Anger

I've always encouraged Chris to write about his PTSD.  I think it helps to get things on paper to possibly examine the thoughts later or simply to get them out of his head.  This time I think he just wrote about what was going on.  He saw no purpose to piece, but I feel differently.  Possibly disjointed, I felt this piece needed to be seen because he's not the only one feeling this way and I'd like others to know they aren't either.

I don't look at myself as special nor do I seek any pity for having PTSD. If I'm acting like a douchebag, I expect people to call me out on it.  My wife does an outstanding job of this, handling my douchebaggery in such a way that it (9 times out of 10) defuses the situation.  I couldn't imagine life without her and I truly wish all who are afflicted with this were as lucky as I am to have someone in their life like I have found.  Sometimes I envision her setting naked on a keg of gunpowder blowing out the matches I'm constantly striking. She willingly puts herself in harm’s way just being with me. To me, she deserves the same credit and level of respect as those who roam the battlefield wielding their weapon.  She ranks right up there with all of those who I served with.  Hell, she actually far exceeds them due to her willingness to put up with all my other bullshit.

But goddamn it I get angry.  And often.  I get so angry I can actually feel a weird pressure on my face from the bridge of my nose to the tip of my chin as if my body is preparing for a fight.  These sensations are usually followed by an episode and then large blocks missing time.  Of course, I never initially remember any of these things and have to rely on my wife filling me in on the events I have no knowledge or memory of.  Later, the memories come back to me in broken and order-less fashion. I guess there is a breaker box in my brain that kicks off when there is a spike in the circuit.

This is the main reason I stay home and don't venture out by myself much.  I've created a safe little environment here, albeit a personal prison, where I am assured that I'm not going to wake up in a gutter or a jail cell somewhere. I have spent days, weeks, and even months at a time not going anywhere but the mailbox. This is really for the best, trust me.  The head-shrinkers at the VA don't believe me when I say I've had no trouble or run-ins with law enforcement.  But, it's true, not counting the 8 police officers it took to load me into an ambulance from my house one evening to go to the hospital for a nice shot of happy juice to calm me and coax me out of a flashback. And then they are all like "it's not healthy to lock yourself away" when I tell them how I deal with it.  If I "Howard Hughes" it here at the house, I stand little chance of creating collateral damage all over town. 

Granted, that wouldn't and hasn't stopped me from going off the deep end and taking things out on my loved ones here in the house. Luckily, as of yet it hasn't resulted in injuries, jail time and be all around relationship ending.  But, the beautiful thing about my tiny little wife is the fact that she spent a lot of years training, military style, how to kill people and break their shit.  Yeah, I'm pretty sure she could defend herself from any of my psychotic advances up to the point where she would have to remove herself to safety.  Couple that with her unwavering understanding of my condition and that I'm not in control, the fact that I keep no weapons in the house and that we have a contingency plan tends to give me a sense of "warm and fuzzy" deep down.   

Don't get me wrong, I'm not spending a life sentence here inside my stronghold.  No, I do go out from time to time.  I go out alone but only if I'm making short trips to the grocery store or the hardware store... that sort of thing.  I go out with my wife other places.  My wife acts as a buffer.  I don't know exactly what it is but more likely than not, it's the fact that when she is with me I acknowledge her presence and feel a need to keep her safe.  With this in mind I guess instinctually, I alter my behavior in a way to ensure nothing bad happens. All the while she is constantly running interference for me, keeping me safe as well.  Hell, if I knew all the answers I wouldn't still have PTSD.

Having said that, I'm not afraid to go out of the house for my own safety. In fact, I have no regard for what happens to me given any unfortunate circumstances which may befall upon me. No, I live in fear of hurting or killing someone else.  And even though the memories are sporadic, I know from the fleeting memories of experiences and the accounts of others just how volatile and dangerous I can be.  I go blind.  And you know how someone says they "see red"?  Well, I have peered through a red veil.  While looking at the world through crimson eyes, my senses are heightened to the point where as even with red tunnel vision, I see every detail of those would be targets and my brain goes into "kill" mode.  All the while, all pain response and fear of self is deadened.  Like a Norse soldier bearing Odin's curse of the Berserker, the blind fury that rests within, once tapped can only be spent like a battery and not switched off. 

The other day I was setting at a traffic light coming home from Lowe's after picking up some hardware for a small project.  At the light in front of me was a small BMW convertible. Being already tense from putting up with the over all retarded-ness of the masses who frequent Lowe's, I was in no mood to put up with someone who has forgotten where the skinny peddle is once the light changed.  I was in the wife's Jeep and apparently its soft top wasn't enough to contain my rage. He heard me. And, I vaguely remember screaming then seeing this car blast away from the light after his extended pause on green.
I'm sure it wasn't intentional but stupidity rarely is.  In hindsight, I know he was probably just distracted but in the moment, he hesitated and in my realm of thinking at the time, when you hesitate, you die.  This really isn't a good example but it's the most recent one I can come up with right now. And the only one I'm willing to share.  Other examples are more colorful and I would prefer not to write them down and I'm sure you'd find little joy in reading them as you set there with your mouth gaped open wondering just what kind of monster I am.  Let’s just say that I'm the reason certain people have moved from my neighborhood due to their stupidity and my unwillingness to tolerate even the slightest level of bullshit.

Sometimes, He Forgets

We were standing in line at Lowes buying a couple of little things.  Chris had convinced me he could alter a planter so I could have a hanging plant in my office without it being one of those ugly orange plastic containers.  With all the stuff piled waiting to be scanned, Chris went still and his eyes, for lack of a better way to explain it, focused away.

I’m used to this, he does it not too often, but often enough. Lately it’s become more frequent and though he usually loses an hour or a day or two the memories always came back eventually.  They haven’t lately.  He’s losing time, little bit of life, and it’s not coming back.  I find this distressing especially after reading of a veteran who lost a year and never regained those memories.

What do I do if he loses a large portion of time?  Reminding him of the good things isn’t so bad, but what of the sorrow these past months?  I don’t want to have to remind him of these things and watch him mourn all over again. 

I’m becoming increasingly worried that he’ll have an incident when I’m not with him.  What if he forgets we’re not in the apartment anymore?  He’s recently started wearing his dog tags again.  Maybe it’s an unconscious precaution, but it makes me feel more secure about him leaving the house alone.  He has something on him other than his wallet that identifies him.

Years ago, before we met, Chris lost time and forgot he and his ex had gotten divorced.  He went ‘home’ to a very surprised woman.  What do we do to make sure these guys are safe but enjoy the freedom of an adult life?  I can’t be with him twenty-four seven though we are together close to that.  So what do I do?

This is such a huge part of what I worry about every time he runs to the store, I can barely do anything but hold onto the phone and watch for his big white truck to come down the street.  Hell, I’ve stood at the end of the driveway while he was gone so I could see all the way to the corner.

It’s quite a sick carnival those of us who deal with PTSD live in.  Every time I think we’ve conquered the one mountain in our way, we find another one behind it. I’m getting so frustrated, so I have to re-center and find a way to put my old rose colored glasses back on.  And for God’s sake, no more diesel wafting through the air.