Mettle Monday - A Sign

Written by Pete DePrez Jr.
I don’t recall much about the call. It was a dead guy, or girl. I helped the coroner collect the body and went outside. It was night-time and the lights from our overheads were swirling in the darkness. I began speaking with another deputy, and suddenly became aware that I was seeing his face as he would look if he were dead. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened. It wasn’t as shocking as one might think. I blinked and even laughed to myself about it, but I couldn’t shake myself free from what I was seeing. It should have been a sign; I should have questioned what I was seeing, but I didn’t. My mind had begun to operate on its own. I should have questioned what was happening, but I didn’t. I told myself it must be a natural repercussion of seeing so many dead people. But it didn’t stop.
It wasn’t long before I was seeing this during daily conversations. It happened while talking to my ex-wife and stepson. I saw it on my own face when looking in the mirror. It was like my brain was trying to dull that empty feeling I experienced while handling a dead body; but I couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge what was happening. It should have been a sign.
This was about nine years into an eleven-year career as a first responder. I hadn’t been able to sleep more than four hours in years. My memory was becoming more and more spotty. My temper was growing more difficult to control. My eyesight, which had always been spectacular, had begun to fade. My back required regular mobility management and my knees were always swollen and sore- years of carrying heavy backpacks through the mountains and plate carriers during SWAT operations, had damaged both beyond their years. Fixing any of my damaged joints would require surgery, which would pull me out of the field. I never wanted that, so I suffered through it. It was easier to recognize those ailments and how to work through the pain, than do what felt like giving up. It should have been a sign.
My ex-wife and I were arguing about something after work one evening. I was lying down on the bed and she was standing at the end. I said something to upset her and she moved towards me aggressively. I felt the explosion inside to respond with violence. I felt my body brace with tension and begin to sit up. I caught myself before I did anything and quickly removed myself from the situation, but I could have killed her in that moment. Not because of anything she was saying, but because she posed a threat. That’s what my world had digressed to: identifying and eliminating threats. I couldn’t turn it off, even when I thought I had. That should have been a sign.
When I would try to talk about some of the stuff with anyone outside of the office, I generally received the same response of, “I don’t want to hear about that stuff.” They didn’t realize I wasn’t talking about it to wow them; I was trying to get them to understand what my day was REALLY like. Once I realized no one wanted to hear about it, I stopped talking about it. Now those same people can’t understand what’s wrong because they never heard about the bad days. I honored their wishes, but it only led to confusion and misunderstandings. That should have been a sign.
I started drinking to help me sleep. I hadn’t ingested booze in over twelve years- but I couldn’t sleep- I didn’t sleep- for days in a row. The drinking was manageable for a while. Then I lost one of my oldest friends and it quickly became unmanageable. His death made me acknowledge my own mortality, which I had managed to ignore for over a decade. I started romanticizing death. Dying sounded easy. The life I was living was not. Work asked me to take some time off. I was prescribed psych meds. My ex-wife moved out and we divorced. I left the Sheriff’s Office in January and sold my house in July. I drowned in bourbon and cuddled weapons on many nights. I cried. I hadn’t cried in years. That should have been a sign.
When I finally came out of the storm, I had been stripped of everything that I thought defined who I was. All of my titles held an “ex” or “former” prefix. I trust that everything happens for a reason, but I struggled with why I was dealing with this affliction, while others had managed to avoid it.
I finally realized my idea that I was the only one suffering was a fallacy. All of us in this line of work deal with these things. None of us sleep. None of us are truly capable of discharging the weight of a single day on the job, let alone years and years of it.
Statistically speaking, Law Enforcement Officers are more likely to die by their own hand than in the line of duty, yet the majority of training revolves around identifying physical threats. Rarely, if ever, are Officers provided training on how to manage or neutralize the invisible threats to our brains, in both the physical and psychological sense. Rarely, if ever, are Officers advised that these threats are not a matter of if, but when.
Stigmas are rampant and very hard to overcome. No one WANTS to be associated with this affliction. I always associated it with weakness. I knew guys who had seen and done so much more than I had. I was never haunted or shocked by anything I saw or did and subsequently didn’t believe I was susceptible to developing something like post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I didn’t realize it had nothing to do with weakness and was instead a result of a lot of different factors, including a lifetime of exhaustion, stress and brain trauma. The whole time, I thought I just needed to suck it up and work harder, which I did, until everything snapped.
Looking back now, it all should have been a sign.
Pete DePrez Jr. spent over 10 years working as a First Responder in the state of Colorado, serving roles in Search & Rescue, Sherriff's Deputy & SWAT. In 2019, Pete was forced to leave the First Responder after being diagnosed with PTSD.








