New Years is on the way and in this house resolutions are a little different. Yes, I’d like to lose a couple of pounds and get back in shape and finish all the projects I’ve started and and and… but let’s face facts those all fall way behind what many of us dealing with PTSD and the aftermath of war, whether it be our own or a loved one’s, will resolve to do this year.
Here’s my short list.
This year I will breathe and watch him leave the house alone without turning blue with worry. I will not make the face that says please wait for me so I can come and make sure you come home alright.
I will speak up and not swallow my emotions for fear they will tip off a bad day because every time I swallow them, he knows anyway. I will approach gently like a breeze in the night, but I’ll say what needs to be said as I have learned I’m not doing either of us favors by being a silent martyr.
I will, once again, try to get him back to the doctor for help because I am not a doctor and I am not a therapist. As much as I know about PTSD, there is three fold more that I don’t know. We will seek help and we will do it together.
I will not punish myself for getting mad at him. He’s a pain sometimes and I’m allowed to feel that way. He makes me crazy sometimes because he’s human.
I will try to stop thinking about being alone in this house sooner than I should. Though I know this thing, this monster, can shorten his life worrying does nothing. We must be active in making sure we are living as healthy as we can and forget all the rest that we cannot control. Life comes with no guarantees.
I will also try to stop worrying about him taking his life when I have to leave the house without him. Bad days are normal and they don’t mean he’s standing on the edge. I will watch and be aware, but I will not give myself an ulcer by entertaining my own dark fears.
And lastly, I will try to make this year better than the last but I will understand I cannot make his life stress free. No one gets that luxury. He will have lousy days, sleepless nights, and anxiety. I will shed some tears and get mad over things that aren’t really that important. We will have ups and downs, but the coming year will bring us a lion’s share of happiness because we made it through this year, scathed and tired, alive and together. We are happy and hanging on.
I wish you all a new year filled with accomplishments, big or small. And I hope for all to be able to see these steps and not fall into despair when things seem bleak. We scale a flight of stairs the same be there a hundred or a thousand. One step, one moment, one move forward. Happy New Year.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
Oh No, Not the Holidays
The holidays are difficult. Living up to the expectations and obligations is a challenge no matter who you are. Gifts, parties, family, traffic, holiday shopping, planning, etc, it’s a weight even the most organized and healthy of individual finds hard to cope with.
Imagine having just come home from the war and being expected to jump right back into the hustle and bustle of a soldier’s civilian side of life. I know what you’re thinking. They’ve been in a battle zone, a Christmas party with friends and family should be nothing for them.
Have you ever heard the pop of a Champaign cork? They may register it as the pop of a weapon and take cover in front of a crowd of shocked onlookers. I’ve seen it happen and I’ve seen the absolute look of embarrassed bewilderment on his face when he realizes where he is and what he’s done.
“Aside from the fact we don’t want to be around anyone because we associate bad things happening when we’re around,” my husband said after I read him the previous paragraphs. Then he shrugged. He hates the holidays. They bring stress to an already stressed man.
There are a lot of soldiers coming home right now. They’re looking forward to something they’ve been away from for a long time and many families have built expectations that everything will be perfect and fall right back into place. It won’t be perfect. Things will go wrong and how loved ones react will make a world of difference to their returning warrior.
When he or she comes through that door remember to ease in to exposure to crowds and noise. Don’t think for a second that everything will necessarily be the same as it was before, even if you’ve already danced this deployment dance several times.
Good luck to all in having a stress free and happy holiday. And remember, people who are important will choose to understand if your plans cannot include them and people who won’t understand just aren’t important.
Imagine having just come home from the war and being expected to jump right back into the hustle and bustle of a soldier’s civilian side of life. I know what you’re thinking. They’ve been in a battle zone, a Christmas party with friends and family should be nothing for them.
Have you ever heard the pop of a Champaign cork? They may register it as the pop of a weapon and take cover in front of a crowd of shocked onlookers. I’ve seen it happen and I’ve seen the absolute look of embarrassed bewilderment on his face when he realizes where he is and what he’s done.
“Aside from the fact we don’t want to be around anyone because we associate bad things happening when we’re around,” my husband said after I read him the previous paragraphs. Then he shrugged. He hates the holidays. They bring stress to an already stressed man.
There are a lot of soldiers coming home right now. They’re looking forward to something they’ve been away from for a long time and many families have built expectations that everything will be perfect and fall right back into place. It won’t be perfect. Things will go wrong and how loved ones react will make a world of difference to their returning warrior.
When he or she comes through that door remember to ease in to exposure to crowds and noise. Don’t think for a second that everything will necessarily be the same as it was before, even if you’ve already danced this deployment dance several times.
Good luck to all in having a stress free and happy holiday. And remember, people who are important will choose to understand if your plans cannot include them and people who won’t understand just aren’t important.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
I Lost My 'S'
I’m sitting here this morning with scattered thoughts. Thanksgiving has just passed and the street is already alive with Christmas at night. It’s beautiful. But I’m unable to really focus on anything other than cooking. Silliness but it’s my way of coping.
As I try and form some coherent thoughts about Chris and I and dealing with PTSD my mind goes to the hospital where my Father-in-law has been for the past three weeks. Three weeks of needles and meds and machines and the doctors have asked for a decision. I already know what the choice is, what it has to be, but even with the prognosis it’s not any easier for anyone involved. Especially Chris.
His depression is palatable in the house and none of my old cures have helped. This is hard to accept for me. In our years together everything has revolved around PTSD and dealing with it. We’ve not had a major family crisis like this ever and suddenly I’m floundering around in strange waters.
I’m afraid. I know the stages of grief are difficult and can cause PTSD themselves. So what does that mean? I’m at a loss here but hoping I can find something meaningful out of this to help others. So far I don’t think there is anything different than what I would have done had Chris not had PTSD.
Our wedding anniversary is in two days. Two years married. In those two years I’d focused on creating our cocoon. I’d become absolutely confident in my actions, secure I’d done my research and knew what was best when it came to helping Chris live a normal life. Now I’m questioning every move I make. I’m just not prepared for this. I've lost my ability to save the day.
They’ll be coming to revoke my superhero status next week.
As I try and form some coherent thoughts about Chris and I and dealing with PTSD my mind goes to the hospital where my Father-in-law has been for the past three weeks. Three weeks of needles and meds and machines and the doctors have asked for a decision. I already know what the choice is, what it has to be, but even with the prognosis it’s not any easier for anyone involved. Especially Chris.
His depression is palatable in the house and none of my old cures have helped. This is hard to accept for me. In our years together everything has revolved around PTSD and dealing with it. We’ve not had a major family crisis like this ever and suddenly I’m floundering around in strange waters.
I’m afraid. I know the stages of grief are difficult and can cause PTSD themselves. So what does that mean? I’m at a loss here but hoping I can find something meaningful out of this to help others. So far I don’t think there is anything different than what I would have done had Chris not had PTSD.
Our wedding anniversary is in two days. Two years married. In those two years I’d focused on creating our cocoon. I’d become absolutely confident in my actions, secure I’d done my research and knew what was best when it came to helping Chris live a normal life. Now I’m questioning every move I make. I’m just not prepared for this. I've lost my ability to save the day.
They’ll be coming to revoke my superhero status next week.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Unseen Soldiers
Another from my husband. He's battles hallucinations for the past several years. It's become an unnerving reminder of those days back in the sand.
"I see dead people". Yeah, kind of cheesy I know. But it's true. I say dead because rationally, I know they are images from the past. However, it takes me a while to finally rationalize this. They tell me it’s a direct result of my TBI but it’s still hard to comprehend. And, no, I don't have ghosts rattling chains at the foot of my bed or slamming doors or any of that other paranormal mumbo-jumbo. I have worse. That unsettling corner of my eye bullshit that makes me have to set down. These apparitions aren't shadowy figures beeboppin' around. Well, sometimes they are but they are mostly soldiers, fully clad in their battle rattle and just right there in the corner of my eye. I can see them but cant look at them. I can sometimes hear them and every once in a while I can smell them. You smell that? Yeah, that's "Army Strong".
These fuckers either sneak up on me without me seeing them and are just there -OR- I catch them walking out from behind the car or around a corner. Again, I can see them; I just can't look at them. In other words they live only in my peripheral. Sometimes there is just a single soldier, sometimes a whole squad. At times I get pissed off enough to yell, "fuck off" out loud. But, and this is a BIG but, I don't encourage this openly verbal behavior within myself and you can damn bet I'm NOT going to be telling the head shrinkers about this. It's bad enough that they've already tagged me with an ever increasingly embarrassing acronym let alone them telling me I'm all schizophrenic and shit. I've got enough to think about and the initial diagnosis was hard enough to swallow.
Sometimes I suspect that all this may be a leftover from being hyper-vigilant for so long because they aren't ALL soldiers. I see his and her Hajis and kids. Those goddamned kids. So, you can imagine my reaction one day when the Hispanic neighbor's toddler son quietly walked up on me while I was out in the driveway, wrenching on my car. Yeah, that was a shitty day... Probably for us both.
And then there are the sounds...
There are occasions where I see nothing but hear all the sounds associated with combat. I hear small arms, shouts, radio chatter and screams coupled with the sounds of RPG's and mortars. Luckily none of these instances have lined up with the Jar Heads playing with their BFG's down the road. Yeah, of all the places in the world I could have ended up, I bought a house just miles from a live fire artillery range. It could be worse I guess. Hell, I'm surprised I still hear anything over this damned ringing in my ears. I guess these phantom sounds are so clear because they are coming from the wrong side of my eardrums.
The frequency of these unwanted visions and sounds comes and goes and just when I get good and complacent about them, they come right back to bite me in the ass. Every time it happens my wife has to talk me down from the "I've lost my fucking grip" ledge. And trust me, that's one slippery slope I've been traversing for years. Just when you think things are getting better, something, some shitty, unnerving fucked up thing happens to knock you right back down again. I can't tell you how many times in my mind I've been recycled back to day zero.
I'm sure there’s a pill I can take to fry out my mind enough to suppress them. And, I'm sure the VA would be more than happy to provide such a pill in the interest of protecting others from me. But screw that, I've been all "zombie" before and as much as I don't want these fuckers hanging around, I do enjoy the clarity I somewhat retain from time to time. Although there are the times when I wish they would just ram a shrimp fork of my fucking nose and scramble my frontal lobe with great vigor.
"I see dead people". Yeah, kind of cheesy I know. But it's true. I say dead because rationally, I know they are images from the past. However, it takes me a while to finally rationalize this. They tell me it’s a direct result of my TBI but it’s still hard to comprehend. And, no, I don't have ghosts rattling chains at the foot of my bed or slamming doors or any of that other paranormal mumbo-jumbo. I have worse. That unsettling corner of my eye bullshit that makes me have to set down. These apparitions aren't shadowy figures beeboppin' around. Well, sometimes they are but they are mostly soldiers, fully clad in their battle rattle and just right there in the corner of my eye. I can see them but cant look at them. I can sometimes hear them and every once in a while I can smell them. You smell that? Yeah, that's "Army Strong".
These fuckers either sneak up on me without me seeing them and are just there -OR- I catch them walking out from behind the car or around a corner. Again, I can see them; I just can't look at them. In other words they live only in my peripheral. Sometimes there is just a single soldier, sometimes a whole squad. At times I get pissed off enough to yell, "fuck off" out loud. But, and this is a BIG but, I don't encourage this openly verbal behavior within myself and you can damn bet I'm NOT going to be telling the head shrinkers about this. It's bad enough that they've already tagged me with an ever increasingly embarrassing acronym let alone them telling me I'm all schizophrenic and shit. I've got enough to think about and the initial diagnosis was hard enough to swallow.
Sometimes I suspect that all this may be a leftover from being hyper-vigilant for so long because they aren't ALL soldiers. I see his and her Hajis and kids. Those goddamned kids. So, you can imagine my reaction one day when the Hispanic neighbor's toddler son quietly walked up on me while I was out in the driveway, wrenching on my car. Yeah, that was a shitty day... Probably for us both.
And then there are the sounds...
There are occasions where I see nothing but hear all the sounds associated with combat. I hear small arms, shouts, radio chatter and screams coupled with the sounds of RPG's and mortars. Luckily none of these instances have lined up with the Jar Heads playing with their BFG's down the road. Yeah, of all the places in the world I could have ended up, I bought a house just miles from a live fire artillery range. It could be worse I guess. Hell, I'm surprised I still hear anything over this damned ringing in my ears. I guess these phantom sounds are so clear because they are coming from the wrong side of my eardrums.
The frequency of these unwanted visions and sounds comes and goes and just when I get good and complacent about them, they come right back to bite me in the ass. Every time it happens my wife has to talk me down from the "I've lost my fucking grip" ledge. And trust me, that's one slippery slope I've been traversing for years. Just when you think things are getting better, something, some shitty, unnerving fucked up thing happens to knock you right back down again. I can't tell you how many times in my mind I've been recycled back to day zero.
I'm sure there’s a pill I can take to fry out my mind enough to suppress them. And, I'm sure the VA would be more than happy to provide such a pill in the interest of protecting others from me. But screw that, I've been all "zombie" before and as much as I don't want these fuckers hanging around, I do enjoy the clarity I somewhat retain from time to time. Although there are the times when I wish they would just ram a shrimp fork of my fucking nose and scramble my frontal lobe with great vigor.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Learning Never Seems to End
I found myself in an interesting predicament these past weeks. We’ve had for a lack of a better term some invaders in our space and it hasn’t been a pleasant experience, but it has taught me something vital to our ability to be part of the extended family. I cannot encourage bitterness and anger. Holding a grudge when I know my husband has been wronged has been something I’d held onto these past years. I’ve realized, for his health more than mine, I have to learn to let things go.
I would love to give all the dirty details and spew the anger I felt and still feel somewhat, but I won’t so forgive me if this all seems a little vague.
I watched myself, almost as if I was standing outside myself, encourage the anger he’d been harboring for years all because I’m angry they wronged him. I made sure not one action was left unnoticed even to the point of letting him know they’d walked out over their hurt feelings while he was still unconscious on the floor after an episode.
Suddenly though, I had an epiphany. The resulting anger was and is my fault. He ground his teeth for days practically frothing with the expectation of another blow up. I started slowly smoothing the wounds I hadn’t caused but had kept open. My epiphany resulted in his epiphany. He let go of past hurts. His eyes brightened and I learned a lesson about following my own advice. Anger isn’t something to be saved. Spend it right away, get it out of your system, and don’t waste time revisiting.
Deep breath. I can do this. Wish me luck... and strength.
I would love to give all the dirty details and spew the anger I felt and still feel somewhat, but I won’t so forgive me if this all seems a little vague.
I watched myself, almost as if I was standing outside myself, encourage the anger he’d been harboring for years all because I’m angry they wronged him. I made sure not one action was left unnoticed even to the point of letting him know they’d walked out over their hurt feelings while he was still unconscious on the floor after an episode.
Suddenly though, I had an epiphany. The resulting anger was and is my fault. He ground his teeth for days practically frothing with the expectation of another blow up. I started slowly smoothing the wounds I hadn’t caused but had kept open. My epiphany resulted in his epiphany. He let go of past hurts. His eyes brightened and I learned a lesson about following my own advice. Anger isn’t something to be saved. Spend it right away, get it out of your system, and don’t waste time revisiting.
Deep breath. I can do this. Wish me luck... and strength.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Nurse Mary
This is my husband's side of the story about our experience with medical marijuana in treating PTSD. The language is rough but that's him pure and simple.
I was always one of those staunch anti-drug people. I would fall just shy of beating my chest on a soapbox when it came to my stance on drugs. It's funny how times and your personal beliefs change. That was before I was betrayed by my own mind. Since then I've tried everything legal to curb the memories, anger, sadness and visual manifestations.
Trust me when I say, "I've tried everything legal" when it comes to controlling this damned PTSD. My first drug of choice, alcohol, came naturally to me. Hell, I didn't even think I was "medicating" when I'd tip a bottle. I was just doing what had always come naturally to me. 'Must be the Irish in me. I used to joke about "drinking to make the voices go away". 'Only thing is, as the people in the bar were laughing, I was dead serious.
It’s funny how when reality takes a vacation in your mind, you find ways of coping even if they damn near kill you. Oh yeah, my liver has a label on it that says Vlassic. But, as with most things, after a while even the alcohol stops working. You drink and drink and nothing happens. As a matter of fact, you feel drunk when you’re sober and vice versa. At least I did. Once the numbness of the alcohol wears off the intrusive thoughts and images came back. The only real difference was that the alcohol intensified them. So much so that it leads you to make certain decisions that land you locked up in a VA playing checkers with yourself.
After my release from the VA I was given a bag full of drugs and told to go. I was prescribed four drugs that were supposed to work. Well, they worked alright. They made me a zombie. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure they (the VA) were just trying to get rid of me and make it so I wasn't much of a liability. They succeeded because I wasn't able to put two thoughts together to form cognitive verbal sentences let alone being a danger to myself or others. It all ended one day when I was so out of my mind on these drugs that I sat on the passenger side of the car for twenty minutes trying to find the steering wheel. Yeah, had I continued taking them I would have killed someone and possibly myself through a drug induced automotive accident or something. And we were once again dancing in double edge sword territory.
Some time past and I dealt the best way I could. The cycle went; Anger - lucidity - sadness - anger - a massive blowout that ended with an unconscious episode - repeat while anxiety ruled constant over the whole thing. I would mix alcohol and cigarettes into the mix. Hell, that's pretty much what kept me from killing someone. Well that and the fact that I finally met a woman who was caring and selfless enough to understand what I was going through and made it a point to learn as much about my issue as she could. You've read it before so I wont bore you with the whole "she's the only reason I'm alive today" story.
Then came the day when I read the notice the VA posted up about easing their policy on Medical Marijuana. After much discussion and planning my wife and I decided that maybe it would benefit me to try it out. So, we made an appointment with a local doctor. See, the VA eased its policy but refuses to prescribe it or issue medical cards to obtain it. This doctor was very interested in my problem. Hell, out of all his California patients, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who actually had a legitimate issue aside from "Mommy and Daddy don't understand me and that makes me sad". He actually issued me a card AND prescribed me other meds.
Like a kid worried about getting caught masturbating, I reluctantly drove to the "collective" to get my first dose of Medical Weed. I was operating within the realm of the law but was totally convinced, in the back of my mind, that I was somehow being stalked by law enforcement. And that feeling never faded the whole time I had a current card.
I brought that first batch home and lit it up. Holy cat shit, it was good. I got that same feeling you get in your gut and ass when the aircraft first takes off. That sinking, blood leaving my head feeling. And then it hit me. Something I hadn't felt for quite a few years... Clarity. On top of that, it was like I was looking at the world through new eyes. I really thought I had found a cure for PTSD.
Then it happened. The new wore off and I had to smoke more to get the same effects. A few weeks would go my and I would have to smoke more, then more... Until one day I didn't get the feeling anymore. All I got was extreme paranoia. Ok, when you already have paranoia, any additional paranoia is very unwelcome. I was, for the first time in years, afraid to die and was pretty sure it was going to happen at any minute.
The cherry atop this shit sundae was the fluttering in my heart. Yeah, I recon enough THC was in my system to create issues with cardiac function. Try being paranoid with a sense of impending doom and being terrified that your heart is going to stop. Yeah, not really a good treatment for an already shitty existence.
I made the decision to stop. I had no ill effects, as a matter of fact, I felt better if that’s possible. Trust me on this... There is no realization more devastating than figuring out after years of dealing with this that there is no drug, be it legal or otherwise, that can treat this fucking condition with any success or without any God awful side effects. Kind of reminds me of the past couple elections. You have to pick the lesser of two evils and press on. I can report however that after a year of being a stoner just shy of being a dirty hippie riding around in an old VW Bus, my wife has continuously commented on how nice it was to "have me back". I guess this shit even changed my personality.
So, here I set right back where I was in the beginning with only time spent dealing to make informed decisions on how I want to proceed from here. It appears that my choices are "Full blown scary prick who cries sometimes and screams in his sleep", "Bloated Zombie with no personality" or "Out of my mind paranoid Stoner with a heart that palpitates every other beat". Well slap my ass and call me Sally, the choice is clear for me. Scary Prick it is! People around here are starting to understand how I am. It doesn't really bother me anymore. Hell, I kind of like the solitude that comes with it. And I really don't mind that people run to get past my house. It keeps the religious fruitcakes and door-to-door salesmen off my property.
I was always one of those staunch anti-drug people. I would fall just shy of beating my chest on a soapbox when it came to my stance on drugs. It's funny how times and your personal beliefs change. That was before I was betrayed by my own mind. Since then I've tried everything legal to curb the memories, anger, sadness and visual manifestations.
Trust me when I say, "I've tried everything legal" when it comes to controlling this damned PTSD. My first drug of choice, alcohol, came naturally to me. Hell, I didn't even think I was "medicating" when I'd tip a bottle. I was just doing what had always come naturally to me. 'Must be the Irish in me. I used to joke about "drinking to make the voices go away". 'Only thing is, as the people in the bar were laughing, I was dead serious.
It’s funny how when reality takes a vacation in your mind, you find ways of coping even if they damn near kill you. Oh yeah, my liver has a label on it that says Vlassic. But, as with most things, after a while even the alcohol stops working. You drink and drink and nothing happens. As a matter of fact, you feel drunk when you’re sober and vice versa. At least I did. Once the numbness of the alcohol wears off the intrusive thoughts and images came back. The only real difference was that the alcohol intensified them. So much so that it leads you to make certain decisions that land you locked up in a VA playing checkers with yourself.
After my release from the VA I was given a bag full of drugs and told to go. I was prescribed four drugs that were supposed to work. Well, they worked alright. They made me a zombie. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure they (the VA) were just trying to get rid of me and make it so I wasn't much of a liability. They succeeded because I wasn't able to put two thoughts together to form cognitive verbal sentences let alone being a danger to myself or others. It all ended one day when I was so out of my mind on these drugs that I sat on the passenger side of the car for twenty minutes trying to find the steering wheel. Yeah, had I continued taking them I would have killed someone and possibly myself through a drug induced automotive accident or something. And we were once again dancing in double edge sword territory.
Some time past and I dealt the best way I could. The cycle went; Anger - lucidity - sadness - anger - a massive blowout that ended with an unconscious episode - repeat while anxiety ruled constant over the whole thing. I would mix alcohol and cigarettes into the mix. Hell, that's pretty much what kept me from killing someone. Well that and the fact that I finally met a woman who was caring and selfless enough to understand what I was going through and made it a point to learn as much about my issue as she could. You've read it before so I wont bore you with the whole "she's the only reason I'm alive today" story.
Then came the day when I read the notice the VA posted up about easing their policy on Medical Marijuana. After much discussion and planning my wife and I decided that maybe it would benefit me to try it out. So, we made an appointment with a local doctor. See, the VA eased its policy but refuses to prescribe it or issue medical cards to obtain it. This doctor was very interested in my problem. Hell, out of all his California patients, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who actually had a legitimate issue aside from "Mommy and Daddy don't understand me and that makes me sad". He actually issued me a card AND prescribed me other meds.
Like a kid worried about getting caught masturbating, I reluctantly drove to the "collective" to get my first dose of Medical Weed. I was operating within the realm of the law but was totally convinced, in the back of my mind, that I was somehow being stalked by law enforcement. And that feeling never faded the whole time I had a current card.
I brought that first batch home and lit it up. Holy cat shit, it was good. I got that same feeling you get in your gut and ass when the aircraft first takes off. That sinking, blood leaving my head feeling. And then it hit me. Something I hadn't felt for quite a few years... Clarity. On top of that, it was like I was looking at the world through new eyes. I really thought I had found a cure for PTSD.
Then it happened. The new wore off and I had to smoke more to get the same effects. A few weeks would go my and I would have to smoke more, then more... Until one day I didn't get the feeling anymore. All I got was extreme paranoia. Ok, when you already have paranoia, any additional paranoia is very unwelcome. I was, for the first time in years, afraid to die and was pretty sure it was going to happen at any minute.
The cherry atop this shit sundae was the fluttering in my heart. Yeah, I recon enough THC was in my system to create issues with cardiac function. Try being paranoid with a sense of impending doom and being terrified that your heart is going to stop. Yeah, not really a good treatment for an already shitty existence.
I made the decision to stop. I had no ill effects, as a matter of fact, I felt better if that’s possible. Trust me on this... There is no realization more devastating than figuring out after years of dealing with this that there is no drug, be it legal or otherwise, that can treat this fucking condition with any success or without any God awful side effects. Kind of reminds me of the past couple elections. You have to pick the lesser of two evils and press on. I can report however that after a year of being a stoner just shy of being a dirty hippie riding around in an old VW Bus, my wife has continuously commented on how nice it was to "have me back". I guess this shit even changed my personality.
So, here I set right back where I was in the beginning with only time spent dealing to make informed decisions on how I want to proceed from here. It appears that my choices are "Full blown scary prick who cries sometimes and screams in his sleep", "Bloated Zombie with no personality" or "Out of my mind paranoid Stoner with a heart that palpitates every other beat". Well slap my ass and call me Sally, the choice is clear for me. Scary Prick it is! People around here are starting to understand how I am. It doesn't really bother me anymore. Hell, I kind of like the solitude that comes with it. And I really don't mind that people run to get past my house. It keeps the religious fruitcakes and door-to-door salesmen off my property.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Suicide as a Comfort
Veteran/soldier suicide has been in the spotlight for a while now. Most of us have seen the horrible statistics of how many veterans commit suicide every day. It’s become an epidemic, but strangely I’d never wondered about the spouses or the toll they, we, are paying.
That is until I spoke to Jenny here at Not Alone about their new project Just Wait. I started thinking about my own struggle with suicide and how I’d used it as a sick sort of comfort for several years.
When things were bad, and don’t get me wrong they aren’t perfect now but they’re better… but when things were bad I would lay in bed not wanting to get up and knowing I had to face the day. I would tell myself if I needed to I could stop it all but today I needed to try and see if I could make things better before I made the final decision to end my life.
It was a strange sort of comfort I’m actually embarrassed to admit. Just like an alcoholic I used the knowledge I could stop the pain to endure more. One day at a time. Choose to live today and see about tomorrow, tomorrow.
When it was all said and done, each day I found a reason to live and those reasons varied. Today it might have been that my son had a project needing to be done. Tomorrow it may have been that we’d received a call from a congressman saying he was going to help us. The next it may have been that my husband was having a bad day and he needed me more than I needed peace.
I chose to wait each day, one day, every day until those days stretched into weeks, then months, and now years. Now that the worst of it has passed and we’ve come to understand what we must do to deal with the scars war caused I don’t look to suicide for comfort. I look to my husband, and my family. My kids. My pets. My plants. My life.
I chose to live. You can as well. Today, find a reason and just wait.
That is until I spoke to Jenny here at Not Alone about their new project Just Wait. I started thinking about my own struggle with suicide and how I’d used it as a sick sort of comfort for several years.
When things were bad, and don’t get me wrong they aren’t perfect now but they’re better… but when things were bad I would lay in bed not wanting to get up and knowing I had to face the day. I would tell myself if I needed to I could stop it all but today I needed to try and see if I could make things better before I made the final decision to end my life.
It was a strange sort of comfort I’m actually embarrassed to admit. Just like an alcoholic I used the knowledge I could stop the pain to endure more. One day at a time. Choose to live today and see about tomorrow, tomorrow.
When it was all said and done, each day I found a reason to live and those reasons varied. Today it might have been that my son had a project needing to be done. Tomorrow it may have been that we’d received a call from a congressman saying he was going to help us. The next it may have been that my husband was having a bad day and he needed me more than I needed peace.
I chose to wait each day, one day, every day until those days stretched into weeks, then months, and now years. Now that the worst of it has passed and we’ve come to understand what we must do to deal with the scars war caused I don’t look to suicide for comfort. I look to my husband, and my family. My kids. My pets. My plants. My life.
I chose to live. You can as well. Today, find a reason and just wait.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Medical Marijuana, My View
Last year the VA issued a statement on veterans seeking medical marijuana treatments outside the VA system. Though they would provide neither the card nor the medicine, the legal use would not inhibit the vet’s ability to seek care through the VA.
Now researchers are seeking federal approval to study the effectiveness of medical marijuana in treating combat PTSD and I acknowledge the need, but a year ago my husband and I went to a doctor and got a medical marijuana card. I’ve struggled to write about it because of the stigma attached yet here I am finally after a year writing about using ‘weed’ to ease the symptoms of PTSD.
I was skeptical when we walked into the office, especially when I was also offered the paperwork to get a card. I wanted to walk out at that point. But we’ve tried everything available to us when it comes to Chris’ PTSD so I bit my tongue and listened carefully to the doctor. He felt my husband was a good candidate but that he also needed counseling – which I agree with – and other psychotropic medications – which I don’t agree with. In the end the doctor scripted two other meds along with issuing a medical marijuana card.
Instantly, Chris’ symptoms seemed better. It was like a miracle. He was changed. He was happy, easy going, sleeping marginally, and we were able to go places – though I had to drive always. Even the stomach problems he had disappeared. I was happy. It was amazing.
He instantly went into overdrive, doing projects and going places. But that faded and he eventually spent most of his time sitting on the back deck looking at his computer.
Then, the paranoia set in. On more than one occasion, he had episodes of paranoia and shaking so bad I thought he would have to go to the emergency room but I was afraid to take him. Still, he seemed better than he’d been in years and I kept my mouth shut about the fact he was different. He was being responsible enough with the meds to treat them with respect, including cutting back when they started to not work as well, so I was willing to accept him medicated if it made him feel better.
A couple months ago, Chris came to me and said he thought maybe he would stop taking it. I said whatever you want and that was that – but I did a little dance in my head. After a few days I saw the man I married. He was anxious but clear. I had missed him so much and hadn’t even realized he was gone. He told me he feels like he’s stepped out of a fog and woken up.
I know some have stated they’ve had fantastic results with medical marijuana, but our good results were fleeting, like with every other med he’s taken. And the negative were easy to overlook until months had passed. I feel like he’s come home again, and we’re back to dealing one day at a time with his symptoms, and that’s okay. We’re clear and life moves forward.
Now researchers are seeking federal approval to study the effectiveness of medical marijuana in treating combat PTSD and I acknowledge the need, but a year ago my husband and I went to a doctor and got a medical marijuana card. I’ve struggled to write about it because of the stigma attached yet here I am finally after a year writing about using ‘weed’ to ease the symptoms of PTSD.
I was skeptical when we walked into the office, especially when I was also offered the paperwork to get a card. I wanted to walk out at that point. But we’ve tried everything available to us when it comes to Chris’ PTSD so I bit my tongue and listened carefully to the doctor. He felt my husband was a good candidate but that he also needed counseling – which I agree with – and other psychotropic medications – which I don’t agree with. In the end the doctor scripted two other meds along with issuing a medical marijuana card.
Instantly, Chris’ symptoms seemed better. It was like a miracle. He was changed. He was happy, easy going, sleeping marginally, and we were able to go places – though I had to drive always. Even the stomach problems he had disappeared. I was happy. It was amazing.
He instantly went into overdrive, doing projects and going places. But that faded and he eventually spent most of his time sitting on the back deck looking at his computer.
Then, the paranoia set in. On more than one occasion, he had episodes of paranoia and shaking so bad I thought he would have to go to the emergency room but I was afraid to take him. Still, he seemed better than he’d been in years and I kept my mouth shut about the fact he was different. He was being responsible enough with the meds to treat them with respect, including cutting back when they started to not work as well, so I was willing to accept him medicated if it made him feel better.
A couple months ago, Chris came to me and said he thought maybe he would stop taking it. I said whatever you want and that was that – but I did a little dance in my head. After a few days I saw the man I married. He was anxious but clear. I had missed him so much and hadn’t even realized he was gone. He told me he feels like he’s stepped out of a fog and woken up.
I know some have stated they’ve had fantastic results with medical marijuana, but our good results were fleeting, like with every other med he’s taken. And the negative were easy to overlook until months had passed. I feel like he’s come home again, and we’re back to dealing one day at a time with his symptoms, and that’s okay. We’re clear and life moves forward.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Metabolic Syndrome
From my husband...
I read something interesting a while ago…
“Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) are more likely to have metabolic syndrome than veterans without PTSD, according to a study led by Pia Heppner, Ph.D., psychologist with the University of California, San Diego School of Medicine and Veterans Affairs of San Diego, VA Center of Excellence for Stress and Mental Health (CESAMH).
Metabolic syndrome is composed of a cluster of clinical signs including obesity, high blood pressure and insulin resistance and is also associated with cardiovascular disease.”
Oh sweet. So, I’m not fat. I just have “Metabolic Syndrome”. Freakin’ awesome! May as well ad that one to the growing list of syndromes I have. What the article failed to mention was the use of “Psychiatric Medications” and their roll in this so called “Metabolic Syndrome”. Back in November of 2007 I was prescribed a cocktail of Psych Meds to combat my PTSD. The day I had the prescription filled I weighed 185 pounds. These meds made me a zombie. They didn’t fix my issues, except for the sleeping disorder I had. They put me down. Like an Elephant tranquilizer. I’m not kidding, I slept for days on end. The meds had other effects as well.
First, I started noticing that everything seemed backwards. Left was right, up was down, I would go to walk down the stairs and take a step up. Hell, I climbed into the passenger side of the car and sat there looking for the steering wheel. When I told my Doctor about this he looked at me like I had Lobsters coming out of my ears. He didn’t believe me at all. Hell, I would think that a shift such as this would spark some sort of study to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else. I guess 15 or so Vets have to die before the VA will study it.
Secondly, I started seeing things in my peripheral. Flashes of shadows. Echoes of people if you will. Sometimes just shadows but other times full on, real life, in color people walking passed me in my peripheral.
And lastly, I started piling on the weight. In 2 months, I gained more than 40 pounds. My metabolism went to hell in a handbag. I was fatigued and irregular. When I look at pictures of myself from that time, I look like I’m nothing more than a big bag of fluid. And since then I have been unable to successfully loose all the weight. Nothing I did before works. I’ve tried dieting and exercise. It seems like I have to work twice as hard as I ever have in my life.
So, after only a few months of taking the Meds, I stopped. I came off of them cold turkey. As a Medic, I knew better, but with the shift in my orientation, I felt it was necessary to stop before I killed someone or hurt myself. Man, that was a shitty couple of weeks. Headaches, Insomnia, Nausea, Chills, Shakes, you name it, I had it going on.
12 months out and I’m still feeling residual effects from these meds. There are times where I still get disoriented and left is right and what not. My weight is still high and I can’t control it. I wish I could have eaten enough to make me this fat. At least I would have had the pleasure food brings to the psyche.
Most recently, I have noticed a return in the shadows and people in my periphery. Things I know aren’t there. Hell, I guess as long as I know they aren’t there I’m not crazy.
I think the VA needs to restudy this and note that the medications are what’s causing “Metabolic Syndrome” in PTSD sufferers.
You know, at least I’m lucky. There have been several Vets who died in their sleep of complications caused by the very same cocktail of meds I was on. And I’m sure the VA is still handing them out like M&M’s. I guess it’s easier to hand out meds than it is to actually treat any issues.
I read something interesting a while ago…
“Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) are more likely to have metabolic syndrome than veterans without PTSD, according to a study led by Pia Heppner, Ph.D., psychologist with the University of California, San Diego School of Medicine and Veterans Affairs of San Diego, VA Center of Excellence for Stress and Mental Health (CESAMH).
Metabolic syndrome is composed of a cluster of clinical signs including obesity, high blood pressure and insulin resistance and is also associated with cardiovascular disease.”
Oh sweet. So, I’m not fat. I just have “Metabolic Syndrome”. Freakin’ awesome! May as well ad that one to the growing list of syndromes I have. What the article failed to mention was the use of “Psychiatric Medications” and their roll in this so called “Metabolic Syndrome”. Back in November of 2007 I was prescribed a cocktail of Psych Meds to combat my PTSD. The day I had the prescription filled I weighed 185 pounds. These meds made me a zombie. They didn’t fix my issues, except for the sleeping disorder I had. They put me down. Like an Elephant tranquilizer. I’m not kidding, I slept for days on end. The meds had other effects as well.
First, I started noticing that everything seemed backwards. Left was right, up was down, I would go to walk down the stairs and take a step up. Hell, I climbed into the passenger side of the car and sat there looking for the steering wheel. When I told my Doctor about this he looked at me like I had Lobsters coming out of my ears. He didn’t believe me at all. Hell, I would think that a shift such as this would spark some sort of study to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else. I guess 15 or so Vets have to die before the VA will study it.
Secondly, I started seeing things in my peripheral. Flashes of shadows. Echoes of people if you will. Sometimes just shadows but other times full on, real life, in color people walking passed me in my peripheral.
And lastly, I started piling on the weight. In 2 months, I gained more than 40 pounds. My metabolism went to hell in a handbag. I was fatigued and irregular. When I look at pictures of myself from that time, I look like I’m nothing more than a big bag of fluid. And since then I have been unable to successfully loose all the weight. Nothing I did before works. I’ve tried dieting and exercise. It seems like I have to work twice as hard as I ever have in my life.
So, after only a few months of taking the Meds, I stopped. I came off of them cold turkey. As a Medic, I knew better, but with the shift in my orientation, I felt it was necessary to stop before I killed someone or hurt myself. Man, that was a shitty couple of weeks. Headaches, Insomnia, Nausea, Chills, Shakes, you name it, I had it going on.
12 months out and I’m still feeling residual effects from these meds. There are times where I still get disoriented and left is right and what not. My weight is still high and I can’t control it. I wish I could have eaten enough to make me this fat. At least I would have had the pleasure food brings to the psyche.
Most recently, I have noticed a return in the shadows and people in my periphery. Things I know aren’t there. Hell, I guess as long as I know they aren’t there I’m not crazy.
I think the VA needs to restudy this and note that the medications are what’s causing “Metabolic Syndrome” in PTSD sufferers.
You know, at least I’m lucky. There have been several Vets who died in their sleep of complications caused by the very same cocktail of meds I was on. And I’m sure the VA is still handing them out like M&M’s. I guess it’s easier to hand out meds than it is to actually treat any issues.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Welcome to the Club
My husband’s uniform hangs silent in the closet. It’s something I’m drawn to now and again when a new story breaks his protected surface. I imagine how he must have looked. How he must have felt.
I never had the pleasure of seeing him wearing it except in pictures. He was already medically red-lighted when we met and not long after that discharged. He never got to put his uniform back on so his new wife could stand beside him puffed with pride. I have to imagine how it feels to be an Army wife.
Granted, he’s worn the beret for me. Heck, I’ve worn it, though I only do it to pester him. I pull it down over my ears and walk into the kitchen like nothing’s different. When I do this I’m instructed to take it off. I usually do not oblige, so he does. Before he removes it from my head however he fixes it into that very specific shape they learned in boot. He smiles with a hint of sadness and I put it away.
I never got to be part of the club. I don’t know what military life is like. I don’t know what it’s like to wait while my husband is far away risking his life. I don’t know what it’s like to worry while he’s gone. I got him broken and already ravaged by war. I worry about him here.
But I long for the knowledge of those days. I lament never having been there while he stood wearing his career in brightly colored ribbon on his chest. Seeing the man he sacrificed for his country. I missed it.
I feel cheated. Is that childish? So many places and shoulders for military wives. Such a strong and common bond, like an invisible tether between them, unites them in a way I’m not privy to.
I feel like I missed the most important part of his life. Like I may have been able to do something, to help him earlier, to stave off these years of suffering.
And then I remember those military wives in the club that I don’t belong to belong to another club none of us asked to be in. They were there and couldn’t keep it from happening. Their spouses still brought home the monster.
Welcome to the club.
I never had the pleasure of seeing him wearing it except in pictures. He was already medically red-lighted when we met and not long after that discharged. He never got to put his uniform back on so his new wife could stand beside him puffed with pride. I have to imagine how it feels to be an Army wife.
Granted, he’s worn the beret for me. Heck, I’ve worn it, though I only do it to pester him. I pull it down over my ears and walk into the kitchen like nothing’s different. When I do this I’m instructed to take it off. I usually do not oblige, so he does. Before he removes it from my head however he fixes it into that very specific shape they learned in boot. He smiles with a hint of sadness and I put it away.
I never got to be part of the club. I don’t know what military life is like. I don’t know what it’s like to wait while my husband is far away risking his life. I don’t know what it’s like to worry while he’s gone. I got him broken and already ravaged by war. I worry about him here.
But I long for the knowledge of those days. I lament never having been there while he stood wearing his career in brightly colored ribbon on his chest. Seeing the man he sacrificed for his country. I missed it.
I feel cheated. Is that childish? So many places and shoulders for military wives. Such a strong and common bond, like an invisible tether between them, unites them in a way I’m not privy to.
I feel like I missed the most important part of his life. Like I may have been able to do something, to help him earlier, to stave off these years of suffering.
And then I remember those military wives in the club that I don’t belong to belong to another club none of us asked to be in. They were there and couldn’t keep it from happening. Their spouses still brought home the monster.
Welcome to the club.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
An Open Letter to Congress
Dear Mr. President and members of Congress,
My husband is a 100% disabled veteran. He served during OIF as a combat medic and did his job to the absolute best of his abilities. When he returned home, he struggled to reintegrate into society outside a combat zone. He failed for a number of years before being diagnosed with PTSD and TBI.
Suddenly, everything made sense. The anger, the blackouts, the fear, the fact he couldn’t manage a normal relationship with those around him.
When we met he was near homeless and his paperwork was held up in the system leaving him to hang in the wind. Together we fought tooth and toenail to get his needs fulfilled from those he’d fought for and who had promised him help.
I gave up my business and my job because he needed someone with him around the clock as his flashbacks had taken over his life. We lived on Ramen noodles and rice in an apartment with no furniture but he feared he could hurt someone without knowing it so I stayed home. Finally, his paperwork was green-lighted and we were relieved. But he wasn’t allowed to access his benefits because he required a fiduciary. I volunteered. We were not married at the time, so this required more time. Time we did not have.
One month before we would have to leave our empty apartment his benefits arrived. Three years later we sit in our own home that we purchased with a VA loan and his benefits. His PTSD is becoming more manageable as our life stabilizes and I have been able to finally pursue a career. Though I still work only from home and only part time, I am more than happy with his progress.
So, I have to ask how you and all of congress feel it is necessary to use my husband and every other veteran who depends on a disability check to get by as pawns in this game of chess you are playing. For you, if the debt ceiling is reached and the checks do not go out, nothing on a personal level will happen. Your children will still eat. You will still be able to pay your bills. Your home will be safe and life will go on as usual.
But for us, we will sit here with our chests tightened at the fact that we cannot pay our mortgage and may end up losing the house we fought so hard to get. We will not go to the grocery store and we will not be able to buy my son school supplies for the coming year.
I will also spend each night waiting for the anxiety to cause my husband to fall into the shadow that his experiences in Iraq have cast over him these last seven years. He will put on his Kevlar and ready his medic bag for patrol. He will call out the names and perform triage during the night. He will spend months in the desert again even if he is only gone for moments.
And all this is because the men and women we as Americans trusted to take care of our country’s business have to play the blame game. I have news for you, standing over an open chest trying to decide which bullet caused the most damage is futile. Stop playing the partisan game of who is to blame, Republicans or Democrats, and start being Americans.
Sincerely,
Proud wife of an American Veteran
My husband is a 100% disabled veteran. He served during OIF as a combat medic and did his job to the absolute best of his abilities. When he returned home, he struggled to reintegrate into society outside a combat zone. He failed for a number of years before being diagnosed with PTSD and TBI.
Suddenly, everything made sense. The anger, the blackouts, the fear, the fact he couldn’t manage a normal relationship with those around him.
When we met he was near homeless and his paperwork was held up in the system leaving him to hang in the wind. Together we fought tooth and toenail to get his needs fulfilled from those he’d fought for and who had promised him help.
I gave up my business and my job because he needed someone with him around the clock as his flashbacks had taken over his life. We lived on Ramen noodles and rice in an apartment with no furniture but he feared he could hurt someone without knowing it so I stayed home. Finally, his paperwork was green-lighted and we were relieved. But he wasn’t allowed to access his benefits because he required a fiduciary. I volunteered. We were not married at the time, so this required more time. Time we did not have.
One month before we would have to leave our empty apartment his benefits arrived. Three years later we sit in our own home that we purchased with a VA loan and his benefits. His PTSD is becoming more manageable as our life stabilizes and I have been able to finally pursue a career. Though I still work only from home and only part time, I am more than happy with his progress.
So, I have to ask how you and all of congress feel it is necessary to use my husband and every other veteran who depends on a disability check to get by as pawns in this game of chess you are playing. For you, if the debt ceiling is reached and the checks do not go out, nothing on a personal level will happen. Your children will still eat. You will still be able to pay your bills. Your home will be safe and life will go on as usual.
But for us, we will sit here with our chests tightened at the fact that we cannot pay our mortgage and may end up losing the house we fought so hard to get. We will not go to the grocery store and we will not be able to buy my son school supplies for the coming year.
I will also spend each night waiting for the anxiety to cause my husband to fall into the shadow that his experiences in Iraq have cast over him these last seven years. He will put on his Kevlar and ready his medic bag for patrol. He will call out the names and perform triage during the night. He will spend months in the desert again even if he is only gone for moments.
And all this is because the men and women we as Americans trusted to take care of our country’s business have to play the blame game. I have news for you, standing over an open chest trying to decide which bullet caused the most damage is futile. Stop playing the partisan game of who is to blame, Republicans or Democrats, and start being Americans.
Sincerely,
Proud wife of an American Veteran
Sunday, July 24, 2011
I Remember Their Names
I’ve been going over things in my head the last few days, trying to push stress aside and find something to write about this month. A lot of things have gone wrong and we’re in a tough place right now, so I went to some of my old writings. I wrote this back in 2009 when Chris’ flashbacks were out of control. I still remember the names.
...
I’ve spent some days thinking about this, and trying to form my thoughts into words. It was prompted by a stupid thread on a message board where people callously discussed who’s fault it was that a 93 year old man had frozen to death in his home after his power was shut off.
He has a name.
His name was Marvin Schur and he was a US Army Medic who earned the Purple Heart in World War II. His nickname was “Mutts” and he saw six years of battle while serving his country. My country.
Soldiers have names. And in the name is power. I learned the names of four soldiers who gave their lives for this country last night.
Out of respect for my husband, I will not state them, most specifically because he doesn’t remember their names. He has blocked them from his mind.
This flashback was a long one. Two and a half hours long. We went rounds. He fell to the ground, hit his head, and ran. He laid on the ground and ran like he was being chased, the back of his legs pounding the floor. It continued for so long I thought he would pass out from exhaustion, but he finally stopped and I got him talking. I went through my usual questions.
Where are you? Iraq.
Who are you? Sergeant C.
Who am I? He paused.
Who am I? That new medic. He said her name. And then he told me he’d been hit. He couldn’t feel his legs. It hurts. It burns.
Who am I? That new medic. He said her name. And then he told me he’d been hit. He couldn’t feel his legs. It hurts. It burns.
Where are my men? he asked.
I lied.
I told him over and over they were fine.
He rattled off three names and I lied. They’re on the chopper being evac-ed. They’re ok. Yes, they are alive.
And then, he asked about a specific soldier. By name. He tried to get to him. Tried to save him. He was just a kid. They blamed him. They all blamed him. And then he ran. He ran and ran.
I will never forget their names. They are ingrained in my mind.
Power in a name.
Those soldiers are people. And they have names.
Power.
I know their names.
Friday, June 24, 2011
A Defective Soldier
Once again, I have to thank my husband for writing a piece and allowing me to share it. I never know exactly what to say after I read them, but I know they need to shared.
Most people wouldn't understand the bond a soldier forms with his weapon. Remembering back I don't remember idealizing it as a bond. No, it was more of tool. An extension of myself if you will. An extension as necessary as an arm or leg. Without any of my limbs I couldn't have done the job I was sent there to do. For those of you who have never had the godforsaken pleasure to have served in a combat zone, and I hope you never will, the only constant you can depend on is that you never go anywhere without your weapon.
You patrol with your weapon. You eat with your weapon. You smoke with your weapon. You sleep with your weapon. You shit with your weapon. You... Well, you get the idea. And whenever you aren't doing any of those things and you're not engaging the enemy, you're ritualistically cleaning it, caring for it and keeping it safe. Once I got home and had to turn my weapon into the armory, I had no idea I'd never see it again.
I would have also never thought that someday my 2nd amendment rights would be taken away from me. An amendment to the very same Constitution that I swore under oath to support and defend. Well, that's exactly what happened once my rating from the VA came back and they had deemed me “incompetent”. The very government that I volunteered to fight for in preservation of freedom took away my Constitutional, 2nd Amendment rights for the rest of my natural life.
I agree that at times in the past and even now that my owning a firearm isn't exactly the best thing for society. But you know, just as in combat, I believe fear and common sense would keep me in check and prevent me from doing anything stupid. I mean yeah, I admit to outbursts and breaking things, but I guess I'm one of the lucky ones. I not one of the “turning his aggression on to others in violent fits of rage leaving behind death and destruction” kinda crazy Vets. I'm more the “Lovable, I'm gonna slice you into bits with my tongue and burn a few bridges that I'll never be able to rebuild, then stand here in the kitchen and break all of your shit” crazy vets.
I don't know if it was all my “do no harm” medical training but I'd rather see myself hurt or an object destroyed rather than to ever lay a hand on my wife or those close to me. Now, if you fuck with them it's a different story. I'll be going to jail in a cop car, running lights and siren, shackled up like Hannibal Lecter if that ever happens.
Now I'm gonna speak even more candidly here for a minute. Every time the people at the VA ask me “Are you having any thoughts of doing harm to yourself?” there's a little voice inside my head that answers back in an arrogant, teenage bully kind of way “Well Duh!!! What the fuck would you do about it if I did?” Of course, I always answer with “NO” on the record. I'd rather not be locked away again for 5 days, heavily medicated, playing checkers with myself and trying to put together a model car they gave me with no fucking glue. Yeah, no thanks!
OK, I have to admit that there have been times that the thought has crossed my mind. If for just one minute I didn't have to carry the weight of this torment around or have the intrusive thoughts. If for just a little while I got to take a deep breath and could relax without my mind replaying sounds and flashing images of things which can not be unseen. If this constant pain would go away and quit gnawing on me, them maybe I wouldn't have thoughts of making them end permanently.
I've learned, through the help of my wife, to cope with these thoughts. When I'm really down she has this uncanny knack of reading me. She clinches her fist, draws back her arm and punches her way through my depression and grabs me up by the scruff of the neck. I can't tell you how many times she has pulled me back to reality. But I can tell you this; because of her I now have a reason NOT to entertain those thoughts. I hold onto her so desperately. I have a death grip on her. I know that sometimes I can be a bit too much to handle but no matter what the circumstance, she still loves me unconditionally. I catch myself asking her all the time if she's happy, wondering how she has the strength to find any pleasure while dealing with the way I am. I've written it before, she saved my life. She always brushes it off like I'm joking when I tell her. But the truth is she did. If it were not for this selfless soul I would be dead.
But back to the topic at hand. I can remember those first few weeks home without my weapon. I've never felt more naked in my life. When I first got home I still had all my personal weapons. So, I carried all the time. Just as in Iraq, my weapon was right there with me in bed, in the car, on the can, etc. And even though you're carrying a side arm, you find yourself looking around you for things to fashion into weapons. It was really hard for me to walk around without my M4 at the ready. Sort like when you quit smoking but you still need to do something with your hands. I needed that larger weapon to carry.
You have a desperate need carry something you can use to defend yourself with at all times. I was like most of the other older fellas in my unit. A large percentage of us had concealed weapon carry permits filed with the local authorities. On regular occasions we would get together on the weekends and go send some rounds down range at the local gun club. We all had our own stash of weapons at home safely locked away with trigger locks and strong boxes or safes.
I'm gonna leave out the personal stuff that led the VA to give me the rating they did. You don't need to know any of the gories.
So, after personal setbacks, years of not being able to hold down a job, dealing with this shit and waiting for my rating to come back, they told me all my weapons needed to go away. Luckily for me I was so broke by then that I had already had to sell all of them. So, the shock of what had just happened didn't sink in at first. But, the more I thought about it, the more I thought “how dare they.” How dare they train me to fight and condition me to defend myself, train me to do a shitty job no one else wants to do and that no one back home will support, and when all is said and done and I've outlived my usefulness, strip me of my rights and discard me? I kind of know what a racehorse with a broken leg feels like.
Now, I know it goes deeper than that and I've come to terms with it. I know they are only looking out for my best interest and safety of me and my loved ones, but goddamn. It doesn't make it hurt any less. And it sure as hell doesn't do any wonders for the ego.
You know, if the VA wants to form a “support group” that actually does something other than cause more stress, all they would have to do is install an armory at their facilities. There would be no ammo necessary, just let us psychos get together once or twice a week, check out an inert firearm or two, clean and inspect them and shoot the shit.
So, yeah. I sit here before you a defective soldier. I am however still a soldier none the less even as defective as I am. I stand fast in the notion that it would be the very worst day of someone’s life if they ever broke into my home with or without a firearm. I have to.
Most people wouldn't understand the bond a soldier forms with his weapon. Remembering back I don't remember idealizing it as a bond. No, it was more of tool. An extension of myself if you will. An extension as necessary as an arm or leg. Without any of my limbs I couldn't have done the job I was sent there to do. For those of you who have never had the godforsaken pleasure to have served in a combat zone, and I hope you never will, the only constant you can depend on is that you never go anywhere without your weapon.
You patrol with your weapon. You eat with your weapon. You smoke with your weapon. You sleep with your weapon. You shit with your weapon. You... Well, you get the idea. And whenever you aren't doing any of those things and you're not engaging the enemy, you're ritualistically cleaning it, caring for it and keeping it safe. Once I got home and had to turn my weapon into the armory, I had no idea I'd never see it again.
I would have also never thought that someday my 2nd amendment rights would be taken away from me. An amendment to the very same Constitution that I swore under oath to support and defend. Well, that's exactly what happened once my rating from the VA came back and they had deemed me “incompetent”. The very government that I volunteered to fight for in preservation of freedom took away my Constitutional, 2nd Amendment rights for the rest of my natural life.
I agree that at times in the past and even now that my owning a firearm isn't exactly the best thing for society. But you know, just as in combat, I believe fear and common sense would keep me in check and prevent me from doing anything stupid. I mean yeah, I admit to outbursts and breaking things, but I guess I'm one of the lucky ones. I not one of the “turning his aggression on to others in violent fits of rage leaving behind death and destruction” kinda crazy Vets. I'm more the “Lovable, I'm gonna slice you into bits with my tongue and burn a few bridges that I'll never be able to rebuild, then stand here in the kitchen and break all of your shit” crazy vets.
I don't know if it was all my “do no harm” medical training but I'd rather see myself hurt or an object destroyed rather than to ever lay a hand on my wife or those close to me. Now, if you fuck with them it's a different story. I'll be going to jail in a cop car, running lights and siren, shackled up like Hannibal Lecter if that ever happens.
Now I'm gonna speak even more candidly here for a minute. Every time the people at the VA ask me “Are you having any thoughts of doing harm to yourself?” there's a little voice inside my head that answers back in an arrogant, teenage bully kind of way “Well Duh!!! What the fuck would you do about it if I did?” Of course, I always answer with “NO” on the record. I'd rather not be locked away again for 5 days, heavily medicated, playing checkers with myself and trying to put together a model car they gave me with no fucking glue. Yeah, no thanks!
OK, I have to admit that there have been times that the thought has crossed my mind. If for just one minute I didn't have to carry the weight of this torment around or have the intrusive thoughts. If for just a little while I got to take a deep breath and could relax without my mind replaying sounds and flashing images of things which can not be unseen. If this constant pain would go away and quit gnawing on me, them maybe I wouldn't have thoughts of making them end permanently.
I've learned, through the help of my wife, to cope with these thoughts. When I'm really down she has this uncanny knack of reading me. She clinches her fist, draws back her arm and punches her way through my depression and grabs me up by the scruff of the neck. I can't tell you how many times she has pulled me back to reality. But I can tell you this; because of her I now have a reason NOT to entertain those thoughts. I hold onto her so desperately. I have a death grip on her. I know that sometimes I can be a bit too much to handle but no matter what the circumstance, she still loves me unconditionally. I catch myself asking her all the time if she's happy, wondering how she has the strength to find any pleasure while dealing with the way I am. I've written it before, she saved my life. She always brushes it off like I'm joking when I tell her. But the truth is she did. If it were not for this selfless soul I would be dead.
But back to the topic at hand. I can remember those first few weeks home without my weapon. I've never felt more naked in my life. When I first got home I still had all my personal weapons. So, I carried all the time. Just as in Iraq, my weapon was right there with me in bed, in the car, on the can, etc. And even though you're carrying a side arm, you find yourself looking around you for things to fashion into weapons. It was really hard for me to walk around without my M4 at the ready. Sort like when you quit smoking but you still need to do something with your hands. I needed that larger weapon to carry.
You have a desperate need carry something you can use to defend yourself with at all times. I was like most of the other older fellas in my unit. A large percentage of us had concealed weapon carry permits filed with the local authorities. On regular occasions we would get together on the weekends and go send some rounds down range at the local gun club. We all had our own stash of weapons at home safely locked away with trigger locks and strong boxes or safes.
I'm gonna leave out the personal stuff that led the VA to give me the rating they did. You don't need to know any of the gories.
So, after personal setbacks, years of not being able to hold down a job, dealing with this shit and waiting for my rating to come back, they told me all my weapons needed to go away. Luckily for me I was so broke by then that I had already had to sell all of them. So, the shock of what had just happened didn't sink in at first. But, the more I thought about it, the more I thought “how dare they.” How dare they train me to fight and condition me to defend myself, train me to do a shitty job no one else wants to do and that no one back home will support, and when all is said and done and I've outlived my usefulness, strip me of my rights and discard me? I kind of know what a racehorse with a broken leg feels like.
Now, I know it goes deeper than that and I've come to terms with it. I know they are only looking out for my best interest and safety of me and my loved ones, but goddamn. It doesn't make it hurt any less. And it sure as hell doesn't do any wonders for the ego.
“We sure do thank you and yours for killing all of those bad guys and breaking their shit and all... But, you see, now we're terrified of you and would really like it if you would just go away. So, here’s some pills that may or may not kill you in your sleep and, oh by the way... If you so much as touch another firearm again, we'll put you away for good in Federal 'pound you in the ass' prison. Got it? Oh and we almost forgot the best part... You're no longer allowed to handle your own money anymore either. Good luck with that and thanks for playing Sergent. Bye-bye now! *wink*”The sting of the thing has kind of worn off but it still chaps my ass. And if you were to ask if I still feel naked without a weapon I'd say “you bet your sweet ass I do!” If you'd like to know what it feels like, hang your bare ass out the window of a car and have your buddy drive eighty miles an hour as close to a barbed wire fence as he can without scratching you. That's about how I feel everyday that I don't have my weapon at the ready. Do I still wake up every day and think I should reach for my weapon? Yes, I do, but when I look, it's never there. Let me tell you, that's a shitty way to greet the day.
You know, if the VA wants to form a “support group” that actually does something other than cause more stress, all they would have to do is install an armory at their facilities. There would be no ammo necessary, just let us psychos get together once or twice a week, check out an inert firearm or two, clean and inspect them and shoot the shit.
So, yeah. I sit here before you a defective soldier. I am however still a soldier none the less even as defective as I am. I stand fast in the notion that it would be the very worst day of someone’s life if they ever broke into my home with or without a firearm. I have to.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Madeline
Two years ago, on the day we moved into our house, Chris brought home a rolli-polly puppy and it’s been a struggle with this dog since then. I know, dogs are supposed to be great for vets suffering from PTSD. There are programs out there to provide trained dogs to veterans in need.
Here’s the mistake we made to keep anyone else from ending up in our boat.
A long time ago, before Chris went to Iraq, he had a beautiful boarder collie. He trained her to the point she actually put her own toys away. His patience with that dog paid off in the long run because she was amazing. Unfortunately, when he came home, the dog was gone - long drawn out story about a lousy divorce started while he was in the combat zone.
When Chris and I got together, I wanted to help him rebuild his life to what it was before PTSD. That was my mistake. We can’t go back in time and right all the wrongs and fix all the mistakes. We can only move forward to where we’re going and hope we make better choices and create happy times.
He desperately wanted a puppy. But I knew in my heart this was a bad idea. Puppies are difficult. They’re like having a small child in the house. They cause stress and mess no matter how hard you try to keep them contained. So against my better judgment I said yes and we got Madeline.
Madeline is a strong willed beautiful dog. She however is now spastic, desperate, and terrified at times of Chris. His volatile nature is something the cats couldn’t care less about, but the dog cannot cope with. I have tried to train her and she does listen to me, but with him she’s either all on or all off. Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not a dog person and he realizes now that he just doesn’t have the patience or the temperament to train a dog like he did back in the day.
She causes a terrible amount of stress in our life and though I do love her I regret getting her not only for the stress she causes, but for her as well. She somehow knows she’s dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde situation so she takes her chances with Chris as much as she can to get a positive response. Most days, things are fine. When she just doesn’t give up and keeps jumping all over him eventually he yells and she cowers. It’s become an exercise in trying to keep the dog away from Chris and still giving her the attention she needs.
It’s incredibly difficult and I think this could have been avoided had we at the very least gotten an older dog. So, this is sort of a warning to those who are trying to rebuild. If you want a dog, think long and hard, but if you have a loved one in the house who has PTSD, think longer. Make more plans. Consider everything - breed, size of your home, time you have, patience. Consider your loved one’s ability to cope with a young animal and consider your commitment to caring for the animal yourself.
We’ve made the conscious decision to keep Madeline. She is family and she is ours. We’re working through the issues and though there is still a stressful push pull we are making headway. Chris recognizes his erratic behavior, though not a problem for the cats, is hard on the dog which is hard on him in return. He’s taking a breath and not yelling at her as much. We’re teaching her hand signals so he doesn’t have control his tone as much and she’s starting understand jumping is not acceptable with anyone, but especially Chris.
It’s working but it has been a long road. Don’t make the same mistake we did.
Here’s the mistake we made to keep anyone else from ending up in our boat.
A long time ago, before Chris went to Iraq, he had a beautiful boarder collie. He trained her to the point she actually put her own toys away. His patience with that dog paid off in the long run because she was amazing. Unfortunately, when he came home, the dog was gone - long drawn out story about a lousy divorce started while he was in the combat zone.
When Chris and I got together, I wanted to help him rebuild his life to what it was before PTSD. That was my mistake. We can’t go back in time and right all the wrongs and fix all the mistakes. We can only move forward to where we’re going and hope we make better choices and create happy times.
He desperately wanted a puppy. But I knew in my heart this was a bad idea. Puppies are difficult. They’re like having a small child in the house. They cause stress and mess no matter how hard you try to keep them contained. So against my better judgment I said yes and we got Madeline.
Madeline is a strong willed beautiful dog. She however is now spastic, desperate, and terrified at times of Chris. His volatile nature is something the cats couldn’t care less about, but the dog cannot cope with. I have tried to train her and she does listen to me, but with him she’s either all on or all off. Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not a dog person and he realizes now that he just doesn’t have the patience or the temperament to train a dog like he did back in the day.
She causes a terrible amount of stress in our life and though I do love her I regret getting her not only for the stress she causes, but for her as well. She somehow knows she’s dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde situation so she takes her chances with Chris as much as she can to get a positive response. Most days, things are fine. When she just doesn’t give up and keeps jumping all over him eventually he yells and she cowers. It’s become an exercise in trying to keep the dog away from Chris and still giving her the attention she needs.
It’s incredibly difficult and I think this could have been avoided had we at the very least gotten an older dog. So, this is sort of a warning to those who are trying to rebuild. If you want a dog, think long and hard, but if you have a loved one in the house who has PTSD, think longer. Make more plans. Consider everything - breed, size of your home, time you have, patience. Consider your loved one’s ability to cope with a young animal and consider your commitment to caring for the animal yourself.
We’ve made the conscious decision to keep Madeline. She is family and she is ours. We’re working through the issues and though there is still a stressful push pull we are making headway. Chris recognizes his erratic behavior, though not a problem for the cats, is hard on the dog which is hard on him in return. He’s taking a breath and not yelling at her as much. We’re teaching her hand signals so he doesn’t have control his tone as much and she’s starting understand jumping is not acceptable with anyone, but especially Chris.
It’s working but it has been a long road. Don’t make the same mistake we did.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Dismantling Monsters
I have the plague. Okay, I don’t, but I feel like I do. It all started a week ago not more than a couple hours after the VA field inspector rang my doorbell. I know it’s coincidence but I also know stress can cause a simple cold to become full blown Zombie Flu. Okay, okay, not Zombie flu… but here’s where I’m going with this.
When the field inspector called I smiled to Chris and shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal. He was dealing with his father being in the hospital so I chose to not pass on any of my fears to him.
And fears I had.
But now, after all is said and done, I don’t know why. Basically, Chris and I have been waiting for the field inspector to come to change my status from fiduciary to spouse payee for over a year. This fiduciary thing has irritated me from day one because in my eyes this man has suffered the removal of rights, the loss of his career, and lived every day with the fear he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t need any more indignities. So I bucked and bucked and built this VA monster up in my mind.
By the time the morning rolled around my walls were securely up against a snaggle toothed demon there to judge me and my ability to take care of Chris – yes, I’ve had this secret fear they could take him, childish I know.
When the gentleman came in I was almost shaking. In fact, I had a hell of a time filling out the paperwork because my hands weren’t steady.
This monster sat at my table and I found out the strangest thing. This VA rep was here to make sure not only Chris was benefiting from his benefits but that I had shifted my way of thinking and that I was taking care of myself.
Me. He was concerned about me.
We spoke about aid and attendance, that I needed to place my own needs into the budget every month, and then he talked a while about the fact I hadn’t put in for health care.
I didn’t know I had health benefits. He was so genuinely concerned I was, I’m embarrassed to say, flabbergasted. This is the VA we’re talking about here. Seriously. That horrible place where veterans are shoved around and mistreated.
I realized I’d allowed stories I’ve read and angry people who didn’t get the service they wanted color my view. Yes, we had issues in the beginning, and yes it’s still a bloated organization that has had some major scandals, but the individuals, specifically the man who came to our house, give me hope that I was spending too much time with a broad brush painting the whole organization with my fear.
I still have the plague – a cold – and I believe I caused it to be worse than it should have been. Those of us who are taking care of veterans need to relax and not allow our stress to take over. Unknown fears are just that. Unknown. No need to build a monster.
And I have a special shout-out to Groupon. Thank you for joining Not Alone and helping us spread the word.
When the field inspector called I smiled to Chris and shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal. He was dealing with his father being in the hospital so I chose to not pass on any of my fears to him.
And fears I had.
But now, after all is said and done, I don’t know why. Basically, Chris and I have been waiting for the field inspector to come to change my status from fiduciary to spouse payee for over a year. This fiduciary thing has irritated me from day one because in my eyes this man has suffered the removal of rights, the loss of his career, and lived every day with the fear he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t need any more indignities. So I bucked and bucked and built this VA monster up in my mind.
By the time the morning rolled around my walls were securely up against a snaggle toothed demon there to judge me and my ability to take care of Chris – yes, I’ve had this secret fear they could take him, childish I know.
When the gentleman came in I was almost shaking. In fact, I had a hell of a time filling out the paperwork because my hands weren’t steady.
This monster sat at my table and I found out the strangest thing. This VA rep was here to make sure not only Chris was benefiting from his benefits but that I had shifted my way of thinking and that I was taking care of myself.
Me. He was concerned about me.
We spoke about aid and attendance, that I needed to place my own needs into the budget every month, and then he talked a while about the fact I hadn’t put in for health care.
I didn’t know I had health benefits. He was so genuinely concerned I was, I’m embarrassed to say, flabbergasted. This is the VA we’re talking about here. Seriously. That horrible place where veterans are shoved around and mistreated.
I realized I’d allowed stories I’ve read and angry people who didn’t get the service they wanted color my view. Yes, we had issues in the beginning, and yes it’s still a bloated organization that has had some major scandals, but the individuals, specifically the man who came to our house, give me hope that I was spending too much time with a broad brush painting the whole organization with my fear.
I still have the plague – a cold – and I believe I caused it to be worse than it should have been. Those of us who are taking care of veterans need to relax and not allow our stress to take over. Unknown fears are just that. Unknown. No need to build a monster.
And I have a special shout-out to Groupon. Thank you for joining Not Alone and helping us spread the word.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
When
When do we get to call him a survivor? When will there be t-shirts and wrist-bands commemorating his fight?
When will the fight be over?
I sat mulling over the word survivor for hours.
He came home from war and ‘it’ reared its ugly head as soon as he attempted to regain a normal life. He tasted gun oil, spent time in the hospital, took meds, saw doctors, and fought like hell to recreate something similar to normality.
For a long time it didn’t look like he was going to make it. But then he met someone. Someone who was willing to look past the duffle full of issues he’d carried with him since war awarded him with its dark parting gifts.
They built a life together. Got married. Bought a house. And they were generally happy. But it reared its head each time they thought they were free.
Still they lived on together in happiness even with its presence looming like a black cloud waiting for an opportunity to remind them and reclaim him.
But when does he become a survivor instead of a sufferer? We’ve clung to each other for three years and I have no intentions of him being a sufferer forever. But when? I want a new title.
I want him to be a survivor and I say he is.
It’s been years since he’s been in the field. He’s survived gunfire, IEDs, mortars. He survived his own attempts to quiet the voices. He’s survived to build a life not ruled by alcohol and anger, drugs or violence.
He’s managed to stay alive a damn long time. Longer than, at one point, I thought he would. Isn’t this the definition of survivor?
But he says no. Not a survivor until it’s gone. We disagree on this point and will continue to do so, because when I look at him I see him surviving.
When will the fight be over?
I sat mulling over the word survivor for hours.
He came home from war and ‘it’ reared its ugly head as soon as he attempted to regain a normal life. He tasted gun oil, spent time in the hospital, took meds, saw doctors, and fought like hell to recreate something similar to normality.
For a long time it didn’t look like he was going to make it. But then he met someone. Someone who was willing to look past the duffle full of issues he’d carried with him since war awarded him with its dark parting gifts.
They built a life together. Got married. Bought a house. And they were generally happy. But it reared its head each time they thought they were free.
Still they lived on together in happiness even with its presence looming like a black cloud waiting for an opportunity to remind them and reclaim him.
But when does he become a survivor instead of a sufferer? We’ve clung to each other for three years and I have no intentions of him being a sufferer forever. But when? I want a new title.
I want him to be a survivor and I say he is.
It’s been years since he’s been in the field. He’s survived gunfire, IEDs, mortars. He survived his own attempts to quiet the voices. He’s survived to build a life not ruled by alcohol and anger, drugs or violence.
He’s managed to stay alive a damn long time. Longer than, at one point, I thought he would. Isn’t this the definition of survivor?
But he says no. Not a survivor until it’s gone. We disagree on this point and will continue to do so, because when I look at him I see him surviving.
Monday, April 25, 2011
All Questions and No Answers
I am always thrilled when my husband writes, but when he chooses to share it's a special day. This is another of his pieces he's graciously allowed me to post here at Not Alone.
How did I get here? I mean today. How did I get to this point? For all intents and purposes I should be dead or at the very least in jail. And why me? Why am I one of the lucky ones who has a nice warm bed to sleep in and what, from the outside, is a seemingly normal life? There are so many vets who are homeless, dead or trapped in the infinite loop that is dealing with the VA. Why was I spared? Why am I so lucky? This almost feels the same as what the doctors told me was the “survivors guilt” I struggled with when I got home. There are teenagers who will forget what it was like to walk or the simple task of shaking ones hand, yet I waltzed through my deployment mostly unscathed. I would really like the answers but I can't seem to find them in the jumbled up mess that is my mind.
How am I allowed to roam free? You see, under certain circumstances I have absolutely zero control over my anger. None. Granted, I have to be pushed but not nearly as far as in the past. I keep asking myself this question and to be honest, I cannot tell you the answer. What is it that I have inside that keeps me from going off the deep end and taking weapons to town or from tearing someone into tiny pieces?
Could it have something to do with my medical training? Is there something in my self-conscious that maintains a “do no harm” attitude? I can't tell you. All I know is that I've been able to stay clear of situations that would land me in front of a judge then behind bars. I wish it were as easy as taking some blood and running a few tests to find out the answer. I sure as hell wish I could give a small bit of whatever this is I have to my brothers and sisters dealing with this.
I once had a doctor ask me to tell him about my recent dealings with law enforcement and any trouble I'd been in since coming home. When I told him there was nothing to report, he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. But, I did admit to him that I've shut down. I never leave the house and when I do, it's rarely for more than an hour and I limit the mileage between me and home. I always have an exit plan and I know a number of routes to get me back quickly. I figure if I go ahead and lock myself away, the authorities won't have to do it for me.
There is a monster lurking just under the skin and every once in a while I see his devilish eyes peering back at me in the mirror. I know he's there. Tormenting me and pacing back and forth in his cage stopping frequently to rattle the bars. If I never give this monster the chance to destroy anything outside of the house, the chances are we'll be OK at the end of the day.
The one thing I've learned to do however is to keep myself constantly occupied. I need a hobby always. As long as my mind and my hands are engaged, I maintain a level of normalcy. Granted I have bouts with anger even when doing something I like. Sometimes, tedious aspects of whatever project I'm working on drive me to the point of destruction. I have actually sent things I've spent hours even days on crashing into the wall and onto the floor. I can't help it. But, for the most part, a hobby is just the thing I need to keep me on an even keel. The more challenging the project is the better. I find that if my mind is always working out complex problems I'm less likely to dwell on the macabre images my mind persistently conjure up.
I really wish I could work. There is no feeling in the world quite like the guilt one gets from laying on their ass all day when they know how able they are to work. Sort of that scared, sick feeling you got when you fibbed about being sick to stay home from school as a kid. That, “I can't leave the house or someone might see me” paranoia. The sad truth is, I lack the patience to play well with others. The several jobs I lost once I got home is a painful reminder of that.
I inherited my grandfather's work ethic. “Never let the boss see you slacking. Always be on time. Always do your best. Give the boss an honest days work for an honest days pay”... That sort of thing.
Before I got infected with this damned PTSD, I obeyed these teachings as though they were gospel. When I worked, I stayed with the same employer for years. By the time I entered the military, I was fully prepared to make it my career. I had everything in place and PTSD broke my window, climbed in and stole everything. All I could do was stand there with my mouth open in disbelief. Gone was the years of reliability I had to offer an employer. I went from being dependable and trustworthy to being someone my coworkers were afraid of. Until after I got home I had never been “asked to leave” a job. Also, I was never the kind to walk away without finishing the task at hand. All that is gone now and I can't hold a job to save my ass.
So... How did I get here? What keeps me safe? Well, I can tell you that I am very blessed. I have the best support system in the world. I have a wife who loves me for who I am no matter how broke up and ugly I get. A true saint that gives and gives even though she knows that sometimes I can't give back. She doesn't judge me. And you know, I think some of success to our relationship comes from the fact that she has no idea about who I was before PTSD. She never knew the flawed individual and the soldier that left. All she sees is the person I am now.
This raises another question. How is it that I'm capable of maintaining a relationship? There again, I don't know. I know I'm a huge burden on her. She could have picked way better than me. She could have had it easier. She could have ended up with someone normal. God knows why she chose me but I'm damned glad she did. She actually saved my life and on more than one occasion. She's talked the gun out of my mouth and held my hand and led me from the ledge. And these are not exaggerations.
I can tell you what doesn't work. The drugs the VA wanted to force-feed me. The cocktail of anti-psychotics, the antidepressants and the blood pressure medication that was supposed to help with my nightmares. They made me sick and zombie-like and caused physical issues which I'm still dealing with today. The doctors at the VA didn't want to even entertain the fact that they were not working for me and their answer was to up the dosage. Fuck that! I refuse to replace one problem with another. So I stopped taking them. As a medic, I knew better but I quit them cold turkey and didn't wean myself off them. That was a shitty month.
Do you know what the damnedest thing is? I set here writing this, hoping that some of my words may help others like me, but I can offer no advice on how to deal with this thing. Most days it's like trying to piss up a rope. The other thing that really scares the shit out of me is the fact the this thing rarely affects every person who has it in the same way. If you read up, it seems like everyone has different or unique problems associated with PTSD. It's the damned “fingerprint” of disorders and everyone experiences differences in severity and symptoms.
Honestly, it would be easier to school those who are caring for someone with this disorder than it is to even begin to help one in trying to recover from it.
How did I get here? I mean today. How did I get to this point? For all intents and purposes I should be dead or at the very least in jail. And why me? Why am I one of the lucky ones who has a nice warm bed to sleep in and what, from the outside, is a seemingly normal life? There are so many vets who are homeless, dead or trapped in the infinite loop that is dealing with the VA. Why was I spared? Why am I so lucky? This almost feels the same as what the doctors told me was the “survivors guilt” I struggled with when I got home. There are teenagers who will forget what it was like to walk or the simple task of shaking ones hand, yet I waltzed through my deployment mostly unscathed. I would really like the answers but I can't seem to find them in the jumbled up mess that is my mind.
How am I allowed to roam free? You see, under certain circumstances I have absolutely zero control over my anger. None. Granted, I have to be pushed but not nearly as far as in the past. I keep asking myself this question and to be honest, I cannot tell you the answer. What is it that I have inside that keeps me from going off the deep end and taking weapons to town or from tearing someone into tiny pieces?
Could it have something to do with my medical training? Is there something in my self-conscious that maintains a “do no harm” attitude? I can't tell you. All I know is that I've been able to stay clear of situations that would land me in front of a judge then behind bars. I wish it were as easy as taking some blood and running a few tests to find out the answer. I sure as hell wish I could give a small bit of whatever this is I have to my brothers and sisters dealing with this.
I once had a doctor ask me to tell him about my recent dealings with law enforcement and any trouble I'd been in since coming home. When I told him there was nothing to report, he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. But, I did admit to him that I've shut down. I never leave the house and when I do, it's rarely for more than an hour and I limit the mileage between me and home. I always have an exit plan and I know a number of routes to get me back quickly. I figure if I go ahead and lock myself away, the authorities won't have to do it for me.
There is a monster lurking just under the skin and every once in a while I see his devilish eyes peering back at me in the mirror. I know he's there. Tormenting me and pacing back and forth in his cage stopping frequently to rattle the bars. If I never give this monster the chance to destroy anything outside of the house, the chances are we'll be OK at the end of the day.
The one thing I've learned to do however is to keep myself constantly occupied. I need a hobby always. As long as my mind and my hands are engaged, I maintain a level of normalcy. Granted I have bouts with anger even when doing something I like. Sometimes, tedious aspects of whatever project I'm working on drive me to the point of destruction. I have actually sent things I've spent hours even days on crashing into the wall and onto the floor. I can't help it. But, for the most part, a hobby is just the thing I need to keep me on an even keel. The more challenging the project is the better. I find that if my mind is always working out complex problems I'm less likely to dwell on the macabre images my mind persistently conjure up.
I really wish I could work. There is no feeling in the world quite like the guilt one gets from laying on their ass all day when they know how able they are to work. Sort of that scared, sick feeling you got when you fibbed about being sick to stay home from school as a kid. That, “I can't leave the house or someone might see me” paranoia. The sad truth is, I lack the patience to play well with others. The several jobs I lost once I got home is a painful reminder of that.
I inherited my grandfather's work ethic. “Never let the boss see you slacking. Always be on time. Always do your best. Give the boss an honest days work for an honest days pay”... That sort of thing.
Before I got infected with this damned PTSD, I obeyed these teachings as though they were gospel. When I worked, I stayed with the same employer for years. By the time I entered the military, I was fully prepared to make it my career. I had everything in place and PTSD broke my window, climbed in and stole everything. All I could do was stand there with my mouth open in disbelief. Gone was the years of reliability I had to offer an employer. I went from being dependable and trustworthy to being someone my coworkers were afraid of. Until after I got home I had never been “asked to leave” a job. Also, I was never the kind to walk away without finishing the task at hand. All that is gone now and I can't hold a job to save my ass.
So... How did I get here? What keeps me safe? Well, I can tell you that I am very blessed. I have the best support system in the world. I have a wife who loves me for who I am no matter how broke up and ugly I get. A true saint that gives and gives even though she knows that sometimes I can't give back. She doesn't judge me. And you know, I think some of success to our relationship comes from the fact that she has no idea about who I was before PTSD. She never knew the flawed individual and the soldier that left. All she sees is the person I am now.
This raises another question. How is it that I'm capable of maintaining a relationship? There again, I don't know. I know I'm a huge burden on her. She could have picked way better than me. She could have had it easier. She could have ended up with someone normal. God knows why she chose me but I'm damned glad she did. She actually saved my life and on more than one occasion. She's talked the gun out of my mouth and held my hand and led me from the ledge. And these are not exaggerations.
I can tell you what doesn't work. The drugs the VA wanted to force-feed me. The cocktail of anti-psychotics, the antidepressants and the blood pressure medication that was supposed to help with my nightmares. They made me sick and zombie-like and caused physical issues which I'm still dealing with today. The doctors at the VA didn't want to even entertain the fact that they were not working for me and their answer was to up the dosage. Fuck that! I refuse to replace one problem with another. So I stopped taking them. As a medic, I knew better but I quit them cold turkey and didn't wean myself off them. That was a shitty month.
Do you know what the damnedest thing is? I set here writing this, hoping that some of my words may help others like me, but I can offer no advice on how to deal with this thing. Most days it's like trying to piss up a rope. The other thing that really scares the shit out of me is the fact the this thing rarely affects every person who has it in the same way. If you read up, it seems like everyone has different or unique problems associated with PTSD. It's the damned “fingerprint” of disorders and everyone experiences differences in severity and symptoms.
Honestly, it would be easier to school those who are caring for someone with this disorder than it is to even begin to help one in trying to recover from it.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Twisting Love to Hate
Chris has changed a little since I met him. Mostly, he’s changed for the better. But in some ways it’s worse or maybe he’s just letting me see farther into the façade he’s built around himself.
A little boy wandered across the street the other day. He’s the new neighbor’s boy, about three years old, Mexican, and hopefully, doesn’t speak English. I say this because my husband’s reaction to him was rather… negative.
Chris didn’t yell at him, he just turned white and came inside after uttering a few choice phrases. He then began ranting about how the damned neighbors should take care of their damned children and that he didn’t want kids on his property and so on. He was visibly shaken in a way just a random child should not have caused. I listened and then I went outside and walked the little boy across the street giving him back to his now frantic mother who’d been inside yelling his name.
When the little boy looked up at me with those darling brown eyes as I coxed him to follow me I realized what was happening. See as a medic, Chris worked on everyone, including Iraqi children who’d been accidentally caught in the crossfire. That little round dark face with out of place black hair was too much, too close. Too many memories. Too many little faces.
We spoke later that day about it and Chris told me with a mostly horrified look on his face that he hated children. It was easier than loving them and knowing what had happened to so many. His mind was doing all it could to keep his heart from tearing. In turn mine bled for his because I knew it pained him to have to feel this way.
I know I say it a lot, but I just can’t imagine. I know the stories, some of which I will never repeat out of respect, but I can’t imagine how a man who has two beautiful young daughters and has been a wonderful step-father to my two boys can harbor such feelings and function as a father. It could be we have two adult kids and two teenagers but no little ones.
Chris’s mind tells him he ‘hates kids’. I know he hasn’t always. He described to me once ruining a uniform making cotton candy for the kids at a family day on base. He loved kids once upon a time. Now though, his strained smile at the laughter and antics of children betray his thoughts to me.
Things change. People change.
War changed Chris. It caused an MC Escher sort of compound around his core. I have learned the path inside, it’s easy now, but I’m afraid very few other people will be able to get past the many twisted stairwells and deadly guard towers and I’m realizing I’m still making my way gingerly along a path he’s setting out for me. Still learning, still watching him discover just how much his experiences in Iraq have changed who he is.
But, in the very same breath I say war changed Chris I know that change is possible. This is good. Change brings new opportunities to deal and heal.
War changed him which means he, as well as all of us, can change. We can change our approach and help those who need our help to change. He can change, too. Change is good even when at the time it sometimes feels awful. It’s still movement and movement is the only thing that keeps us from stagnating.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Spewing Hate
Usually, I have very thick skin. It comes from spending years working as a potter, having kids, and generally being someone who’s chosen to swim against the tide since I was a child. A week or so ago, on a forum I frequented – and I’m using past tense for a reason – a discussion came up about an incident in Afghanistan.
Now, understand, I never found the words to discuss the actual issue because the words written by someone who’d never set foot anywhere near the military or in a war zone took me so far off kilter I couldn’t think of anything to say but fuck you.
He called my husband a murderer.
Okay, I’ll be fair. He called all soldiers murderers. I would quote the actual post, but I suspect copyright issues could be a problem. Let’s just say the words mental aberrations and fucking psychos were prominent in the description of the type of people our military counts among it’s ranks.
This little man, who is a child of maybe twenty, went on to describe the type of people who join, how they interact, and what being in a war zone is like. All without even a glimmer of actual experience under his wee belt.
I walked away from the forum because I realized as the discussion went on it just wasn’t my crowd anymore. I didn’t feel like defending my husband against a child who is barely old enough to remember the beginning of the war or against anyone else. I spend enough time holding him while he begs me to help him get better. Watching him break out in a panic because he’s hearing the mortars again. Enough time knowing he’s not going to sleep, he’s never going to be totally better, and he’s always going to remember.
But it’s left a horribly bad taste in my mouth. I know there are more people out there who feel the same. They were the ones spitting on our boys who came home from Vietnam and called them baby killers. Now they just sit behind the comfort of a keyboard and spew their thoughts against the very people who defend their right to spread their venom.
It tightens my chest. With everything these men and women deal with, knowing their own people will judge them when they come home really struck me in a way I’d never experienced. It was like a truck hit my chest. From the day I met my husband I knew I would never understand what he walked and because of this I’ve never considered judging him or what he did while he was at war.
So in an attempt to feel better and stop dwelling on the whole ugly viewpoint, I’ll post my response to this young man’s gleaned from the air knowledge of the military.
You know nothing. You are an inexperienced child who is regurgitating information spoon fed to you while you sit in the safety of a country protected by our military. Go look up your local vet center and sit in the waiting room while the men and women who’ve served this country over the long years filter through. Watch them for a moment then see if you can sit in on a group session. I have. Ask them questions, but don’t ask if they’ve ever killed anyone. They don’t want to remember those days.
They’re at the vet center to find some normality, to find peace, and to find a safe place where they can hash out their experiences without being judged. Once you get to know some people with different experiences than you and have widened your world, see if you find it so easy to judge others.
Oh, and bugger off you absolute twit.
Now, understand, I never found the words to discuss the actual issue because the words written by someone who’d never set foot anywhere near the military or in a war zone took me so far off kilter I couldn’t think of anything to say but fuck you.
He called my husband a murderer.
Okay, I’ll be fair. He called all soldiers murderers. I would quote the actual post, but I suspect copyright issues could be a problem. Let’s just say the words mental aberrations and fucking psychos were prominent in the description of the type of people our military counts among it’s ranks.
This little man, who is a child of maybe twenty, went on to describe the type of people who join, how they interact, and what being in a war zone is like. All without even a glimmer of actual experience under his wee belt.
I walked away from the forum because I realized as the discussion went on it just wasn’t my crowd anymore. I didn’t feel like defending my husband against a child who is barely old enough to remember the beginning of the war or against anyone else. I spend enough time holding him while he begs me to help him get better. Watching him break out in a panic because he’s hearing the mortars again. Enough time knowing he’s not going to sleep, he’s never going to be totally better, and he’s always going to remember.
But it’s left a horribly bad taste in my mouth. I know there are more people out there who feel the same. They were the ones spitting on our boys who came home from Vietnam and called them baby killers. Now they just sit behind the comfort of a keyboard and spew their thoughts against the very people who defend their right to spread their venom.
It tightens my chest. With everything these men and women deal with, knowing their own people will judge them when they come home really struck me in a way I’d never experienced. It was like a truck hit my chest. From the day I met my husband I knew I would never understand what he walked and because of this I’ve never considered judging him or what he did while he was at war.
So in an attempt to feel better and stop dwelling on the whole ugly viewpoint, I’ll post my response to this young man’s gleaned from the air knowledge of the military.
You know nothing. You are an inexperienced child who is regurgitating information spoon fed to you while you sit in the safety of a country protected by our military. Go look up your local vet center and sit in the waiting room while the men and women who’ve served this country over the long years filter through. Watch them for a moment then see if you can sit in on a group session. I have. Ask them questions, but don’t ask if they’ve ever killed anyone. They don’t want to remember those days.
They’re at the vet center to find some normality, to find peace, and to find a safe place where they can hash out their experiences without being judged. Once you get to know some people with different experiences than you and have widened your world, see if you find it so easy to judge others.
Oh, and bugger off you absolute twit.
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