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.

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.