How I Healed My PTSD

 

On May 30, 1972, at Greater Southwest Airport, I watch a devastating aircraft crash of a DC-9.

This is a 13-minute “Deep Dive” audio that is worth your time:

 

The day before, I had spent more than three hours flying with the three pilots involved – an experience shaped by my work as an air traffic controller and private pilot. The instructor pilot even let me fly the DC‑9 and mentioned that the other two pilots were fully prepared for their FAA captain’s certification scheduled for the next day. Post-flight, I arranged to have dinner with the instructor  pilot and our spouses the next evening.

The next morning, around 6:30 a.m., driving to work, I looked up and saw their airplane in the sky. An American Airlines DC-10 was up there too. Routine traffic. Another day in the system.

I went into the radar room and saw one of the hardest to get along controllers in the facility working that radar position. I asked if I could take it – I wanted to work my friend’s flight.

He refused. Flatly.

So I opened another radar position.

About fifteen minutes later, the loudspeaker exploded with screaming.

The only controller in the tower was yelling.

I ran outside.

And I saw it – the DC-9 – my new friend’s airplane – on fire tumbling down the runway on its wings- then exploding into a gigantic fireball.

They had gotten into the wake turbulence behind the American Airlines DC-10 and had loss control of their aircraft.

All three Delta pilots, along with the FAA check pilot, were killed in the crash.

Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been sitting in that cockpit.

The Part That Did The Psychological Damage

The crash was traumatic.

But what followed is what wired itself into me.

I felt responsible.

I kept thinking:

I wouldn’t have spaced those two jets the way the other controller did.

My mind went into a relentless loop:

If only I had been more forceful.

If only I had insisted.

If only I had pushed harder instead of backing off.

In my head, I could see a different version of that morning. I’m on the scope. One spacing decision changes. My friend taxis to the gate. Everyone goes home and we eat supper that night.

That “alternate timeline” ran in my nervous system for years along with the “flashbacks”.

This is something most people don’t understand about trauma in high-responsibility professions. The injury isn’t just fear.

It’s moral weight.

It’s the belief that your action – or lack of action – mattered.

The Intervening Years

The aftermath of this event haunted me for over a decade with PTSD. Despite my extensive education in psychology, nothing seemed to alleviate the symptoms. I sought help from five different therapists, but one particular approach, “Flooding Therapy,” (having me relive the crash) inadvertently intensified my flashbacks. Today, “flooding” is known as Prolonged Exposure Therapy (PE).