In 2021, Jonathan Williams walked out of his RCMP precinct, ready to explode.

On the outside, the Constable from the Armstrong detachment seemed to have his life together, but in the inside, he was ready to capitulate from years of PTSD as a police officer.

He didn鈥檛 know it at the time, but just two years later, Williams鈥� rekindling of a love for music would save himself. And as the now 49-year-old gets set for his first live show on Friday, March 17 at the Longhorn Pub, the long and winding road back to a musician life was something he never could have fathomed happening just a couple of years ago.

Growing up, Williams鈥� life was music. In his early teen years, he was captivated by old school rock and roll artists and began performing in bars around Victoria at just 16.

Eventually, he grew his musical talent from electric guitar, to vocal work, as his bands began to pick up steam in and around Vancouver Island.

鈥淲e became a house band for a couple of local spots, then opened up for Kim Mitchell, Colin James, Trooper and Dr. Hook,鈥� Williams told the Vernon Morning Star.

Williams threw himself head first into the music scene, remarking that he couldn鈥檛 get busy enough.

Then, he met his wife, who at the time, wanted the rock and roll lifestyle as much as him.

鈥淪he wanted to sing and I thought well, she鈥檚 prettier than I am. So yeah, let鈥檚 get her to sing. So, we formed a band called Iris.鈥�

The fervidity of the music scene continued into the early 2000鈥檚, as the duo began recording in studio with Vince Ditrich, the drummer and manager of Spirit of the West.

But, as quickly as the musical life seemed to begin, it stopped in 2008 when his wife told him, 鈥淚鈥檓 done.鈥�

鈥淚 was stunned, this was the dream and we were getting ready to be (signed) with Sony Records, but she wanted a family so I had to put the dream on hold.鈥�

鈥淚 had spent my entire life (since I was 16) in music, so it was tough the first couple of years to just completely stop that.鈥�

The hard break of the musician life led Williams to become a police officer, mainly as a means of supporting his growing family.

Williams, his two kids and wife, then began more than a decade of traversing the province at different RCMP precincts. First Burnaby, then Powell River and the tiny Alexis Creek.

鈥淚 didn鈥檛 know it at the time, but my work as a police officer needed to be as tactful, meaningful and exciting as what I let go.鈥�

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As his RCMP career continued to Armstrong in 2017, the emotional and mental toll of policing began to slowly seep into Wiliams鈥� veins.

鈥淭he tsunami of stress was looming. I didn鈥檛 realize it then but it was just a collection of years of stress and dealing with stuff where my normal became different. The amount of focus that you need when you are working is this hyper vigilance to just stay alive and so that鈥檚 how I began to see the world.鈥�

The stacking of anxiety and trauma bubbled over in 2021, when he took a brief mental health leave. But, upon returning, the wave of PTSD began to engulf him. To add on, his was going through issues in his family, which Williams remarked was 鈥渢he only thing I had really going for me.鈥�

That was when everything fell apart.

鈥淚 would be working, be given a file and I would take off and do it, but I could feel inside me that I was going to throw up and that I was going to burst out crying. I couldn鈥檛 control it anymore.鈥�

Williams recalled leaving his workplace early, driving his police car to a secluded culdesac, sliding his chair down and just letting all the tears flow.

鈥淭his is terrible, I can鈥檛 be like this,鈥� Williams said. 鈥淚 am in a police car and I am uncontrollably sobbing. This was when I realized I needed to get help.鈥�

At therapy, Williams was asked what hobbies brought him joy. Still in a haze of dark thoughts, he remarked that nothing did.

鈥淭he therapist then asked, what did I enjoy doing as a kid, and so I said that I did play music.鈥�

So, after encouragement from the therapist, he picked back up the guitar.

鈥淚t was like 鈥榖oom!鈥� It was amazing how something unlocked. I had completely shut down inside as there was too much pain. Playing music was a glimmer of light.鈥�

Now on a medical leave from his policing work, Williams then began to turn back to music.

鈥淚t was the outlet where I could actually talk safely.鈥�

After writing and releasing the song: One Of Those Days, Williams was encouraged to share the messages of his music.

鈥淔riends told me that I needed to share that with people, because I am not the only one that is dealing with stuff.鈥�

Slowly, through music, Williams is beginning to feel like himself again, and is throwing himself into writing and producing songs.

鈥淚 realized that I was serving and doing stuff for everybody else all these years,鈥� he remarked. 鈥淣ow, I found myself and who I am.

鈥淚 have been on quite the journey, I went to a five week therapeutic program in Ohio last year, for people that are dealing with PTSD and depression. That was helpful. It peeled off a couple of the layers of protectiveness.鈥�

Now, Williams鈥� schedule is chock-full of shows, as he joined up with the band NFA, who was in need of a guitar player.

鈥淭hey gave me a list of all of the shows that they had and I couldn鈥檛 believe it. At least 15 gigs this year.鈥�

Williams鈥� first show with NFA will be St. Patrick鈥檚 Day, the first time in more than a decade that he will be performing again for a live audience.

But, Williams is now, finally, comfortable with himself, and can鈥檛 wait to rock out.

鈥淚f I didn鈥檛 hold steady and get the help that I needed, I wouldn鈥檛 be on this other side.鈥�

You can follow Williams on and .

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bowen.assman@vernonmorningstar.com
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