with Jen Bricker, who was born without legs. She is an acrobat and aerialist in the show, Omnium a Bold New Circus.
There are many of us who are struggling, yet do not ask for help.
Every year, sadly, we lose many brothers and sisters by their own hand due to PTSD, depression, etc.
This is preventable, and we must smash the stigma surrounding the need to ask for help.
J. P. with retired OKC Firefighter and cohost of the Trauma Behind the Badge, Chris Fields
Back to the Surgeon In the summer of 2015, I had returned to school to finish my undergraduate degree and life was going well or so I thought. One afternoon, I was standing in a store, and then I was not. My legs went numb, my arms numb…not again, I thought, not again.
This time the surgeon’s words were “This is worse than I thought, we need to get you on the table. You will no longer be able to serve as a cop. I have never had anyone return from this surgery to full duty. I can’t guarantee that you will walk after this surgery, but I can guarantee you won’t be able to walk if you don’t have it.”
Once again, my identity was torn away. Not be able to walk? I felt immediate anger. Who was this guy to tell me what I could and could not do? He does not know who he is talking to. All this ran through my head in that moment, and I said to him, “With all due respect, you are wrong! You don’t know who the hell you’re talking to, and I will prove you wrong, f—k that!”
I was so angry at his diagnosis. I had overcome all this stuff before. Yet here I was being told not only that I could not do my job anymore, but I may never be able to walk again? That moment in time changed my view.
Don’t get me wrong. As the surgery approached, I was scared to death. The night before I stood in my kids’ doorways and cried. Would I be able to play with my kids again? Would I ever put my badge on again? Would I wake up in a wheelchair? I had not told my family or friends what the surgeon said—I could not.
Identity Changed Again We are quick to accept the words of an expert, often without researching or even thinking about it. It must be true, this person is an “expert.” (By the way, I hate that word and I have been called one!) I knew if I told anyone of my surgeon’s diagnosis, they would begin to worry.
And I could already hear how sorry they were or tell me to look on the bright side, or—my personal favorite—“at least you’re alive right?”
I had to get my mind in the right place and focused. It was during this second surgery that my identity was changed again.
It is amazing what happens in your mind when you are in situations that challenge you to the core of your being. Like my brother and sister first responders and veterans, I am so much more than the job I perform or the title I hold. The days and hours prior to the surgery forced me to reflect on my life more than I had ever done before. I am a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a mentor, a teacher, an author, an athlete, and an officer.
Laying there on that gurney, before the sun rose that July morning in 2015, I was at a level of peace I had never felt. I had done all that I could and now it was out of my hands. As the medical staff rolled me into the surgery room, the surgeon asked what music I wanted played as I fell asleep. “Whatever keeps your hands steady, brother” I responded.
As the room began to fade, I heard Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” begin to play. I smiled as this was a song I had walked out to, and I was in a fight like no other. Some may say it was a stupid thought at a time like that, but to me it was symbolic. I would overcome. When I began to wake from the anesthesia, I realized I was being rolled down the hallway. “Ok” the nurse said, “time to get your big ass up and walk into your room.”
The Little Things in Life We often do not appreciate the little things in life, such as walking, because we do them so much that they become second nature. When we hit rock bottom and face losing everything, it is at that point we begin to focus on what is really important in our lives.
Please remember that when all seems lost and no light appears in the darkness, you may need to travel just a little further down the path.
When you are in those moments, you don’t think “man, I wish I had worked more.” Instead, you think about the people in your life who mean the most to you, about the time you wish you had to correct the wrongs, or the times you wish you could get back. You want just a few more moments to do or say the things you wish you had. Sometimes, you are fortunate enough to be able to make those changes and to have the opportunity to re-focus your journey.
Recovery from my second surgery was tough. Yet on the day of the Marine Corp Marathon in October 2015, I returned to full duty. That morning when I put my uniform on for the first time in several months, I felt a pride that I had not felt in a long time, and the tears fell freely.
I finished my degree in criminal justice and graduated with honors at the end of 2015. Then I immediately began my master’s degree in counseling with a focus on crisis and trauma and graduated in 2017. That same year, I started my own company, Catalyst of Change Associates. I published my first children’s book, Why Won’t You Play with Me?, and began speaking throughout the United States and Canada. Since then, I have written two more children’s books: Specially You about body image and anti-bullying and Daddy’s Little Girl about the relationship between a father and daughter and all the milestones throughout.
One of my greatest accomplishments would come in January of 2020, when I was asked to become an Adjunct Professor at Marymount University. The opportunity to teach, support, and help students as they begin their journey into their chosen field is one of the greatest gifts I have received. The first week of every course is focused on health and wellness in criminal justice. I share my journey with the students, and I discuss the importance of taking care of themselves both during school and as they enter their chosen career.
My students have rekindled my love of the corrections field, and they remind me of the importance of sharing our journey with others and the impact it can have. They also remind me the importance of being a servant leader and how serving others—seeing the talents and gifts they possess, yet often do not see in themselves, and providing them with the tools to grow and succeed even when they did not think they could do so—is what leadership is all about. I have been able to obtain internships for several of my students in my own agency, as well as with other places in the criminal justice field.
In December of that same year, I was accepted into the Warrior Path Program at the Boulder Crest Institute, along with five other military veterans. The six of us traveled to Bluemont, Virginia to spend seven days together. We worked from 0630 until late in the evening each day.
We were taught that our traumas are something that happened to us yet they do not define who we are. We learned strategies to address what we were going through, and we built an amazing bond of brotherhood and support.
That week was only the beginning, as we have 18 months of the program remaining after the initial week and we continue to meet virtually each week and text and talk daily. Having that support has been an invaluable tool during those times of struggle, as well as to be able to share victories both big and small with the other veterans.
Smash the Stigma There are many of us who are struggling, yet do not ask for help. Every year, sadly, we lose many brothers and sisters by their own hand due to PTSD, depression, etc. This is preventable, and we must smash the stigma surrounding the need to ask for help.
Reaching for help is not weak. It is one of the toughest things we will ever need to do. It takes true courage and strength.
We spend so much time helping the inmates in our jails—people who we do not even know. Yet when we see a fellow officer struggling, we tell ourselves that they will be ok and continue to walk by them. Strength is having the courage to ask someone, “How are you doing?” and stopping to truly listen to their response.
Is it comfortable? Absolutely not! But it is a lot more comfortable then looking into the eyes of a husband, wife, son, daughter, mother, or father to tell them that their loved one is not coming home or that they reached out for help, but you did not respond.
Each of us is on a path in our journey. Along that journey, the paths of others will intersect with ours. Everyone has a lesson from which we can learn—both positive and negative. Some may be with us for a brief period, while others may last a lifetime. We need to remain open in order to learn from them. Those same individuals may remind us of why we are on a certain path, especially when we begin to question why we continue to do what we have been called to do.
Through tragedy and trauma, we often forge the foundations of new beginnings. The Japanese art of kintsugi, or the “golden repair,” is the best example of this. When pottery breaks in Japan, it is put back together using gold to fill the cracks. The Japanese believe this makes the pottery stronger than it was before.
Concluding Thoughts Returning to that October morning in 2003, just as I began to pull that trigger back, I remembered my ex-wife. I cannot tell you why the thought of her came to me at that moment. But in that one second, I realized if I died she could be blamed. After all, no one was aware that she had left me several months before.
As I stood at the edge of that abyss, I was ready to end my life. Yet I was given a second chance. When I faced the possibility of career-ending surgery, as well as the possibility of never being able to walk again, I realized how fortunate I was to be given that second chance and that many have not. When I battled PTSD following 9/11, I was shattered in every way, broken into a million pieces. Like the kintsugi potters, the people who have crossed my path along this journey of mine have provided the gold that filled my “cracks” and they have made me stronger in many ways than I ever was before.
Please remember that when all seems lost and no light appears in the darkness, you may need to travel just a little further down the path. We have the ability to change the world by sharing our journey, thus allowing others who may be struggling to find hope and a second chance. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, nor should it mean the end of a career. We see the worst of the worst, day in and day out, yet we falsely believe that we should not be bothered by it.
If you refuse to do it for yourself, remember that just like a pot of water on a hot stove, the longer it remains under pressure it continues to boil and eventually overflows, damaging everything around it. Your family, friends, and children deserve to enjoy the best of you, not the aftermath of trauma that has gone untreated.
It is ok to not be ok. Be safe, take care of one another, and most importantly take care of yourself both mentally and physically.
Editor’s Note: This article is an excerpt from the book, The Journey, to be released in 2022 by the author.