At three years old he already knew what he wanted to be: a police officer. 

He wanted to help people, protect the most vulnerable; and so, he did. He regrets nothing, even though it cost him almost everything.

B. (whose name is being withheld for confidentiality reasons) is a former municipal police service officer, living in Airdrie. His career on the force spans decades and so does the trauma which manifests itself as Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (complex PTSD).

"I made a choice very early on in my career to keep my emotions. It sounds funny, but I still remember the day that I felt I had to choose whether or not to shut them off forever or keep them open forever; so, I kept them open," he said. "It was an open floodgate, and every trauma was more water."

First responders by the nature of their jobs are exposed to violence and brutality; a veritable cornucopia of witnessing human tragedy and the darkest parts of human nature and it takes a toll. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, it is estimated that upwards of 35 per cent of police officers suffer from PTSD.

"I had no idea what effect [trauma and violence] would have on me, like most people, I would assume," B. said. "I was still in training the first time I was exposed to it; the first time I watched somebody die. There'd be certain days, where two or three times a day, I'd see dead bodies. It just never stopped."

As his career continued, the traumatic events he witnessed as a police officer would prompt him to seek out mental health resources, frequenting psychologists and psychiatrists. He would go to cognitive therapy and use prescribed medication. But even with an arsenal of mental health help, B. continued to struggle.

"After six years of therapy, I was feeling okay. I was kind of used to it at that point. I was used to not sleeping very well, I was used to the nightmares, the irritability," he said.

It wasn't until his partner sought out an equine therapy program that he had a startling revelation about just how deep the trauma ran.

"I was at that program, and I remember another member stating how the first time [they] tried to commit suicide, they attempted it three times," he said. " I remember thinking, 'Try? when I do it, there's not going to be a try.' That was the first time I knew I was in trouble."

After recounting this to his therapy coordinator, it was settled that B. would be set up with a new psychologist, but events did not go as planned, even though he was in dire need to make his appointment. Schedules were misaligned, his partner leaving on a trip, and 72 hours without restful sleep led B. to a place of almost no return.

"I just went to work, because that's what we did," B. said. "I was standing at my locker. I was the only one there. I remember loading my gun and it was halfway into the holster and then I took my arm back and I stared at it. I was just so tired and was mentally in pain all the time. I had no control over my body at this point."

In those moments B. said nothing was going through his mind other than a desperate desire for sleep. He believes he may have entered a dissociative state. It was the sound of the door opening behind him and a colleague walking in that would stop him from going further. 

"It snapped me out of this haze, and I quickly holstered my gun and just started my day and worked the whole day liked nothing had happened."

That same day he would go see his new psychologist and admit he was suicidal.

"She asked me 'do we need to take your gun away?' and I said 'yes,'," he said. "That was the start of my real recovery because, after six years of bouncing around from psychiatrists and psychologists, I finally found one that worked for me, and she saved my life."

B.'s journey is long from over and he continues to live with complex PTSD daily. Mundane tasks like going grocery shopping can be excruciating; something as innocuous as a plate accidentally thudding against the kitchen counter will make him wince. Even beloved hobbies such as hopping on his motorcycle during the summer are almost dauntingly impossible. 

"I laugh out loud because of how it sounds, but you go from this authority figure - kicking in doors; you're running in when people are running out and now, I'm afraid to go to the grocery store," B. said. "But when it's inside your brain, and nobody can see it, and you yourself can't see it; it's terrifying. It's terrifying to ask for help because you don't know what that means for your career. It's terrifying to ask for help on your own because you know, you're going have to relive these things over and over again."

When asked if he has moments of happiness or contentment, B. said one victory is the interview at hand.

"If I can help one person that's carrying around guilt [because a loved one committed suicide], it's something they had nothing to do with," he said. "With my experience with the near suicide; it didn't matter what people were saying. I was just tired. My people didn't even go through my mind [that day]. There was literally a picture of my kid on the inside of my locker door. It didn't even occur to me. I just wanted to sleep and then that's where it took me."

He said that it should never be the role of a spouse, partner, child, or friend to try a fix a person in a mental health crisis; that job falls squarely on the individual.

"That's what makes it so hard because you've got all these supports, but you're alone at the same time and if you don't alienate yourself, everybody else is going to do it for you. It's just because they don't know what to say," he said. "That's then that's when you use all the tools that you learned in therapy stuff and your supports. Just reach out. I called the distress line and that takes a lot of gut. It wasn't because I was suicidal or anything. I just literally needed to talk to somebody"

Although he will never likely return to active duty, B. believes the work he is doing now is even more gruelling. 

"I was always a hard worker; I always did my job well. That's why I'm like this. I wasn't afraid of those calls. In the last few years [that] I've been off, I've worked harder than I ever have in uniform because I'm working on me and not working on other people. It's not as easy when you're working on yourself, it's like climbing a slippery wall that's 10 storeys high."

Recounting that early morning in the locker room, B. knows the memories of what he experienced will never leave him, but his will to recover also is impenetrable. 

"It's not me to give up anymore. It was one day when I was not in control," he said. "I feel it's nothing to be ashamed of. I've earned every one of these scars and I'd do it all again because that's why I did that job; it was to help people. I just didn't know how deep the cuts would be."

Though his badge is weathered and adorned with scratches and blemishes, it holds a potent reminder: behind the symbols and insignia lies a human being who gave it his all to help others; and though the scars may take many years to heal and memories will stay engrained in him; his acknowledgement of those very scars, of the pain and the struggle to continue, is what may help someone else; someone who is standing in their own proverbial locker room and wanting it to be over. 

If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis reach out to:

Information provided by Discover Airdrie