It took a few weeks, but Chris shared with me another piece he'd written. And graciously he has agreed to allow me to share it with you...
I made some headway today. A small breakthrough towards recovery if you will, if there is such a thing. Somewhere underneath the layers of shit that has become my mind there remains a spark of the original fire which once burned bright and infinite. Something happened to me today that made me feel as though the real me, the old me is still in there jumping up and down, waving and screaming. I saw him today. I heard him speak.
The calm, cool and collected man that once dwelled within these halls came back for a visit. For as brief as it was, it was still a visit. It gave me hope that maybe someday he can come back to stay. I know all too well that a new set of circumstances will emerge that will give rise to the tyrant again. But for now, right now, the guns are silent and the field is still. I'll take it any way I can get it.
See, I was going to write about how I am no longer able to verbally communicate anymore.
One of the largest issues I struggle with now is a generalized lack of verbal communication. I was born with the gift of gab and always found it very easy, even from a young age, to fully express myself to others through speech alone. I was like a fucking pint sized motivational speaker who also sold used cars. By the time I was entering adulthood, I had created a network of acquaintances from all walks of life and in a small town like mine, I pretty much had Carte Blanche.
Where ever I went I was able to network to get me where I needed to be. From the didactic standpoint it has always been very easy for me to retain knowledge through little more than hearing it in the background. I swear, honestly all I did throughout my educational career was show up and only half pay attention and was able to pass subjects without studying. Both of these attributes served me very well in college and in the military. Very well indeed. Speaking in front of large groups, conducting classes and briefings were as natural to me as breathing.
Since my return home, I've slowly turned into little more than a high functioning bowl of snot-flavored Jello. Early on, I was just angry and emotional. Now I'm angry, emotional AND retarded and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. I swear to god it's like I'm reverting back to my primordial self. At this rate, it won't be long before I start clubbing dinosaurs in the nut sack. The only thing I can still do to express myself, aside from the tried and true “middle finger” is setting here, in front of this soul stealing porn box typing away. And even that gets mucked up sometimes so bad that I have to walk away.
It's almost like there is a bridge out in my head. Like traffic has to detour around town to get the to expressway to my mouth. Sometimes there’s a moron in the passing lane texting and they take out the guardrail. The only real problem with that is that there's so much fog up there that about five or six others plummet off to their demise as well. Then come the “looky-loos” who rubberneck and back the damn traffic up until the whole damned upper east side gets gridlocked. At this point what began as a clearly thought out and executed verbal response to normal interacting communication has now turned into a long string of glistening drool hanging from my lip accompanied by the light sounds of crickets in the background.
Well, today the tension level in the house reach a crescendo. You see, my twenty-year-old daughter recently moved into our home. We had been estranged for most of her childhood. As with all twenty-somethings I've ever known, her personal level of drama is rivaled only by her incredible sense of self-loathing. Emotionally she's a train wreck and as much as it sucks, in this house, her train not only wrecks but the emotional fuel which fired the train is made by NASA so when it explodes it takes out two counties. Well, that is to say that's solely because of my inability to cope. My instability causes seemingly normal issues to become enough of a threat to household security that I go into DEFCON 4.
Today however something inside of me was different. For the first time in over six years I spoke calmly. My breathing never elevated, my heart rate was at a normal level and those beads of sweat that form on my hands and face when I have to deal with issues was absent. Gone also was the “puffy” stance the wife says I get when irritated.
As with everything I've learned from PTSD it never ceases to amaze me how sometimes situations still find a way to dictate. Today, somewhere in the deep dark reaches of my psyche behind the battlefront, the messenger climbed aboard his motorcycle and took a vital communique to the commander at the front. Needless to say there was plenty of opposition but he made it through and a temporary armistice was negotiated.
I can't set here and honestly say to you that I know why. Maybe it's because she's my little girl and I love her with all my heart. Maybe it's that I see so much potential in her that to watch her fail and not intervene would be one of the greatest tragedies in my life and hers. Hell, maybe it's as simple as chemical levels in my brain being freakishly normal for a brief moment. Who knows? I don't care. For the first time in this kid's life I was her Dad. Not merely a biological interest. No, a real dad. The kind that uses his life experiences and delivers them in a manner that is not only relevant but can be used to explain the point I was trying to make. The kind of dad I always wanted. I was able to rationally discuss with her all the issues that needed to be aired.
I have to tell you. When the realization of this finally sunk in, I was proud, happy, anxious and sad all at the same time. But all of these feelings paled in comparison to the actual deed. For the first time since leaving my post I had taken a bad situation and resolved it without punching a wall or banging my fists to the table. I didn't raise my voice nor did anything get broken. It was enlightening if only for a moment. Am I cured? No. Even I'm not crazy enough to believe that. Is it a step in the right direction? God, I hope so.
It felt really good to be me. And if I spend the rest of my days circling the bowl, well at least I had this brief moment of clarity. And you know what? Right now, today and on the heels of the stress that is this holiday... It's good enough.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Wrestling the Reaper
"Achieving life is not the equivalent of avoiding death." -Ayn Rand
A simple quote I’ve had associated with my screen name on many forums over the years. But I stopped today to really examine it because yesterday Chris and I spoke of life, death, and adrenaline rushes.
It started as a discussion about finding a gym. I used to work as a self-defense/fighting/fitness instructor and I miss it. I spent my days with gloves on my hands, calling my students cupcakes, and seeing how far I could push them without making them drop – though sometimes admittedly a few did. My students knew me well from my double yes yes after I’d given an instruction to my favorite statement ‘it ain’t over till someone pukes or cries.’ Out of the six men I worked beside on the self-defense side of the house, I was considered by many the meanest instructor in the place and it was well earned. I was physically the smallest so in training I had to try to be the biggest dog in the pound. But I got hurt because of my inability to tap out when I’d been beat. Losing was something I couldn’t avoid sometimes but admitting it and giving up was something entirely unacceptable.
So when I told Chris I wanted to find a gym and maybe give working out in a class a try again, he got this panicked look across his face. He knows me, he knows my injuries. He knows how I choose to test limits until my shoulders are out of joint and I’m hurting from head to toe. He knows the doctors said not one more concussion.
But I know him as well. We were both adrenaline junkies at one point or another, only his involved Iraq and things I’d rather never experience personally. So we started to talk about adrenaline and that high we both remember so well and still crave.
He talked about getting through a patrol when things got hot. His only way to describe the feeling afterward was with an almost insane laughter. He misses it, like I miss what I used to do. It does seem strange to outsiders. No one in my family understood why I wanted to fight and I get the feeling no one in Chris’ family understood why he volunteered to stay after his tour in Iraq was up. But I do.
Avoiding death is not the same as achieving life, but cheating death is even more thrilling. Do it too much and I’m guessing it haunts you in way most don’t understand. I think that inner conflict between the anxiety and fear and the secret need for the excitement those days brought will always be a silent struggle. He gets a certain gleam in his eyes when he talks about Iraq but there are always memories tucked in to the stories that steal the fondness away just as fast. It’s that desire to go back and the fear of going back that seem to work on him the most. Like a drug you know will kill you eventually but you want it so desperately.
That want causes him to buy games he eventually cannot play after one or two sessions. The gunfire, the too real graphics all end up seeping into the back of his mind bringing to light the other memories, the ones he’s buried and tried to forget.
I’m not sure what the point of all this is other than I’ve been doing a bit of soul searching lately. Some things I see catch my eye and make me wonder. The depth of this thing, and I call it a thing because some days it seems solid like a gorilla in the room tossing things about, is immense. The more people I speak to, the more I realize there isn’t a one size fits all cure.
A simple quote I’ve had associated with my screen name on many forums over the years. But I stopped today to really examine it because yesterday Chris and I spoke of life, death, and adrenaline rushes.
It started as a discussion about finding a gym. I used to work as a self-defense/fighting/fitness instructor and I miss it. I spent my days with gloves on my hands, calling my students cupcakes, and seeing how far I could push them without making them drop – though sometimes admittedly a few did. My students knew me well from my double yes yes after I’d given an instruction to my favorite statement ‘it ain’t over till someone pukes or cries.’ Out of the six men I worked beside on the self-defense side of the house, I was considered by many the meanest instructor in the place and it was well earned. I was physically the smallest so in training I had to try to be the biggest dog in the pound. But I got hurt because of my inability to tap out when I’d been beat. Losing was something I couldn’t avoid sometimes but admitting it and giving up was something entirely unacceptable.
So when I told Chris I wanted to find a gym and maybe give working out in a class a try again, he got this panicked look across his face. He knows me, he knows my injuries. He knows how I choose to test limits until my shoulders are out of joint and I’m hurting from head to toe. He knows the doctors said not one more concussion.
But I know him as well. We were both adrenaline junkies at one point or another, only his involved Iraq and things I’d rather never experience personally. So we started to talk about adrenaline and that high we both remember so well and still crave.
He talked about getting through a patrol when things got hot. His only way to describe the feeling afterward was with an almost insane laughter. He misses it, like I miss what I used to do. It does seem strange to outsiders. No one in my family understood why I wanted to fight and I get the feeling no one in Chris’ family understood why he volunteered to stay after his tour in Iraq was up. But I do.
Avoiding death is not the same as achieving life, but cheating death is even more thrilling. Do it too much and I’m guessing it haunts you in way most don’t understand. I think that inner conflict between the anxiety and fear and the secret need for the excitement those days brought will always be a silent struggle. He gets a certain gleam in his eyes when he talks about Iraq but there are always memories tucked in to the stories that steal the fondness away just as fast. It’s that desire to go back and the fear of going back that seem to work on him the most. Like a drug you know will kill you eventually but you want it so desperately.
That want causes him to buy games he eventually cannot play after one or two sessions. The gunfire, the too real graphics all end up seeping into the back of his mind bringing to light the other memories, the ones he’s buried and tried to forget.
I’m not sure what the point of all this is other than I’ve been doing a bit of soul searching lately. Some things I see catch my eye and make me wonder. The depth of this thing, and I call it a thing because some days it seems solid like a gorilla in the room tossing things about, is immense. The more people I speak to, the more I realize there isn’t a one size fits all cure.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I Dreamed of Iraq
Nightmares are not new to me. My earliest memories involve dreams of things growing out the floor and houses with dimly lit plywood mazes filled with monsters I could hear but never glimpse.
Last night I dreamed of Iraq. We were home, Chris and I and my youngest son, enjoying beautiful Southern California weather and standing in the garage. Around the edges of my vision the landscape began to change. The colors washed out and heat distorted the distance. Soon I could hear small arms fire.
I was first to see them. A group of soldiers hunkered down behind a short wall sending rounds down range. When they saw us they called for my husband.
Maybe they were short a medic, maybe they needed cover, or maybe I was just having an anxiety dream about the knowledge that, given the chance, Chris would go back in a heartbeat. And in my dream he did go. He ran off back into the sand leaving us to watch the war drift closer and closer until in enveloped our world.
At six when I woke I told myself the dream would leave me like so many of them do after a few hours. Only a small number of very specific images linger in my mind for more than that. This one however has not only lingered but has hung at the back of my eyes all day waiting for a chance to create the hot feeling I get across the bridge of nose warning me of impending tears.
I learned a new sympathy for Chris though I know what I experienced is nothing close to the dreams that wake him screaming some nights. Why? Because the monsters I dreamed of do not exist.
Chris’ monsters are real and he’ll always carry them.
Last night I dreamed of Iraq. We were home, Chris and I and my youngest son, enjoying beautiful Southern California weather and standing in the garage. Around the edges of my vision the landscape began to change. The colors washed out and heat distorted the distance. Soon I could hear small arms fire.
I was first to see them. A group of soldiers hunkered down behind a short wall sending rounds down range. When they saw us they called for my husband.
Maybe they were short a medic, maybe they needed cover, or maybe I was just having an anxiety dream about the knowledge that, given the chance, Chris would go back in a heartbeat. And in my dream he did go. He ran off back into the sand leaving us to watch the war drift closer and closer until in enveloped our world.
At six when I woke I told myself the dream would leave me like so many of them do after a few hours. Only a small number of very specific images linger in my mind for more than that. This one however has not only lingered but has hung at the back of my eyes all day waiting for a chance to create the hot feeling I get across the bridge of nose warning me of impending tears.
I learned a new sympathy for Chris though I know what I experienced is nothing close to the dreams that wake him screaming some nights. Why? Because the monsters I dreamed of do not exist.
Chris’ monsters are real and he’ll always carry them.
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