By the time I began to understand what PTSD and traumatic brain injury had done to me, I had already spent years dealing with the consequences. My anger had damaged relationships, my depression had made it difficult to function, and I had lost jobs, struggled financially, and watched my family endure things I never wanted them to experience. Finally having names for some of my struggles helped me understand why I had changed so much after Iraq. But it also forced me to confront a question I had avoided for years: now that I understood what was happening to me, what was I going to do about it?
I couldn’t control what had happened to me in Iraq. But I had made decisions afterward that contributed to my problems. One of those decisions was refusing to ask for help. I told myself that strong people kept their problems to themselves and pushed through. Looking back, my refusal to ask for help wasn’t an example of how tough I was. It was keeping me from getting better.
Counseling helped me see the difference. One of my counselors explained my anger with a pot of boiling water, and for the first time, it made sense.
For years, I had been holding on to feelings I didn’t know how to process. Instead of dealing with them, I kept adding more to the pot. Eventually the pressure became too much, and the pot boiled over.
As I thought about that picture, I recognized exactly what she was describing in my own home. My family was seeing the explosions, but they weren’t necessarily the ones adding anything to the pot. I was carrying emotions from experiences that had nothing to do with them, and they were the ones who sometimes got the anger when I couldn’t contain it anymore.
That was painful to admit. I loved my family and wanted to be someone they could depend on.
The moment isn’t always the cause
I had spent so much time focusing on whatever happened right before I lost my temper. Someone said something that irritated me, or something didn’t go the way I expected, and I could convince myself that was the reason I got angry. But the situation in front of me wasn’t always the real source of the problem. Sometimes it was just the moment when everything I’d been holding inside finally came out.
My counselor started helping me look at those moments more closely. She wouldn’t let me explain an incident entirely through what someone else had said or done. She asked what happened before I got angry, what I was feeling, how I read the situation, and what I did next. Then we looked at the consequences and whether I could have handled it another way.
At first that was uncomfortable. I was used to defending myself. But counseling required me to look past whether I had a legitimate reason to be upset and examine what I chose to do with that frustration.
The part of me that still craved war
One of the hardest things I had to learn was how to walk away from an argument.
For years, when I got angry, I stayed in the confrontation. I pushed harder, raised my voice, and kept fighting until the situation had run its course. I told myself I was standing up for myself. But as I examined my reactions, I realized something deeper was happening.
There was a part of me that still craved war.
That’s difficult to admit, but it was true. I had spent time in an environment where conflict was part of everyday life, and even after coming home, something inside me was still drawn toward it. An argument wasn’t always just a disagreement to me. It could become a confrontation I felt compelled to continue, even when there was nothing worth gaining. By the time it was over, I might have said things I regretted or damaged a relationship with someone I cared about.
Walking away had felt like backing down. But I gradually understood that leaving before I lost control was a much better choice than staying until I did something I would regret. I could step away, calm down, and come back to the conversation when I was better prepared. I didn’t master that overnight, and there were still times I recognized what was happening too late. But I learned I didn’t have to follow every emotion wherever it led me.
Strengths that weren’t helping me
Over time, I started asking myself those same questions outside of counseling. Why did that bother me so much? Why did I react so strongly? Was my response appropriate for what actually happened?
Those questions showed me that some things I considered strengths weren’t helping me:
- I had confused anger with assertiveness. Being firm is fine. Turning every disagreement into a confrontation isn’t.
- I had confused independence with refusing help. I endured years of suffering rather than admit I couldn’t solve every problem on my own.
- I had mistaken emotional detachment for strength. I was good at pushing feelings aside, but they came out in other ways.
None of those qualities were bad on their own. The problem was that I let them become excuses for behavior that was hurting me and the people around me.
Understanding PTSD created another challenge. Once I had a diagnosis that helped explain my anger, there were times I used it to excuse my behavior. If I reacted poorly, I could point to PTSD and tell myself that was why. There was truth in that connection, but understanding why something happened wasn’t the same as accepting that nothing could be done about it.
I couldn’t undo what had happened in Iraq, and I couldn’t simply decide that PTSD or a traumatic brain injury would no longer affect me. Those conditions were real, and their symptoms kept creating challenges. But I could work on recognizing my triggers, managing my responses, and making decisions that reduced the harm my reactions caused. I could acknowledge that PTSD contributed to the intensity of my reactions while still accepting responsibility for how I treated other people.
I had to learn that an explanation and an excuse aren’t the same thing. And taking responsibility didn’t mean blaming myself for everything. I could recognize the effects of war without letting them define every decision I made.
Not blame, but honesty
Self-assessment doesn’t mean constantly criticizing yourself. For years I swung between two extremes: blaming other people for what was happening in my life, and treating every setback as proof of my own failure. Neither helped me understand what was really going on.
The goal isn’t to automatically defend yourself or automatically accept blame. It’s to look at a situation as honestly as you can and figure out what responsibility actually belongs to you.
That same habit changed how I lead. My frustration doesn’t need to become part of the decision I’m making. The way I lead matters just as much as the decisions I make.
Why S comes first
When I began organizing what I’d learned into the STRUCTURE Framework, I knew Self-Assessment had to come first. Before I could change the patterns damaging my life, I had to recognize they existed. Before I could manage my anger, I had to understand what triggered it.
You can’t change something you refuse to examine.
Try this the next time the pot boils over
- What happened before I got angry, and what was I feeling?
- Was my reaction bigger than the situation actually required?
- Is there a disagreement I keep having, and what might I be contributing to it?
- Which of my “strengths” create problems when I take them too far?
The first command of leadership isn’t learning how to lead others. It’s being willing to examine yourself before you do.
Take the free STRUCTURE assessment: https://eric-dzqzr3y4.scoreapp.com/
Read Chapter 1 of The Rebuilt Warrior free: https://therebuiltwarrior.com/download-first-chapter/
If you’re living with PTSD, a brain injury, or anger you can’t seem to get ahead of, asking for help isn’t weakness. It took me years to learn that. You don’t have to carry it alone. Veterans Crisis Line: dial 988, then press 1.
Eric Gillis is an Army veteran who served in Iraq, a Florida school administrator who is working on his doctorate, and the author of The Rebuilt Warrior: Leadership Forged Through Service, Struggle, and Strength (coming soon).