Chris wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close. Over and over he told me how much he’d missed me while he was gone. Trouble was, this wasn’t some tearful reunion after a long deployment. He’d been right next to me having a flashback.
It starts with a trigger. Thunder, a car door slamming, a jackhammer. Chris’ eyes go distant and he “fades” as we have come to know it. If I’m lucky and recognize it, this is the easiest point to snatch him back.
Flashbacks are like being dropped back into the war zone.
It’s hard for Chris to talk about his PTSD; he’s embarrassed. When I first began writing about this journey, I didn’t write his name. I didn’t allow a picture of myself on this site because Chris feared people would know.
“Know what? That you have PTSD? That you went through some unbelievably traumatic events which left your brain scarred? That you’re human and war affected you?”
They’ll know I’m crazy.
How I hate that word now. Crazy.
Sometimes, I know this reality, this life, exists and I need to get back to it, but other times, I’m back in the war and I’m just doing my job.
Chris doesn’t always remember his flashbacks. Most of the time he wakes up with no knowledge of what has happened. Worse yet, large chunks of the previous days are missing. Usually only one, but sometimes three or four depending on the severity of the flashback. When Chris lived alone, he would lose days. We have since come to the conclusion he’s suffered from regular flashbacks for the better part of five years.
I would think how can it be Thursday, what the hell happened to Tuesday and Wednesday?
Sometimes, months pass for Chris while I’m looking at him in a semi conscious state on this side. For me, and though it feels like an eternity, only moments pass. His flashbacks can last from five minutes to a couple of hours with him “fading” in and out. Those are the worst, the long ones. They are the flashbacks that cause me to worry.
My worry is born from his fear that this life is not real and the flashbacks are truth. I hate when he talks like this, I worry for his health because I know the mind is a brilliant work of pure art and sometimes, pure fiction.
Not too long ago, during a flashback he clutched his chest and curled in pain. He said he wanted to die over and over. Said he'd lost his men. They'd all died. They were all gone.
Let me die.
I went with it. Told him we had his men, they were all being evaced. That he was next and a doc would see him right away.
“You're going to be ok, Sergeant,” I said to him, holding his hand.
It took a long time, a very long time to wake him from this aspect of his flashback. We went round and round, him fading in and out of consciousness. Where are my men, I'm hit, tell my mother I love her, let me die.
Then he stopped breathing. I waited, counting. I got to ten and leaned over him to listen closer. I was sure his mind had gotten the best of him and had convinced him he was hit. I didn't know what to do other than beg him not to go.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
And he gasped for air. I jumped. He gasped again. I saw it as my chance to grab him back. “Chris wake up.” I shook him, patted his face, and finally I yelled at him. “Chris WAKE UP.” He jumped. But he was not here. He was still in Iraq.
Recently, while reading a political forum I frequent, I came across a post talking about a woman who’d been kidnapped and kept for 18 years. The poster spoke of how she would be fine if she just got past it. I was taken back once again by the callous nature of the general public. Their insensitivity is due to being uniformed or worse, ill informed.
Getting past is a phrase I have stopped using because I have started to view this as a mountain, ever changing and always challenging. We do not however simply, get past or go around our mountain. We climb it. We scale it.
We conquer it.
At the top, is understanding. Once there, the terrain can be viewed from an educated standpoint. Still dangerous, climbers can descend the mountain a little safer, but not completely so. Mountains are not constants as anyone who has climbed one knows. They can change in the blink of an eye and force your path to shift. Being ready is the key.
Chris’ flashbacks have become less and less frequent. Triggers can be avoided at times, subtle changes in stance, expression, mood can be noted giving a loved one the chance to stop the waking nightmare. Through careful observation, information can be gleaned and used to help a PTSD sufferer cope with their flashbacks while they climb.
This is our mountain. And our ability to climb it depends on information.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Through the Eyes of a Warrior
Several years ago, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. This was not one horrific moment in time which left me in the hospital but a cumulative injury I acquired over the course of my career in a mixed martial arts gym.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Like He Never Existed
Several years ago, I suffered a traumatic brain injury. This was not one horrific moment in time which left me in the hospital but a cumulative injury I acquired over the course of my career in a mixed martial arts gym.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
Though the changes in my personality were subtle at first, over time they culminated in a defining moment where I was left without the ability to feel an emotional tie to my family, my children. This was frightening for all involved and eventually it forced me into seeing a doctor.
This doctor said something to me I will never forget.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
Mourn was a freeing word for me. It let me know it was okay that I was different now, and it was okay that I was not going to be able to retrieve the person I once was no matter how desperately I wanted to.
I was different. I am different. In essence part of me died and that doctor gave me permission to mourn her loss and start to let her go. In letting go, I found the strength to rebuild this new person. And to rebuild my life and my relationships.
When I met Chris, he spoke at length of the person he used to be, before Iraq. We would talk into the wee hours of the morning wrapped in blankets on our tiny porch, him smoking cigarette after cigarette, me wishing he would quit. I listened to every word intently. Eventually, I asked him a question.
Did you mourn the loss of that part of yourself?
He hadn’t, but he looked at me with gratitude on his face. See, I’ve never wanted for the man he used to be because I only know the man he is. This is the man I fell in love with, so I will never know the grief felt by those who sent their soldier and got different person back.
But, did you mourn the loss of who he was? Did he?
When Chris moved out to California to be with me, he moved away from all the people who wanted the old Chris back. The old gang who criticized this new man, shook their heads and walked away wishing he were the same as before. But the impossibility of that is devastating to a person changed by war. They will never be the same.
As humans, we are the sum total of our experiences. Soldiers are no different. They are human but their experiences are unique in terms of seeing things most will never see. The changes are more apparent to loved ones due to the lengthy separation.
He’s so different.
I know he is. He knows he is, but he thinks it’s the world that’s changed. Even if he doesn’t suffer from PTSD, his perspective on what’s important is different. His view is now a view through the eyes of a warrior and will always be.
Mourn the loss of the person sent. Recognize it’s okay to cry and be angry. Then look at this new person and resolve to do what it takes to help him or her find a way to accept themselves again.
He has changed and now so must you. Adapt and overcome.
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