I met a guy called Paul today at work.
Discussion
I met Paul for the first time at his flat today. It wasn’t the worst flat I’ve ever been, not by a long chalk. A newish development of three storey buildings. Paul lived on the top floor, alone. He had all the usual trappings of life. TV, laptop, mobile. His car parked outside in a numbered bay. There was a bit of dirt and clutter here and there, a few empty wine and beer bottles, but certainly nothing out of the ordinary. Paul smelt though. Really, really smelt. Paul’s a white guy, in his 50s, lives alone.
There was obvious damage to the front door of Paul’s flat. The whole side of the door had been smashed in, leaving a six inch gap between the broken door edge and the door frame. Nothing had been stolen though, so that was good news. Apart from the front door, everything else looked OK.
I felt a bit sorry for Paul. It didn’t look like he really had anyone close or looking after him. I don’t think he was in the best of health. Of course, when we arrived, we got scowled at by Paul’s neighbours for cluttering up the car park.
What did Paul want to tell me? Nothing. Paul hadn’t called the Police, that day or previously. Neither had his neighbours, or his family. Paul wasn’t known to the Police. Paul hadn’t been well and he’d been signed off sick from work. Paul’s work had called us, as his last sick note had run out three weeks previously and they’d not heard from him. Paul hadn’t answered his mobile, or the intercom at the main flat door when his colleagues tried to get hold of him. Paul hadn’t mentioned going away anywhere and his car was still in the car park.
So the Police broke down Paul’s flat door and the smell that poured out had the first officer on his knees like he’d been sucker punched. The officers covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves and went in to the flat, then came straight back out again. “Can we have CID to the scene, please?”
So I grab some car keys and drive the Detective Inspector down there. I moan about my family, he tells me about his kids getting over their chicken pox. We park up near the flat and there are half a dozen neighbours who suddenly have urgent “front door” tasks with their letterboxes and wheelie bins. No one quite plucks up the courage to ask us what we’re doing there though.
We get out of the underpowered diesel Corsa and go over towards the Transit van and a distinctly green looking uniform colleague. As we get towards the van, the reason for the appearance of our colleague makes itself known to us. Even out at ground level in the car park of the U-shaped block, three stories down from Paul’s flat, there is “that” smell. But it’s worse than a smell. It’s a stench and we all know it’s going to be bad.
We stick some gloves and face masks on and go into the communal stairway. The smell gets exponentially worse and I can already feel and taste the bile rising at the back of my throat. We climb the three flights of stairs to the hallway outside Paul’s flat. Because I’m fat and out of shape, I’m breathing more heavily than I’d like to be when we get there. If the smell was bad outside in the car park and worse in the stairwell, now, it’s… nauseating. There is nothing that smells quite like a dead body.
When the body has lain there, undetected for six weeks, that smell is indescribable. We go to the front door and have a look to ensure there is nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the damage caused on entry. Stand. Pause. Look. Think. Try not to breathe. Try to see what should be there, what shouldn’t be there. Guess about Paul and his life up to now.
We go into the flat and do the same in the hallway. Stop. Stand. Look. We turn left and go into Paul’s lounge. Paul is lying on his back on the sofa. Paul is – was – a white man. His skin is blackened and swollen. There is a pool of blood and other body fluid on the laminate floor under the sofa. Paul has been dead for so long that flies have laid eggs which have turned into maggots. There are trails out of the pooled blood where the maggots have crawled away to pupate, like roots from a root ball of a plant. There are empty larval cases which crunch when walk on them. Maggots crawl around on Paul’s skin. I pull back the blanket Paul is lying under. He is still clothed and I say a silent thanks that I’m not the poor sod who’s going to have to undress him at the mortuary. It’s impossible to examine Paul as to move him will make him fall to pieces. We’re not going to be able to ID Paul from fingerprints, that’s for sure.
We check the rest of the flat. The first officer at the scene tells us the flat door was locked and none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything unusual. The only entry to the flat is the front door, now in pieces in Paul’s hall. The first officer tells us there was a small transom window open. I make a mental note that the front door must have been an excellent fire door to stop that smell getting out of Paul’s flat.
We check the rest of the flat. Nothing appears touched, damaged, stolen. We find a driving licence in Paul’s name and seize it. There is medication for high blood pressure and a blood pressure monitor. Heart attack? The DI says he happy that for now, it’s not suspicious. The removal of Paul’s body isn’t going to be down to a rota undertaker, we’re going to have to call out the underwater search unit. They’ll wear suits and breathing apparatus while they put – pour – Paul’s body into a body bag.
The DI and leave the flat, go down the stairs and into the car park. We take off our gloves and masks and dump then in a biohazard bag. We breathe in the fresh air in the car park. Neither of us speak. We still have the stench of decay on our skin, in our hair, on our clothes.
I drive us back to the nick, in silence, with all the windows down. I go and get changed into another suit and shirt from my locker. I make a brew, type up the report and get some lunch. When I go back to my locker at the end of the day, I can still smell that stench on my suit. I briefly consider binning it but chuck it in a bin bag to get dry cleaned.
I met Paul for the first time today. I won’t see Paul again, except in my mind’s eye. Paul is one of many people who still stalk my imagination. Not maliciously, they are just there.
I met Paul for the last time today.
There was obvious damage to the front door of Paul’s flat. The whole side of the door had been smashed in, leaving a six inch gap between the broken door edge and the door frame. Nothing had been stolen though, so that was good news. Apart from the front door, everything else looked OK.
I felt a bit sorry for Paul. It didn’t look like he really had anyone close or looking after him. I don’t think he was in the best of health. Of course, when we arrived, we got scowled at by Paul’s neighbours for cluttering up the car park.
What did Paul want to tell me? Nothing. Paul hadn’t called the Police, that day or previously. Neither had his neighbours, or his family. Paul wasn’t known to the Police. Paul hadn’t been well and he’d been signed off sick from work. Paul’s work had called us, as his last sick note had run out three weeks previously and they’d not heard from him. Paul hadn’t answered his mobile, or the intercom at the main flat door when his colleagues tried to get hold of him. Paul hadn’t mentioned going away anywhere and his car was still in the car park.
So the Police broke down Paul’s flat door and the smell that poured out had the first officer on his knees like he’d been sucker punched. The officers covered their mouths and noses with their sleeves and went in to the flat, then came straight back out again. “Can we have CID to the scene, please?”
So I grab some car keys and drive the Detective Inspector down there. I moan about my family, he tells me about his kids getting over their chicken pox. We park up near the flat and there are half a dozen neighbours who suddenly have urgent “front door” tasks with their letterboxes and wheelie bins. No one quite plucks up the courage to ask us what we’re doing there though.
We get out of the underpowered diesel Corsa and go over towards the Transit van and a distinctly green looking uniform colleague. As we get towards the van, the reason for the appearance of our colleague makes itself known to us. Even out at ground level in the car park of the U-shaped block, three stories down from Paul’s flat, there is “that” smell. But it’s worse than a smell. It’s a stench and we all know it’s going to be bad.
We stick some gloves and face masks on and go into the communal stairway. The smell gets exponentially worse and I can already feel and taste the bile rising at the back of my throat. We climb the three flights of stairs to the hallway outside Paul’s flat. Because I’m fat and out of shape, I’m breathing more heavily than I’d like to be when we get there. If the smell was bad outside in the car park and worse in the stairwell, now, it’s… nauseating. There is nothing that smells quite like a dead body.
When the body has lain there, undetected for six weeks, that smell is indescribable. We go to the front door and have a look to ensure there is nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the damage caused on entry. Stand. Pause. Look. Think. Try not to breathe. Try to see what should be there, what shouldn’t be there. Guess about Paul and his life up to now.
We go into the flat and do the same in the hallway. Stop. Stand. Look. We turn left and go into Paul’s lounge. Paul is lying on his back on the sofa. Paul is – was – a white man. His skin is blackened and swollen. There is a pool of blood and other body fluid on the laminate floor under the sofa. Paul has been dead for so long that flies have laid eggs which have turned into maggots. There are trails out of the pooled blood where the maggots have crawled away to pupate, like roots from a root ball of a plant. There are empty larval cases which crunch when walk on them. Maggots crawl around on Paul’s skin. I pull back the blanket Paul is lying under. He is still clothed and I say a silent thanks that I’m not the poor sod who’s going to have to undress him at the mortuary. It’s impossible to examine Paul as to move him will make him fall to pieces. We’re not going to be able to ID Paul from fingerprints, that’s for sure.
We check the rest of the flat. The first officer at the scene tells us the flat door was locked and none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything unusual. The only entry to the flat is the front door, now in pieces in Paul’s hall. The first officer tells us there was a small transom window open. I make a mental note that the front door must have been an excellent fire door to stop that smell getting out of Paul’s flat.
We check the rest of the flat. Nothing appears touched, damaged, stolen. We find a driving licence in Paul’s name and seize it. There is medication for high blood pressure and a blood pressure monitor. Heart attack? The DI says he happy that for now, it’s not suspicious. The removal of Paul’s body isn’t going to be down to a rota undertaker, we’re going to have to call out the underwater search unit. They’ll wear suits and breathing apparatus while they put – pour – Paul’s body into a body bag.
The DI and leave the flat, go down the stairs and into the car park. We take off our gloves and masks and dump then in a biohazard bag. We breathe in the fresh air in the car park. Neither of us speak. We still have the stench of decay on our skin, in our hair, on our clothes.
I drive us back to the nick, in silence, with all the windows down. I go and get changed into another suit and shirt from my locker. I make a brew, type up the report and get some lunch. When I go back to my locker at the end of the day, I can still smell that stench on my suit. I briefly consider binning it but chuck it in a bin bag to get dry cleaned.
I met Paul for the first time today. I won’t see Paul again, except in my mind’s eye. Paul is one of many people who still stalk my imagination. Not maliciously, they are just there.
I met Paul for the last time today.
Cheers for all the replies - and I do mean all. The ones possibly perceived as "negative" are a useful balance for me and help me stop all the introverted navel gazing/"woe is me" b
ks.
A couple (ok, several) points. "Paul" is a pseudonym. I didn't meet "Paul" yesterday, but it was only a few days ago. Everything else is as it was.
Why did I post? Not for PH cop-love, that's for sure! A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with PTSD. I had a tough time. I'd buried what had happened for too long and had properly damaged myself. Straight white bloke in his 40s, in the cops (still a macho, male oriented organisation). Catholic upbringing with older parents. Seeing death and trauma, repeatedly, and never dealing with it. Basically, a perfect storm for mental health meltdown! And I did meltdown. I attempted suicide.
Fortunately, I got help - or rather, my (now sadly, ex) wife forced me to go to my GP and more importantly, forced him to get me proper help, not just tablets. I was fortunate enough to be put in the care of the local mental health crisis team. They don't usually get a great press from the cops, but as a "service user" (God, I HATE that term!), they were utterly fantastic and pulled me back from the brink a few more times.
I was also treated by an utterly fantastic specialist mental health trauma team. I was initially pencilled in from the August until "New Year, ish". I ended up getting formally discharged the following November, so 15 months, not the predicted 4. Weekly sessions of EMDR that initially left me unable to walk down the stairs without the help of a nurse. Utterly draining, physically. Terrifying, mentally, having to relive, over and over, my futile attempts to save a drowned five year old. And I do mean relive, not just "think about". Feel his cold, wet skin. Smell the chlorine. Taste his stomach contents in my mouth as I tried CPR. The rising panic wondering just where the juddering fk the ambulance was. Hearing his Mum wail like a wounded animal. Over and over, until I'd managed to process it mentally and accept it wasn't my fault he'd died. Accept I'd done my best. And that sometimes, life IS st and sometimes doing your best just isn't enough.
As part of my treatment, I also wrote down what had happened. That was hard, but I found it cathartic. I'm better now at recognising when I'm struggling mentally. I know to ask for help. That doesn't make the prospect of being sectioned (put on a mental health ward) any more pleasant, and I've had that hanging over me two or three times, the last as recent as Christmas/New Year just gone. So now, if I find something weighing on me, I write it down. I have a folder on my computer with about 20 or so narratives. Some are just a couple of lines. Some are longer. All help me process stuff in my own head.
I've also become a bit of an evangelist within the cops for looking after our own mental health. We've not historically been that good at the touchy-feely side of things. Broken leg, cancer, all the physical stuff we do have covered. I k ow deliver short inputs about what happened to me to new recruits as part of a health and wellbeing day during their initial training. For them to be able to hear a "seasoned detective" tell how bad it can get if they don't take care of themselves and each other is an eye opener for them, but important.
So I thought I'd share Paul's story. It's not all dishing out tickets for 33 in a 30...
ks.A couple (ok, several) points. "Paul" is a pseudonym. I didn't meet "Paul" yesterday, but it was only a few days ago. Everything else is as it was.
Why did I post? Not for PH cop-love, that's for sure! A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with PTSD. I had a tough time. I'd buried what had happened for too long and had properly damaged myself. Straight white bloke in his 40s, in the cops (still a macho, male oriented organisation). Catholic upbringing with older parents. Seeing death and trauma, repeatedly, and never dealing with it. Basically, a perfect storm for mental health meltdown! And I did meltdown. I attempted suicide.
Fortunately, I got help - or rather, my (now sadly, ex) wife forced me to go to my GP and more importantly, forced him to get me proper help, not just tablets. I was fortunate enough to be put in the care of the local mental health crisis team. They don't usually get a great press from the cops, but as a "service user" (God, I HATE that term!), they were utterly fantastic and pulled me back from the brink a few more times.
I was also treated by an utterly fantastic specialist mental health trauma team. I was initially pencilled in from the August until "New Year, ish". I ended up getting formally discharged the following November, so 15 months, not the predicted 4. Weekly sessions of EMDR that initially left me unable to walk down the stairs without the help of a nurse. Utterly draining, physically. Terrifying, mentally, having to relive, over and over, my futile attempts to save a drowned five year old. And I do mean relive, not just "think about". Feel his cold, wet skin. Smell the chlorine. Taste his stomach contents in my mouth as I tried CPR. The rising panic wondering just where the juddering f
k the ambulance was. Hearing his Mum wail like a wounded animal. Over and over, until I'd managed to process it mentally and accept it wasn't my fault he'd died. Accept I'd done my best. And that sometimes, life IS st and sometimes doing your best just isn't enough.As part of my treatment, I also wrote down what had happened. That was hard, but I found it cathartic. I'm better now at recognising when I'm struggling mentally. I know to ask for help. That doesn't make the prospect of being sectioned (put on a mental health ward) any more pleasant, and I've had that hanging over me two or three times, the last as recent as Christmas/New Year just gone. So now, if I find something weighing on me, I write it down. I have a folder on my computer with about 20 or so narratives. Some are just a couple of lines. Some are longer. All help me process stuff in my own head.
I've also become a bit of an evangelist within the cops for looking after our own mental health. We've not historically been that good at the touchy-feely side of things. Broken leg, cancer, all the physical stuff we do have covered. I k ow deliver short inputs about what happened to me to new recruits as part of a health and wellbeing day during their initial training. For them to be able to hear a "seasoned detective" tell how bad it can get if they don't take care of themselves and each other is an eye opener for them, but important.
So I thought I'd share Paul's story. It's not all dishing out tickets for 33 in a 30...
Again, thanks for the continuing replies. Much appreciated. We all tend to forget "the person" who does "the job", whatever that is. We have contract cleaners at work, and to some of my colleagues, they're invisible. That really pisses me off. I always take a couple of seconds to say hello, please and thank you. Being a cleaner may not be the greatest job in the world, but they keep our workplace clean and tidy and they should be thanked for what they do. No, it's not brain surgery, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't acknowledge or thank them. In fact, I've had some fascinating chats with all sorts of "service sector" staff. People who've hitch hiked round the world, people who gave up high pressure jobs for happiness, people who've struggled with all sorts of addiction, battled through and got their lives back on track.
I'll try and answer some of the questions posed/points made... I've no idea how Underwater Searh Unit clean up a liquid body. I do know they get fully kitted up for the bad ones as though they were diving...at some point, they have to get hands on and pick up the body/bits of body. I've done it myself at suicides and RTAs. Pair of rubber gloves and the limb/face/bit of brain goes in the bag with the early of the body/bits. It's not pleasant, but you can normally have a level of detachment. I'm lucky that I've not got kids, so kid jobs don't tend to bother me so much. A bit of a sick twist that the job that tipped me over the edge was a child drowning. In my case, my psychologist was of the opinion that it wasn't necessarily that job, it was just that it was "my time" having had the who,e repressed Catholic upbringing/emergency service life. I could have gone to the drowning an hour later or an hour earlier and been ok, but I was at breaking point and would have broken at something.
I used to think wasn't bothered by the nasty stuff at work. I just wasn't mentally processing it and buried it away, so when my "trauma storage tank" was full, I exploded. Now, I'm much mor aware of how my own head works. I'm not afraid to talk about it or ask for help. More importantly for me, I've seen colleagues who are obviously struggling and I've had the confidence to get hold of them and help them get on the road to their own recovery. On one occasion, I had to report concerns to a supervisor. That was ignored, so I just kept going up the tree until someone listened. I've always been slightly Bolshy so that helps when dealing with officialdom and bureaucracy. Mental health provision in my force, for staff, is still woefully inadequate, as is access to counsellors. They are available, but the number of sessions is limited, which sometimes means the Genie gets let out of the bottle, but not then properly dealt with.
There are people that have worse/more difficult jobs than me. I couldn't manage to be a hospice nurse or a surgeon having to make life and death decisions. That said, anyone who's been in the Police for more than a couple of years will see things we shouldn't be expected to. People are capable of incredible cruelty to each other. Fortunately, they are also capable of incredible kindness.
I'll try and answer some of the questions posed/points made... I've no idea how Underwater Searh Unit clean up a liquid body. I do know they get fully kitted up for the bad ones as though they were diving...at some point, they have to get hands on and pick up the body/bits of body. I've done it myself at suicides and RTAs. Pair of rubber gloves and the limb/face/bit of brain goes in the bag with the early of the body/bits. It's not pleasant, but you can normally have a level of detachment. I'm lucky that I've not got kids, so kid jobs don't tend to bother me so much. A bit of a sick twist that the job that tipped me over the edge was a child drowning. In my case, my psychologist was of the opinion that it wasn't necessarily that job, it was just that it was "my time" having had the who,e repressed Catholic upbringing/emergency service life. I could have gone to the drowning an hour later or an hour earlier and been ok, but I was at breaking point and would have broken at something.
I used to think wasn't bothered by the nasty stuff at work. I just wasn't mentally processing it and buried it away, so when my "trauma storage tank" was full, I exploded. Now, I'm much mor aware of how my own head works. I'm not afraid to talk about it or ask for help. More importantly for me, I've seen colleagues who are obviously struggling and I've had the confidence to get hold of them and help them get on the road to their own recovery. On one occasion, I had to report concerns to a supervisor. That was ignored, so I just kept going up the tree until someone listened. I've always been slightly Bolshy so that helps when dealing with officialdom and bureaucracy. Mental health provision in my force, for staff, is still woefully inadequate, as is access to counsellors. They are available, but the number of sessions is limited, which sometimes means the Genie gets let out of the bottle, but not then properly dealt with.
There are people that have worse/more difficult jobs than me. I couldn't manage to be a hospice nurse or a surgeon having to make life and death decisions. That said, anyone who's been in the Police for more than a couple of years will see things we shouldn't be expected to. People are capable of incredible cruelty to each other. Fortunately, they are also capable of incredible kindness.
julianc said:
Dibs,
I've read your posts for years, and they've always been out of the ordinary and thought-provoking. I've thanked you before for sharing many of your experiences, as the vast majority of us don't know jack st about some of the difficult and dreadful things you guys need to do.
Again, many thanks for doing what you do and for sharing this. I'd like to buy you a pint sometime, I think we're in the same area.
I'm guessing your profile pic is near the sand dunes at St Anne's/Pontins, or the coast road at Formby/Southport?I've read your posts for years, and they've always been out of the ordinary and thought-provoking. I've thanked you before for sharing many of your experiences, as the vast majority of us don't know jack s
t about some of the difficult and dreadful things you guys need to do.Again, many thanks for doing what you do and for sharing this. I'd like to buy you a pint sometime, I think we're in the same area.
carinaman said:
Dibble said:
I drive us back to the nick, in silence, with all the windows down. I go and get changed into another suit and shirt from my locker. I make a brew, type up the report and get some lunch. When I go back to my locker at the end of the day, I can still smell that stench on my suit. I briefly consider binning it but chuck it in a bin bag to get dry cleaned.
Is there a shower at your police station?Failing that could you have nipped home for a shower and come back in?
Would nipping home and washing the stench away help draw a line, and make for a more productive rest of the shift?
Probably, at a push. I live within 15-20 minutes' drive of the nick, so not impossible, but that's 2 x 20 minute journeys and 20 minutes to shower/change. Colleagues who live further away would really struggle.
I've never travelled to/from work in uniform (be that actual uniform or a suit). I have a locker at work and I normally run in a couple of weeks' worth of shirts on a Rest Day evening. I keep my "work" suits/shirts/ties/shoes solely for work.
Having a shower might help, but it's one's head that really needs "cleansing", be that by a shout in the locker room, a brew, five minutes in an empty office, a fag outside. Previously, before I was ill, I'd have just pressed on. Now, I make sure I take the time to see where I'm at, mentally. Jobs that bother me, I talk about. To friends, colleagues, line manager, whoever.
ED209 said:
Why are detectives going to a routine sudden death?
In my force that situation would have just being dealt with by uniform response cops. and the marine unit wouldn't attend.
I have experienced similar a good few times, Its not nice having to tell a family they can't see a relatives body because if the awful state its in.
The officers on scene were fairly inexperienced and were unsure whether it was sus or not. Our force policy is that any unexplained death needs to be reviewed by the duty DI, even if that's only reviewing the CAD log. DIs HAVE to attend all suicides, and we seem to have some teams with very young/young in service cops who are terrified of making a decision so will push the ball up the hill (we have some utterly brilliant response cops and terrible DCs, too, don't worry!).In my force that situation would have just being dealt with by uniform response cops. and the marine unit wouldn't attend.
I have experienced similar a good few times, Its not nice having to tell a family they can't see a relatives body because if the awful state its in.
Unfortunately, the guy literally was "soup". I moved his arm and the rotten flesh came away from the bone. Grim. Again, policy is that USU will recover decomposed bodies, as well as those from confined/hazardous locations.
kwaka jack said:
julianc said:
That's why my wife and I are joint governors of the RNLI - what you guys do as volunteers in one of the most dangerous environments there is never ceases to amaze me.
Thank youAyahuasca said:
TOV!E said:
mph1977 said:
so you'd rather be blissful in the ignorance of what the police, Ambulance ( and other health service) personnel see and smell every day ...
No one forces them to do it, they do it because they want to, bullied at school syndrom Cops will always get stuff wrong on occasion. That's the risk when human beings are involved in any process.
dingg said:
^^^
its ONLY a job - get over it.
if you don't want to do it
DO SOMETHING ELSE - someone WILL step into your place.
It will be "only" a job the day cops stop caring about the people we deal with. The ones who fall through the ever widening cracks in "the system". The ones we buy food, clothing and gas/electricity top ups for from our own pockets. The mental health patients we talk down from bridges, then sit with for hours at hospital until they can get assessed. The next of kin from fatal RTAs and murders the FLOs spend hours, weeks, months with, through the investigation, trial and beyond. its ONLY a job - get over it.
if you don't want to do it
DO SOMETHING ELSE - someone WILL step into your place.
It's difficult to "get over it" when you give CPR to a drowned child and get a mouthful of his stomach contents, then have to stay in the same wet clothes for the next twelve hours, still with that taste in your mouth and only a few hours later attend a fatal RTA where the victim's head has been crushed like a boiled egg with a spoon.
Or would you rather policing was done by minimum wage G4S drones who have the right to strike and can't be forced to work longer than their contracted hours?
Without multi quoting DoubleSix and some other replies, I'd have to agree with him on the surgeons/nurses thing. I remember seeing a BBC (I think) documentary a year or two ago about surgeons working with children and babies. Truly humbling and their successes and failures obviously had a profound effect on them. The failures probably more so, I guess.
I don't regard myself as a hero, although I've done some vaguely heroic stuff in my service. I've saved lives. I've protected people by putting myself in between them and their attacker. I've worked ridiculous hours to get some frankly bad people charged and put in prison. I've seen/sifted way too much child porn.
Yes, it's a job I chose. I didn't realise 20 years ago how much it would affect me though. Naïveté on my part? Probably. But for someone who hasn't experienced it to say "It's just a job" is either trolling or extremely naive. Any experience affects us. It's human nature. Unpleasant experiences can have a greater negative effect.
The other line that is frequently trotted out on here is "No one made you join the Police. It's loads worse being a soldier in Afghanistan". Undoubtedly so. But no one forced those soldiers to join up either. Or is that "Just a job" too? And, as it happens, I've also served in the Royal Navy on active service as well.
I don't regard myself as a hero, although I've done some vaguely heroic stuff in my service. I've saved lives. I've protected people by putting myself in between them and their attacker. I've worked ridiculous hours to get some frankly bad people charged and put in prison. I've seen/sifted way too much child porn.
Yes, it's a job I chose. I didn't realise 20 years ago how much it would affect me though. Naïveté on my part? Probably. But for someone who hasn't experienced it to say "It's just a job" is either trolling or extremely naive. Any experience affects us. It's human nature. Unpleasant experiences can have a greater negative effect.
The other line that is frequently trotted out on here is "No one made you join the Police. It's loads worse being a soldier in Afghanistan". Undoubtedly so. But no one forced those soldiers to join up either. Or is that "Just a job" too? And, as it happens, I've also served in the Royal Navy on active service as well.
DoubleSix said:
Agree we do. And I have no objection to the OPs post.
I merely deigned to suggest those who found it eye-opening would do well to consider others in general as it shouldn't really come as a surprise to anyone that people die alone, that it's unpleasant, and that someone has to tidy it up. Tip of the iceberg really.
This is S, P & L, and due to my line of work, I thought some people may find the account interesting. It's probably not the kind of thing most people will see/experience. The UK population is about 64 million. There's about 120,000 police. I've no idea of the size of the armed services these days, or the other emergency services, NHS, voluntary sectors like RNLI or MRT, but even at a guesstimated ~1 million, that's still a vast majority who won't see the underbelly. I thought some might find it interesting and of course, I expected some less favourable/negative posts. People are of course entitled to an opinion.I merely deigned to suggest those who found it eye-opening would do well to consider others in general as it shouldn't really come as a surprise to anyone that people die alone, that it's unpleasant, and that someone has to tidy it up. Tip of the iceberg really.
I can't really comment on a surgeon's/firefighter's/nurse's/social worker's/soldier's day though. I can only talk from my own experience. I do realise the Police don't have a monopoly on crappy jobs, but as I say, I can only talk about what I know.
Thanks Red 4.
It was a little bit of venting (in as much that I've found writing it down helps me process it). I also thought some people on SP&L may find it interesting, while realising that others wouldn't.
As for "my" PTSD, I'm ok. I know the inside of me own head better than I've ever known it before. I know the danger signs. I've had some tough times - indeed, still have some ongoing stress (house sale) - but at the moment, I'm ok. I don't for a moment think I'm permanently "cured", certainly not while I'm still in the cops. But I think I'm I a much better place to recognise the fake ups and to deal with it.
Previously, I'd have been a lot more bothered by some of the negative comments on here. Now, I really don't care anywhere near as much. Different people have different opinions. I might make some people think, but there will always be some who will do the equivalent of fingers in their ears, going "La la la la, can't hear you". Meh. Their problem, not mine.
Thanks again. Much appreciated.
It was a little bit of venting (in as much that I've found writing it down helps me process it). I also thought some people on SP&L may find it interesting, while realising that others wouldn't.
As for "my" PTSD, I'm ok. I know the inside of me own head better than I've ever known it before. I know the danger signs. I've had some tough times - indeed, still have some ongoing stress (house sale) - but at the moment, I'm ok. I don't for a moment think I'm permanently "cured", certainly not while I'm still in the cops. But I think I'm I a much better place to recognise the fake ups and to deal with it.
Previously, I'd have been a lot more bothered by some of the negative comments on here. Now, I really don't care anywhere near as much. Different people have different opinions. I might make some people think, but there will always be some who will do the equivalent of fingers in their ears, going "La la la la, can't hear you". Meh. Their problem, not mine.
Thanks again. Much appreciated.
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