Pain, Anger, Frustration

Sometimes, when things seem to be going well, I forget how angry and frustrated my husband gets with his physical as well as mental issues.  That frustration used to manifest itself in emails I got in the morning after he'd been pacing all night.  Now he writes to you, the readers of this blog.  I think he wants to scream to the world and shake them awake.  To force them to understand, but I'll settle for him helping any veteran who can take solace in the fact they are not alone.

As if having a "disorder" wasn't bad enough, along with it comes a great deal of pain. Anxiety carries with it its own form of pain which manifests itself in many ways. Lower back pain, joint pain, headaches, stomach and gastrointestinal discomfort. The list goes on and on.

 

But, it seems that PTSD, as a whole, not only creates pain but exacerbates the pain that years of beating your body up produces. Hell, I'm writing this at 3am just because the pain is keeping me up. Shit, I'd rather have had a nightmare tonight rather than being awakened by the burning, tingling and pulsating I've got. It's like some weird shit from a science fiction movie. I shit you not, this thing is straight out of Raccoon City. All I need is to grow some big ass hook for an arm and start spewing acid out of some freshly formed orifices.

So, when pain is injected into an already unstable condition it can tend to make one more suicidal or homicidal. I'm not kidding, if I'm having one of "those" days, and I'm behind the wheel of my truck or waiting for the mailman or just trying to take a shit, my patience is gone. The horn blows, the finger goes up, I get "puffy" as my wife likes to call it or I strain out a huge purple, pulsating vein on my forehead. I swear to god, one of these days, I'm gonna stroke out. That is, if I'm lucky and I haven't already snapped and killed a bunch of people.

And, lets talk for a minute about tinnitus. Yeah, I know what you're thinking... "Tinnitus doesn't hurt!" Agreed, but when every fucking thing hurts and you lay there, trying to sleep and all you hear are two mismatched tones somewhere around four octaves above high C, it sure as hell adds to an already shitty situation. And although the tinnitus doesn't actually hurt, the residual ear and head pain from my initial injury does. And, there again, it seems to be worsened when I’m overly anxious or stressed.

I'm not trying to whine here but since I've been diagnosed, I've experienced pain in many forms all over my body. Some days everything hurts. Every joint, every muscle, every single fucking cell. On good days only one or two things hurt. Sometimes I feel like all of my joints are solidifying. Sometimes it all hurts so bad that I feel like I'm gonna puke then pass out. Sometimes it only hurts just enough to piss me off and make me unbearable to the people around me. Oh sure, you learn to live with it and press on but god damn, once in a while I'd like a fucking break. Alcohol sometimes takes the edge off or makes it so that I hurt but I don't really give a good god damn. But, more often than not it comes back to bite me harder than before when I sober up.

And NOTHING over the counter helps. Aspirin, Motrin, Aleve... None of that shit. Oh, and I dare not ask my Primary Care Provider for pain meds because then it becomes a big deal. Hell, the VA doesn't trust me enough to handle my own money, they sure as hell aren't about to willy-nilly give me any "controlled" drugs to take. Fuck, I can't even get a sleeping pill! You know that old joke about building bridges and dams and not ever being called an "engineer" but if you suck one little peter, you're a cocksucker for life? Well, all you have to do is tell your shrink, one time, that you've had thoughts of suicide and BOOM, you're on the fucking list for life my friend. And after that, trying to get any medication that works is moot. Oh and just FIY, DO NOT under ANY circumstance tell the doctor you've had a seizure either. They are bound by law to contact the DMV and POOF, there goes your license. But, I digress.

Going to the doctor also presents a rather odd set of circumstances. I was a medic for years and for the life of me, some of this shit I simply CAN NOT find words to describe be them medical terms or just a simple description. Some of it boggles my mind. I mean, how do you tell a doctor that your arm aches, but has sharp pains and all the while it's feeling numb and tingly like you've slept on it wrong and is cold and hot at the same time and feels full like it's swollen and is hard to bend at the elbow?

Let me speak from the experience I've gained from the doctors I've worked with in the military and the ones I've seen in the VA; If you come at that son of a bitch with that much information at once he'll either start laughing, tell you you're nuts or focus on just part of what you said and end up telling you that your arm is the least of your worries because you're fat, and you smoke. Then, he'll end up treating you for a fucking eye infection you don't have, give you blood pressure medicine to "help with the nightmares" and then prescribe you Motrin. Remember kids, that's 800mg every 8 hours with food OR 600mg every 6 hours. What the hell ever.

Hell, I don't know why I'm bitching so much because I'd rather have this pain all over my body as opposed to the way my ass burns when I have to go to the VA. I can't help but get defensive every damned time I walk into that place. Oh, I know that due to recent law suits from some Senators son who got pushed aside like the rest of us and what not, they are now walking behind you, blowing sunshine up your ass, throwing rose petals in your path, fanning you, feeding you grapes and stroking you every chance they get. Hell, they even sent me a new "personalized" book in the mail outlining their findings and, get this shit, giving me a complete list of POC's for the VA and the Clinic. Yeah, I know. That's a sure sign the apocalypse is upon us. But don't get too excited, this won't last. The new will wear off, the public will forget about the last two wars and the hundreds of thousands of new veterans and it'll be business as usual all too soon. Then the VA can sweep us all under the rug once again and go about doing what they do best... Spending money and neglecting veterans.

And on that note, when's the last time ANYONE at the VA gave you the right phone number for ANYTHING? Eh, it doesn't matter, they're just written down in this fancy book that costs millions of dollars to print. It's not like anyone is actually going to answer the phone when you call. You'll have to bash the phone receiver against your head trying to navigate the automated "please get frustrated and hang up so we functionaries don't have to do our jobs" telephone system. On the bright side, maybe the mild brain damage you'll suffer will ease the pain somewhat. There I go digressing again.

Four Crooked Years

April marks four years for Chris and I being physically together.  For me, it’s four years living with the reality of PTSD and not just morning emails written desperately in the wee hours while I slept and he didn’t.  So many things have changed from then to now, yet some are exactly the same.

Four years ago I experienced being pulled out of bed for incoming for the first time.  Being woken from a dead sleep, yanked to the floor, and covered by someone who not only thinks they’re back in a combat zone but sees, hears, and smells all that’s associated with that place is an eye opening experience.  Lately though, the nightmares are still as frequent but not as violent.  He rarely even wakes me anymore with his moving about.  No more midnight triages or helping him get his gear together for patrol.

I can’t attribute this to him getting better.  I have to be honest with myself.  I don’t think he’s getting better.  I think as a team we’re getting better at coping with the symptoms.  Flashbacks are less frequent, not because he’s free of them but because I’ve been diligent about learning the triggers and heading them off.  He’s learned avoidance in certain situations.  I’ve learned to catch him when that distance look darkens his eyes.  We’re working at coping.

However, I don’t think he’s getting worse.  I think he’s on a level plane but think of it as a glassy ocean that can change in an instant.  Like a storm at sea, his anxiety and pain still rule our life.

Despite this, we managed a couple of years ago to buy a house, build a home, and carve out what we both consider a sanctuary.  Yes, we sometimes spend weeks at home without leaving but that’s our life and we like it.  Then it gets called to my attention and I start to wonder.  Not if I’m happy but if I’m or we’re getting a normal life.  Building it correctly or just slapping together shoddy materials in an effort to fool ourselves.    

I spoke to an old friend from college a couple of weeks ago and she wanted to do some catching up.  As I wrote the email I started to think, My God my life sounds like a disaster zone with so much heartache in the last years.  But I don’t feel like it’s all that bad as crooked as it may seem to outsiders.  We’ve managed to eek out a lot of really wonderful moments.

Maybe my idea of a normal life has shifted but I do consider our life normal.  Just for us, normalcy is a little more… interesting.  Find joy.