I have a guilty pleasure. Reality TV. Not because I like to watch other people’s drama, but because I like to watch people. And why not, I write fiction. It’s like stealthy research for future characters, and yes, I have a little black book full of juicy notes.
Yesterday a show called hoarders was on all day. Marathon style is always my favorite because I can get other things done while feeding my curiosity about human nature. A gentleman came on. Good looking guy, nicely dressed, soft spoken, Navy veteran. His house was packed full of stuff. Not trash, not pets and filth, just stuff.
His big moment was showing the home to his girlfriend. He’d come to the epiphany that he wanted a long-term meaningful relationship with her and he knew he had to change. She had no idea what to expect, but she kept insisting she loved him.
Her reaction when she walked into this man’s house was “what is wrong with you” and “this is what crazy people do.” He was crushed. He’d reached out and had his hand slapped away.
I’ve been steaming about that show ever since. In fact I spent over an hour afterward ranting about her abandoning this man she professed to love.
I remember the moment Chris told me there was something wrong. Something broken inside his head, something that made him unlovable and a monster. He expected me to hang up the phone and never talk to him again. He braced for impact so to speak. It didn’t happen. I was willing. But more importantly, I was able.
Over the last two years, I’ve judged and raged about people who don’t stand by the person they love no matter what. But what I’ve come to realize is we all have our breaking point. If you can’t make the journey, get out of the car now. That’s what the woman did when she found out her boyfriend was a hoarder. She knew she wasn’t willing to be his support system so she didn’t give him false hope. I am so lucky. So lucky that I have something inside me strong enough to stay beside a man I love desperately. Lucky I knew. And I am lucky to have him.
So tonight I raise a glass to anyone who knew they could make it. To anyone who knew they couldn’t and broke quickly. To those who were left to fend for themselves, to those who were carried. We are after all, human. It’s best to leave behind resentment and focus on forgiveness, both those who’ve wronged us and ourselves. No need to forget, but forgive and move on.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
How Much Force Is Necessary
He is many things, loving, intense, aggressive, caring. He’s also difficult. It’s one descriptive word I use a lot when talking about my husband. He’s difficult. And I am a push over for him.
It’s so easy to fall into status quo and allow ourselves to be satisfied with just surviving PTSD. We survive without hope of this thing looming will ever be quieted for good.
Instead, we search for little victories. Tiny. And though small victories are of merit, where would we be if our finest had stopped at just winning the battle forgetting the war? My husband can’t forget the war but I seem to be day to day. I just want life, but have we lowered our standards as to what life really means? What it should hold?
So I find myself happy with marginal days saying they’re good when to anyone on the outside looking in would clasp their hands over their mouth and stifle tears. Is this what I’m doing? Stifling tears and pretending?
It’s so easy to not push because I’ve learned not to hope for normal days. No, I’ve learned normal is relative and it’s a sliding scale. But what about my husband? He’s surviving. Just barely. Is that fair? Is it fair that I pulled on my big girl panties and said I can walk this path with him, carry him if I have to, only to sit down with him when he’s found a comfortable place at the edge of the cliff and hope he doesn’t take a tumble?
Is it fair I’ve tired of doctor visits and pills and therapists so when he bucks against them I’m more willing to cave now than before?
No.
When a soldier falls in battle his brothers do not leave him behind nor do they give up and sit down with him to wait for inevitable loss. And yet here I sit with my legs dangling over that cliff watching him accept PTSD. I find excuses. My parents are staying with us at the moment. The kiddo is sick. I need to get the house in order. Every blip on the radar screen is an excuse not to call the doctor and make an appointment.
On the flip side however, it’s freaking hard to get my husband to do what he needs to do when it comes to his health. He won’t take the pills prescribed. He tells me to cancel appointments. He shuts down and refuses to take an active role in recovering. Status quo is fine and he’s marginally comfortable.
What do I do? Do I tell myself he’s happy and comfortable and don’t bother him or force his hand? Do I risk flashbacks, seizures, or deepening depression? I’m at a loss at this point as to what I should do. I know he wants to get better, I know he wants to be normal. I know he wants to be the man he was before he walked the sand. But he knows he can’t. And I know he can’t.
So here I sit at the kitchen table worrying every choice I make is the wrong one.
It’s so easy to fall into status quo and allow ourselves to be satisfied with just surviving PTSD. We survive without hope of this thing looming will ever be quieted for good.
Instead, we search for little victories. Tiny. And though small victories are of merit, where would we be if our finest had stopped at just winning the battle forgetting the war? My husband can’t forget the war but I seem to be day to day. I just want life, but have we lowered our standards as to what life really means? What it should hold?
So I find myself happy with marginal days saying they’re good when to anyone on the outside looking in would clasp their hands over their mouth and stifle tears. Is this what I’m doing? Stifling tears and pretending?
It’s so easy to not push because I’ve learned not to hope for normal days. No, I’ve learned normal is relative and it’s a sliding scale. But what about my husband? He’s surviving. Just barely. Is that fair? Is it fair that I pulled on my big girl panties and said I can walk this path with him, carry him if I have to, only to sit down with him when he’s found a comfortable place at the edge of the cliff and hope he doesn’t take a tumble?
Is it fair I’ve tired of doctor visits and pills and therapists so when he bucks against them I’m more willing to cave now than before?
No.
When a soldier falls in battle his brothers do not leave him behind nor do they give up and sit down with him to wait for inevitable loss. And yet here I sit with my legs dangling over that cliff watching him accept PTSD. I find excuses. My parents are staying with us at the moment. The kiddo is sick. I need to get the house in order. Every blip on the radar screen is an excuse not to call the doctor and make an appointment.
On the flip side however, it’s freaking hard to get my husband to do what he needs to do when it comes to his health. He won’t take the pills prescribed. He tells me to cancel appointments. He shuts down and refuses to take an active role in recovering. Status quo is fine and he’s marginally comfortable.
What do I do? Do I tell myself he’s happy and comfortable and don’t bother him or force his hand? Do I risk flashbacks, seizures, or deepening depression? I’m at a loss at this point as to what I should do. I know he wants to get better, I know he wants to be normal. I know he wants to be the man he was before he walked the sand. But he knows he can’t. And I know he can’t.
So here I sit at the kitchen table worrying every choice I make is the wrong one.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Fear of a Veteran
We’ve all heard it before, probably even said it at one point or another - “Not in my neighborhood.” Not in my neighborhood, the call of the concerned homeowner, used to be restricted to pedophiles and criminals. Halfway houses kept from areas with children or residential areas are a standard.
So my surprise when I read in article about a neighborhood in my own backyard fighting to keep out a place for veterans with PTSD and TBI to come for treatment was quite warranted. In San Diego, a place filled to the brim with military, neighbors are “questioning” – a word I find hilarious – whether the Old Town area is a suitable place for recovering veterans.
It would be a treatment center plain and simple and one of few of it’s kind in the country. It would be in my opinion a shining example of how San Diego cares for it’s veterans.
Another article, one I think ties into San Diego’s fight against the Aspire Center, calls the media out for causing a state of fear over returning Iraq and Afghanistan war vets. That piece spoke of the “Dangerous” veteran. That I think is why there is growing concern about where these veterans are treated.
Now I’m generally not a conspiracist or a fatalist. I believe in good intentions so when my husband and I sat over coffee discussing the recent portrayal of veterans with PTSD in the media prompting his statement that they feel the American public needs a boogieman to keep our eyes off the real problems in this country I wasn’t quite in agreement. But I’m not sure I can’t give it some thought. Since the days of William Hearst and cries of yellow journalism the media has been known to swing the public attention to their desired subject.
I tend however to lean toward the thought that blood and fear sell “papers”. PTSD is in the public eye under a spotlight at the moment. Beside the patriotic “let’s support our troops” attitude there is an underlying current of fear over the unknown because as much people think they know about PTSD they do not know it like those of us who live with it do.
I understand this fear. I have a lot of experience with PTSD and yes the symptoms are scary. I’ve also read the stories of vets and soldiers “snapping”, most recently the soldier who killed all those civilians in Afghanistan. But are the public, and worse, our police force buying into this “dangerous” veteran?
I tend to think they are.
Not long ago a local Marine was killed in front of his children by an officer. He was unarmed and though the reports were slow to come out, it was clear his vehicle was marked with the familiar stickers many of us have. My own vehicle is adorned with an Army sticker and my husband’s with a veteran tag. Am I taking my life into my hands? Should I worry that the public is becoming increasingly leery of returning veterans who might suffer from this PTSD the media has told them about?
I’m going to let my geek hang out a bit here but I remember an episode of Star Trek where the soldiers who had fought to keep their people safe were exiled from society because of fear. After all they were killers. Trained killers. Life often imitates art and more than once my PTSD suffering husband has said “eventually the government is going to round us all up and lock us away for the safety of the public.”
I scoffed. I laughed and joked with him. And underneath it all, I feared what he said was closer to the truth than I cared to believe.
So my surprise when I read in article about a neighborhood in my own backyard fighting to keep out a place for veterans with PTSD and TBI to come for treatment was quite warranted. In San Diego, a place filled to the brim with military, neighbors are “questioning” – a word I find hilarious – whether the Old Town area is a suitable place for recovering veterans.
“Called the Aspire Center, the proposed facility would have 40 beds, including six for female veterans and 10 for veterans with mild traumatic brain injury. The aim is to provide temporary housing for honorably discharged veterans for an average of 60 to 120 days, according to VA San Diego Healthcare System."
It would be a treatment center plain and simple and one of few of it’s kind in the country. It would be in my opinion a shining example of how San Diego cares for it’s veterans.
Another article, one I think ties into San Diego’s fight against the Aspire Center, calls the media out for causing a state of fear over returning Iraq and Afghanistan war vets. That piece spoke of the “Dangerous” veteran. That I think is why there is growing concern about where these veterans are treated.
Now I’m generally not a conspiracist or a fatalist. I believe in good intentions so when my husband and I sat over coffee discussing the recent portrayal of veterans with PTSD in the media prompting his statement that they feel the American public needs a boogieman to keep our eyes off the real problems in this country I wasn’t quite in agreement. But I’m not sure I can’t give it some thought. Since the days of William Hearst and cries of yellow journalism the media has been known to swing the public attention to their desired subject.
I tend however to lean toward the thought that blood and fear sell “papers”. PTSD is in the public eye under a spotlight at the moment. Beside the patriotic “let’s support our troops” attitude there is an underlying current of fear over the unknown because as much people think they know about PTSD they do not know it like those of us who live with it do.
I understand this fear. I have a lot of experience with PTSD and yes the symptoms are scary. I’ve also read the stories of vets and soldiers “snapping”, most recently the soldier who killed all those civilians in Afghanistan. But are the public, and worse, our police force buying into this “dangerous” veteran?
I tend to think they are.
Not long ago a local Marine was killed in front of his children by an officer. He was unarmed and though the reports were slow to come out, it was clear his vehicle was marked with the familiar stickers many of us have. My own vehicle is adorned with an Army sticker and my husband’s with a veteran tag. Am I taking my life into my hands? Should I worry that the public is becoming increasingly leery of returning veterans who might suffer from this PTSD the media has told them about?
I’m going to let my geek hang out a bit here but I remember an episode of Star Trek where the soldiers who had fought to keep their people safe were exiled from society because of fear. After all they were killers. Trained killers. Life often imitates art and more than once my PTSD suffering husband has said “eventually the government is going to round us all up and lock us away for the safety of the public.”
I scoffed. I laughed and joked with him. And underneath it all, I feared what he said was closer to the truth than I cared to believe.
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