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ISBN: 9781620956397

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, or stored in a database, or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

First Addition 2011

Map By

James Dean Foley

Art Work

My Dear Friend

Billie Jo Ellis

CONTENTS

Contents

Dedication

Biography

Geography

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter I: Fields of Onions

Chapter II: Please God Take Me

Chapter III: Not Again

Chapter IV: A Wasted Year

Chapter V: Chaos

Chapter VI: First Year Out

Chapter VII: The Grand Jury

Chapter VIII: How Far Down Can I Drag Myself

Chapter IX: Road Trip to Maine

Chapter X: Losing Another Friend

Acknowledgement: Art Work

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Dana, Randy, Aunt Sharon, Dad, Kevin, Uncle Bob, and Aunt Judy.

Special thanks to Judy Moore, who’s inspiration allowed me to harness the fortitude, and put into words, the experiences of my life.

This book is also dedicated to all the men and women in our armed forces, whose sacrifices allow America to remain free.

BIOGRAPHY

James Dean Foley

On a clear night in early January 1985 the patrons of Foley’s Halfway Inn Tavern gathered for a festive night of music and wild game to welcome in the New Year.

This is the story of James Dean Foley, a father, a son, and a witness to violent crime. What most Americans associate with only combat veterans is a collection of feelings, and heightened senses that most could not, or would not, understand?

More than anything though, this book is recognition that you don’t have to be a combat veteran to suffer the profound negative impacts of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Those impacts come with nightmares, cold sweats, being easily startled, chronic insomnia, chronic irritability, & unexplainable paranoia. And if that’s not enough, the bouts of uncontrollable sobbing that one must hide from friends and family.

The author describes in great detail the car wreck that took the life of a class mate and witnessing his father shot to death at his place of business. He goes on to explain the self induced trauma that all too often goes unnoticed, or that, is so artfully hidden by the victims, sometimes knowingly, and other times oblivious to the affects of PTSD.

All in all, this book has but one simple message; HOPE. Although many in leadership roles will tell you that “hope” is not a method, it is however, a start for those of us still suffering.

With the courage to face his demons, James Dean Foley, articulates one of the most poignant and powerful accounts of trauma and addiction that anyone outside of combat vets you will ever find. The author describes how he’s dealt with a lifelong disability of intestinal hemorrhages that all too often incapacitated him, and that have nearly taken his life on at least 5 separate occasions since 1981. Together with the tremors, cluster headaches, hypertension, and a psyche that have been weakened by the relentless internal assault of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the author succumbs to his demons hoping that his story will help others.

INTRODUCTION

A Vision of Hope

2010

“If this book helps just one person, or just a handful of people, Veterans, or law enforcement, then I’ve done my job as a father and as a survivor”

I awoke this morning to a feathery snow perching itself atop the balcony rail. No wind, no sound, just the sight of palm-sized snowflakes gently settling onto the ground. Little did I know that my first deep breath of winter air, was going to change the course of my life. How can simply breathing this cold winter air have such a profound effect on ones psyche? But then again, that first breath of winter air always unsettles me. The smell, the taste of winter. It just takes me back. As if I’m being ripped back in time through a wormhole. It takes me back to a parking lot, kneeling over my dad, holding his hand and, begging him not to die on me. There was nothing I could do.

I too have to sit with my back against the wall in a restaurant. I too shutter, and tremble with the backfiring of a car. I too, am startled by the mere act of my furnace kicking on. (The whoosh sound) I too sit up at 3 am on the couch wondering what it’s like to sleep more than 1-2 hours at a time, if at all. And yes, I too,,,,,cry uncontrollably for no reason, (or so I thought). I too, take off to the store for a gallon of milk, only to find myself still driving around an hour later, forgetting where I’m supposed to go, and what I was supposed to buy. The one thing that I do know, is that I’ve been having flashbacks the entire time I’ve been driving. And yes,,,,,,,, I too, would like to rip the guy’s head off who sits behind me in the movie theater and kicks my seat. But then, doesn’t everyone? I too like it very quiet. So you see, you’re not alone.

(Authors Notes: This passage was originally buried far down the page. But after further thought,,,,,It seemed more fitting to go closer to the beginning. Don’t ask me why. Something tells me that this passage was fitting to begin with. It embodies what someone with PTSD goes through on a daily basis,,,,,,,,or even hour by hour.)

I’m not a writer, which by now you’ve probably figured out. I thought it would be informative to tell you, “the how, and the why” of my thoughts as the book progresses. Today is February 4, 2010. If my book flashes back and skips around I’ll try to key the reader by dates. (AADD) I could have been diligent and created a work that flows chronologically, but that wouldn’t be a real world view of how Post Traumatic Stress Disorder disrupts ones every thought throughout the day. What I do envision is that I’ll keep the notes as part of the final draft, for the reader.

Putting my life into words is not something I ever envisioned. After all, I’ve been a very private person for many years. (Or should I say that I’ve attempted to be.) My disclaimer would be that;

“my life is what it is” and my life,

“was what it was”, not very pretty at times.

Through all the good, bad, and the ugly, I always thought that the only person I was hurting was myself. (Not sure why I’m leaving this hanging alone. Seems fitting as I’ve lost so many friendships) As one acquaintance told me; “you could write a book with the life you’ve lived. But if you do, don’t glamorize it”, which is not my intention.

My vision for this book is one of HOPE. If this book helps just one person, or just a handful of people, Veterans, or law enforcement, then I’ve done my job as a father, and as a survivor. I just want people who’ve went through trauma to know, that you’re not alone.

I guess the reason I’ve never shared my traumas with anyone is because I didn’t want someone feeling sorry for me. Or in the alternative, I didn’t want to be judged as a person with a defect, based on my life’s experiences, most of which I had no control over.