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.

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.