this is why...

When I was a kid, we had a gentleman down the street who was a Vietnam veteran.  He was mean and didn’t want us on his lawn.  I didn’t understand at the time.  I didn’t know what post-traumatic stress disorder was.  After all, my father had been in the Navy just before I was born in 1970.  He was fine.  He didn’t yell at the kids on the block or stare incessantly at nothing.

As years passed, school taught me about war, but the only tangible things we learned were dates, death tolls, and war heroes.  We never learned about the thousand yard stare, or the horrible price our soldiers paid to live afterward.

When I met my husband, he’d already been diagnosed with PTSD from his time as a combat medic in Iraq, so instead of writing him off like I’d done in the past, I opened my computer and typed in the words - and how very lucky we all are to have that option.  What I got in return was an education on the human condition.  Throughout time, authors have written about PTSD though never uttered the words.  Homer wrote about it, Ajax going mad under Athena’s spell then taking his own life.  Lady Percy witnessed Hotspur’s “terrible nightmares”, intrusive thoughts, and detachment after battle in Shakespeare’s Henry IV.  PTSD even shows its head on the civilian side in Jane Austin in Anne speaking about Louisa having a nearly fatal fall and never being quite the same afterward.  PTSD has always been there, always a specter haunting the aftermath of war.

Across the world and throughout history, the names have been countless.  Soldier’s Heart, Shell Shock, Heimweh (German for homesick), Estar Roto (Spanish for to be broken), Battle Fatigue.  The Swiss called it Nostalgia, the French, maladie du pays.  Eventually, in the 1980s, doctors stopped tempering the names with the belief it would go away with rest or time and they called it post-traumatic stress disorder or PTSD for short.  Sadly, those who had it were also called malingerers.

I, like so many others, was unaware but meeting and falling in love with someone who suffered from PTSD was an eye opening experience.  I learned so much, mostly that education is the key.  The more we know about PTSD the easier it is to provide comfort, provide assistance, and provide answers.

My husband and I spent a lot of time sitting on the porch in the wee hours of the morning.  He smoked and talked.  I listened.  I didn’t judge, I didn’t offer “I understands”.  I just listened.  His PTSD brings a lot of hard days.  We’ve progressed, but it’s still an uphill battle.  He suffers periods of depression, anger, withdrawal from family, nightmares, and hallucinations both visual and audible.  There are also many physical issues such as unexplainable pain, pseudo-seizures, loss of concentration, and stomach problems.

Eventually, my desire to know everything about PTSD led me to Courage Beyond.  I found helpful information about treatments, symptoms, support groups, but most importantly, I found others.  Others who’d made it or those who were still walking the same path I was but moving forward.  It was like the beacon I’d been trying to follow, the one that had gone on and off for so long, finally stayed lit.

Not too long ago, my husband asked me to help him die.  He said he couldn’t live like this anymore.  We’d had a high stress day, or maybe it was an anniversary he’d not shared. It wasn’t the first time, and I know it won’t be the last, but I’m also hearing it less and less as time passes and we learn the ropes of dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder.  I’m not sure how many spouses have heard this request from their loved one, but I know I am not the only one.  I am also thankful that he says the words instead of keeping them to himself.  He’s found a way to reach out. 

Unfortunately, our loved ones cannot always find the strength to reach out to us.  They fear judgment.  They fear causing burden, and sadness.  In their mind they may decide the family is better off without them.  Families likewise may suppress their feelings or go into autopilot.  Relationships diminish slowly but steadily when this happens.  This is where Courage Beyond comes in.  We offer that anonymous hand, the one without strings or worries of causing pain.  We’re there for the entire family providing online counseling, a crisis line, a community of others who’ve been there, and one-on-one sessions with doctors all over the United States.  We are a safe place to share your struggles and talk to others who’ve been through it.

Through our blogs and audio interviews, we offer stories of those who are coping with PTSD or the rigors military life.  Our online support groups are available every week and can be found on our website CourageBeyond.org.  We also provide free of charge one on one counseling to any service member, veteran, family member, or loved one in crisis.  Our focus is to keep those who are coping with the invisible wounds of war from falling through the cracks.

Through vigilance we can all learn to recognize the signs.  If you or someone you know is in crisis please call 866.781.8010.  We can help find strength beyond the battlefield.

losing emotions...

A long time ago, I was a fighter.  I sustained a few concussions, more than a few actually, and the resulting issues led to substantial family problems.  I suffered from emotional dulling for a long period of time.  This is a not so uncommon side effect of brain injury (and yes, concussions are a brain injury, even mild ones).

My emotional state looked almost like depression, but I wasn’t sad.  Imagine, looking at your children and feeling little more than the knowledge they’re yours.  Imagine feeling nothing for your spouse whom you know you used to love.  Image feeling no connection to anyone, they’re just background noise.

For two years I struggled to figure out why I felt so little.  Nothing affected me, nothing touched me.  Looking back, it was longer than that and started slowly over the course of my career as a self-defense instructor.  It made me a good fighter, but I didn’t understand why I was so able to shut down.

Unfortunately, many of our military who’ve been in combat are struggling with the after-effects of blast injuries and concussions.  What was thought to be a mild injury or sometimes not an injury at all is slowly being recognized.  These men and women struggle to come back to normal life with a wide range of real emotional issues such as depression or anger, but emotional dulling may not show itself as an issue very easily.  It may just seem like distance, loss of love, or just plain cruelty.

I struggled for years to understand and eventually I did heal.  But maybe had I known I wouldn’t have had to spend the next several years repairing the damage I’d done to my family or my friends.

giving up the wheel...

In the last few months, I have been lucky enough to be given a larger role at Courage Beyond, formerly Not Alone.  I’ve become their Online Content Manager and in-house graphic designer - yes, I’m finally using that degree I earned so long ago. 

As tickled as I am about this opportunity, it doesn’t come without an added layer of stress.  For the first time in almost six years I’ve not focused my complete energy on the care of my husband and his PTSD.  Even though I work from home, I’ve had to let him fend for himself some days so that I can get projects done.  This bothered me a great deal at first, but as the weeks have passed I’ve noticed something heartening.

Chris has begun to take on a more active role in coping with his PTSD.  In the past two weeks he’s read each night before bed.  Though he still has trouble sleeping well, he’s sleeping a little more and also finding comfort in being free from the intrusive thoughts while he reads.  He’s trying to become more active (we’re both facing that hurdle), and he’s decided to change his diet to help with his stomach issues.

The moment I stepped back and gave him back the wheel, he drove on down the road.  He didn’t veer off the side or crash horribly at the bottom of a ravine.  He still needs me sitting shotgun, and sometimes I’ll have to drive, but he does the same for me when things get too heavy.

I’ve learned a hard lesson about being an effective caregiver slash loving spouse.  I can’t live his life or remove every ounce of stress.  We’re partners.  I’m not in charge and he is not my patient.  He is my husband and my best friend and I trust that he always will be no matter which one of us is behind the wheel.

suicide...

It’s become difficult to write this blog lately.  The more and more people, family, friends, and coworkers, who know it’s me writing, the harder it is to write about what’s really going on.  So tonight, I’m going to take a page from some training we’ve been doing and fall back on my own words about being honest with ourselves.

In the past month I’ve allowed suicide to creep into my mind more than once.  I’ve not made plans or even thought about how, but it’s there like a comfort against what I understand to be temporary but cannot see past. 

The thought of people knowing this makes me sick.  I can’t be considered weak.  I am a brick wall against the world for my veteran, and I cannot be weakened by my own emotions.  He counts on me to pilot our ship over rough seas.  But I’m standing at that ragged edge right now where tears hang just behind my face at all times.  My mother’s death, my son’s turmoil, my dad being so far away and lonely, have all piled across already burdened shoulders.

I know if I post this, my husband will be devastated.  It will be a crushing blow to an already battle worn man.  I know he’ll think it’s my job or the impending C & P, but it’s not.  I’m not worried about the exam.  I’m happy in my job.  He’ll think it’s him.  And it’s not.  He’s my best day.  I just can’t breathe because my chest is so constricted and I cannot seem to figure out why I’ve become so tightly wound that I’m about to explode across lives.

I know I’m not going to do it.  I have a running list in my mind of the reasons I can’t.  Too many people depend on me.  It’s not that I’m important, but I am necessary to make sure they’ll be okay.  I’ve been here before, sitting with my legs dangling over the cliff, smiling at the thought of release but knowing it’s just not going to happen.

So, I disconnect from emotions and focus on tasks, but as anyone knows compacting things causes energy and energy must escape somehow.  So the tears break surface and I sob uncontrollably until as suddenly as it started it stops.  I expel only enough to stop the escape, then I go back to compacting it all down into a boulder in my chest.

I don’t really want to say anything out loud.  I don’t want the attention, the eyes filled with pity.  I’ve spent three horrible days locked in a hospital because of errant words that couldn’t be taken back.  The fear of doing that again is more unbearable than the thought of actually going through with taking my life.  But in the end, I won’t do it.  I know myself.  It’s a game I play to keep myself going, like an alcoholic looking toward a drink tomorrow.  I know it’s not healthy, but right now health and survival are not one in the same.

finding my path...

It’s hard to write sometimes. Hard to sit quietly examining my inner self, trying to make sense of the construct I’ve created over the years to cope with outside forces.  It becomes easier however with each passing moment that I allow myself to be honest instead of holding onto old beliefs of who I am.  Easier still if I listen to those who love and know me because they are to who I show my truest face.

Seems rather out there but stop for a moment.  My mother always said we have three faces.  The face of who we think we are, the face of who we show the world, and the true face of who we really are.  With trust in someone, we find ourselves showing our true face and therefore seeing it as well.  Many times however, we deny that face.  We don’t want it to be true because it is that face which is most vulnerable.  It has no barriers, no battlements. 

When outside forces diminish trust between people, the face turns away from the truest face and walls arise.  Trauma to the psyche damages the ability to trust.  Paranoia, fear, anger all create blockage.  So it is sometimes up to the counterpart to help find the path back.  We all do it, helping those we love navigate life, and it’s done for us as well.

The helping can be subtle as an encouraging smile during difficult moments.  Or it can be blunt and hard, like saying what is not wanted but most needed.  When we choose to be most honest with those around us we create trust.  This trust creates ease in motion and thought.  It allows us to become comfortable in our own skin and move forward in evolving and healing.  When we help others find their truest face, we find our own.

Knowing my true face has been an exercise in letting go of old pain I’d become accustomed to cultivating.  Anger and disappointment over losing who I was clouded my ability to find my way to a new path so I could figure out who I am now.  I simply stood at the fallen tree across my old road and cursed the heavens for being unfair.  It’s easy to get caught up in what might have been when our plans are so set in stone.  But stone gives way to the elements and we must give way to circumstances we cannot control.  The goal is not the destination but the journey and many times plans must be changed regardless of how loudly we scream to the world or how pitifully we cry for ourselves.

Finding enough strength to hear those around me has been my biggest challenge and my greatest reward.  It created light where I could not see allowing my new journey to become visible to me.  And though I will always look back on my old path with fondness I’ll no longer stand with my feet planted crying for what I lost.

socks can do amazing things...

It is thought that knitting first appeared somewhere in the Middle East.  In my house it appeared when my mom got sick.  We weren’t expecting terminal illness, no one ever does, but it happens.  Over the course of the nine weeks before her illness took her life, I learned every technique in knitting that I could.  I knit feverishly.  I filled two large bins with beautiful colors of wool in all different weights(this means the thickness of the yarn).  I even learned to spin and dye my own wool.  The only aspect I didn’t dive into was raising my own sheep, and that’s only because we don’t have the room. 

Luckily, even though I am left handed, there is no difference in knitting.  One always knits the same way other than which hand holds the working yarn.  My first project was a Christmas stocking.  I took on fancy stitches like cables and double knitting.  Watching videos online, I learned how to knit socks, sweaters, hats, mittens - you name it, I figured it out.  I knit presents, I knit selfish.  I learned to knit with the largest to the tiniest of needles and in the end, I gained a skill that has strengthened my coping skill-set.

This need to make things has served me well.  I was a potter for 18 years of my life.  I like to create.  It feeds my soul, but it also helps me deal with the ups and down of life with PTSD.  Hobbies can be a wonderful outlet when times are hard.  They occupy the mind so our days aren’t spent dwelling and rolling over all the horrible possibilities.  Through knitting I’ve taught myself to not worry about what I cannot change.  I can’t cure my husband’s PTSD, I couldn’t cure my mother's cancer.  I won’t be able to find a magic remedy on the internet.  I can educate myself, but I can’t fix everything.

I can however fix a stitch.  So in knitting, I give myself the ability to fix what I can.  Being able to fix something helps because many times I feel like I’m failing my husband in not finding that magic cure like I thought at the beginning I could.  I can however knit a pair of socks that fit like a dream and some days, that’s good enough.

deep breath...

I am having a bad day and I am allowed to say it.  This person is causing me stress, and that person is causing me stress, and I am allowed to call them out.  I am going to cry, and I am allowed to shed those tears without fear that I am causing anyone else distress.  I do not need to swallow them to save others.  Others need to realize I am not made of Teflon and everything does not slide off me without leaving a mark.  

So, I am going to take a moment to shut down everything everyone else needs from me and consider my own needs.

I am having a bad day, and it is okay to be human.

strength and pride...

I saw something today that spoke to me.  Generally, I regard Facebook’s over used feel-good posts with rolled eyes and a scoff.  I am the grump cat of my own friends list.  There are too many captioned pictures, fake letters, and repost-this-if-you-cares.  But today, I saw an image of a lion with the words “the worst part about being strong is that no one ever asks if you’re okay” and yes, whomever wrote it, used the correct you’re.

For a moment I contemplated that statement in regards to my own life.  Pride came to mind because yesterday I’d shared a cartoon on Not Alone’s Facebook page from a retired general.  It depicted a fireman drowning because of pride.  When I taught Krav Maga strength and pride ruled.  Nothing hurt.  Nothing touched me.  When the bell sounded it didn’t matter if I was fighting Wladimir Klitschko himself, I would win or die trying.

After a gun seminar, from left to right Jeff, me, Big Mike,
Thierry, Darren Levine(founder of KM in the United States), John, Damon.

Strength in spirit was what kept my 5’1” buck twenty frame going because size was never on my side.  My strength made people step back and assume no matter what I was okay.  It fueled rumors about my background.  I’ll never forget the day I heard two of my students discussing my years as a special forces soldier.  Interesting since I’d never served nor ever claimed to have that honor.  I still smile at the thought.

But pride took me to foolish places.  Pride caused the damage to my shoulder because I refused to admit I’d lost.  I could have tapped out but instead I let Big Mike twist it out of joint.  Pride caused me to continue to get up and fight after I was knocked out, on more than one occasion.  The damage to my brain is becoming more apparent on a daily basis.  Pride kept me quiet when things hurt, when they were wrong, when I’d fallen into a path of destruction.

Pride kept my husband quiet when he came home from Iraq and began struggling with nightmares, lost time, and depression.  Pride let him suffer. Pride let his life crumble farther than it should have.

Don’t get me wrong, pride can be a good thing.  It can be a driving force to amazing achievements.  But it can also be a set of blinders keeping us from seeing what is really happening.  And here is where we circle back to strength.  Strength can cause people to think you are untouchable, but being strong enough to reach out when the path is too much to walk alone is where the true test of will sets us apart.  Asking for help is not weakness; it is strength.  Being strong enough to know you must be part of a team to succeed is a core aspect of military training.  So why is it so hard, when our soldiers come home changed from war, for them to still recognize the value of being part of something larger than self?

We need to change our thinking about strength.  Strength is not synonymous with being alone.  One football player cannot match a team.  His strength is in numbers.  Never be afraid to reach out, because it is strength that moves the hand toward the solution and it is strength that says the words I cannot do this alone.  

what I need...

I always know when it’s coming.  He usually starts with being restless and uninterested in anything.  That’s how I know it’s coming. 

Depression.

For me, the depression has been one of the hardest symptoms of my husband’s PTSD.  I can take the anger.  He never directs it my way, or if he does it’s minimal and fades quickly into an apology.  I can take the sleepless nights and distance.  I can even take the flashbacks as scary as they are sometimes.  But the depression is exhausting especially when I’m not feeling up to being a caregiver. 

Today is that day.  I’m just not up to it.

And I’m tired.  My back is out; my head is pounding.  My youngest is sick as a dog and my oldest is about to experience one of those life events you remember always.  But depression rules the day.

When he came to me last night, I was cranky.  Lying there in bed, I couldn’t find compassion under the pain radiating down my leg.  I can’t always be there can I?  I need to be human.  I need whine.  I need to hurt.  I need to lean.

He’s crushed when he realizes I’ve made it through another difficult patch without him because he couldn’t see past the fog of his depression.  In bed with the covers pulled tight around his head, he’s not awake when I hobble in to check on him.  I know he won’t want to sleep away the day, so I wake him.  Again.  And again.

But I feel my jaw tighten.  I’m tired.  I love him, but I’m so tired.  I can’t let myself get to that ragged edge, the one he hangs at so much of the time, because if I’m there, we’ll both topple over.

Deep breath.  I have to make it to the gym more often than not so my back isn’t so easily swayed by an errant twist.  I have to remember my headaches aren’t permanent, take a damned aspirin, and stop being stubborn. My youngest just has a summer cold. It will pass.  And my oldest, well he’s now engaged and happily going about his life.  I didn’t miss a thing.  This is what I wanted; to be needed.  I was so unnecessary for such a long time, this is what I need, and after all every one of us should be so lucky to understand what we need.   

Mortars for the 4th...

I wrote this back in 2010 and though we've spent a few more 4th of July holidays together, the feelings still hold true.  It saddens me to no end that the holiday will never be the same for me and thousands of other loved ones and veterans, but I'll never give up hope that some piece of it can be regained somehow.

_

July 4th is coming. It's like a monster approaching my house, a giant Godzilla - only not as rubbery and fun.

When I was a child, the 4^th was an important day. Family and friends gathered in the neighborhood. We ate blackened hot dogs and drank ice-chilled generic sodas from the old metal Coleman cooler.  At the end of the usually-sweltering Kansas day, we watched an impressive display of shimmering fireworks while fireflies blinked and mosquitoes did what mosquitoes do, all in celebration of this great nation we call home. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood.

Now, the celebratory whistles and explosions are twisted into small arms fire and mortars. I’ve spent two Fourth of July's with Chris and it has been a sad realization that the very day celebrating everything he stood and fought for has become a source of pain and fear. It’s another item on the long list of things he’s misplaced to PTSD, and by association I’ve lost as well.  I say misplaced because I refuse to give up on the possibility it can all be regained in one form or another.

Chris’s reaction to the sounds surrounding the 4^th is hard for others to understand, most think it’s simply being ‘jumpy’. 

‘Yeah, loud noises bother me, too. I’m not going to let it ruin the day for me. Man up.’

Loud noises don’t just bother Chris. They make him fall to floor to take cover. Incoming.

We’ve got inbound.

Baghdad tower to Dog Pound, please acknowledge.

He’s there. He’s back in Iraq waiting for helicopters carrying the wounded or sending rounds down range. He’s forced back into a reality that he’s already lived and shouldn’t have to live over.

So, while America celebrates her birthday, please give thought to the men and women who are hunkered down in their homes, windows closed, pillows clutched around their ears, waiting for the party to end. Remember them and their gift of freedom to the rest of us.

Maybe this year, don’t light that illegal M-80 because old man Jacobs down the street is a Vietnam vet or because the Martin’s boy just got home from Afghanistan and he looks ‘different’ somehow.

This day should not be a day filled with dread, but for many people, many amazing and valiant people, it is.  Be aware not everyone wants to hear explosions to celebrate our freedom because some listened to them while fighting for it.

simple things...

A couple of weeks ago, Chris and I went to the movies together for the first time.  I know it sounds odd, but simple things aren’t so simple when your spouse has PTSD.  Movies are loud.  They’re crowded.  They offer multiple triggers in a darkened two-hour session that we just always avoided.

But it was his birthday and he’s my Star Trek geek.  So I made him bagels, fixed him breakfast in bed, and gave him his gift – two tickets to see Star Trek Into Darkness in 3D.  Luckily his birthday fell on a Wednesday weeks after the movie had premiered.  I chose a matinee and crossed my fingers. 

We arrived early because I’m obsessive about not being late.  Luckily, I’d chosen well.  The theater was empty and practically stayed that way when the movie started.  Without missing a beat, the first trailer was filled with explosions.  I have no idea what movie it was for because my eyes were locked on Chris.  He began his frantic breathing and clutched my hand.  From the beginning I told him that if he couldn’t do this we could leave.  It wouldn’t hurt my feelings at all.  But he stuck it out. 

I missed parts of movie because each time there was a sudden noise I looked to him to make sure he wasn’t “fading” into the unconscious state he sometimes falls into.  But, I also watched his face light up when the old theme from Star Trek played and Kirk recited their five-year mission.  I watched him realize we can do normal things.  I watch him for the first time tell PTSD to piss off because no matter what he wasn’t going to miss this movie.  We made it to the end of the movie without incident.

It’s amazing how many people don’t understand why going to the movies would be stressful for us, but I know there are just as many who know exactly what I’m talking about.  Simple things, they just aren’t so simple anymore.  But they’re still pleasures if we take the risk and try.  It’s too easy to get mired in PTSD and become house bound.  Living a semi normal life with this issue is work, but it’s worth it because we deserve it.  He’s already talking about the next movie he’d like to see.  It’s a small victory, but it’s a victory all the same.  We have to move forward to keep from spending all our time looking back.  Stay oscar mike.  Always moving forward, always looking for the bright spots, the simple pleasures. 

poison...

The past couple of weeks have been epic in the sense that not an ounce more stress could have been crammed in, and no, this has nothing to do with taxes.  Our taxes were a rather pleasant experience by comparison.  I’m not even sure where to begin, or if I should write about this at all.  Feelings might get hurt, however at this point I’m at an impasse. Feelings are going to get hurt regardless of my actions.

So here goes…

We have a stressor in our lives right now.  It’s a loved one, a close family member, who has disregarded my husband’s PTSD since he came home changed from Iraq almost 9 years ago.  This person is selfish and ridiculous in many ways that I can overlook, but some things are inexcusable.  I have spent every day since I met Chris minimizing anything that exacerbates his PTSD.  We have carefully crafted a beautiful sedate life that he can feel safe in, and I cannot overlook this person’s intrusion into his haven any longer.

I won’t go into past hurts, they don’t matter in the grand scheme of things and they are a separate issue in my eyes.  To begin, my husband’s medical issues are many.  Extreme stress causes him to have what are called pseudo-seizures.  They are not epileptic in nature, but are physical manifestations of emotional distress.  Usually he seizes for around 20 minutes; this leaves him horribly sore the next day.  He eventually loses consciousness and also loses varying amounts of time.  He’s suffered from them for a couple of years, but we’ve minimized their occurrence quite successfully until now.

For the past several months, this family member has brought their life problems, problems of their own building, to our house, our haven.  Chris hid his distress from me for long time, and he hid it well until Easter.  Since that day, he’s had two major episodes that have come very close to me calling for an ambulance.  Just last night he admitted to me that suicide has been on his mind since this person came back into his life. 

So what do I do?  Immediate family members are hard to remove from your life especially when they’ve burned every bridge and you’re all they have left.  I have talked and explained until I am blue in the face about my husband’s needs but I have hesitated to get mean.  I fear however time is growing short and my inner fighter is starting to surface again.  I will not allow anyone to ruin what we’ve built.  But how do you tell someone that they’re poison?  That their presence is the finger that squeezes the trigger?  How do I tell this person whom I do care about, that they’re not welcome in my home anymore unless they can come over and not covet everything we’ve built in an attempt to create guilt, not cry and whine over unimportant non-issues in an attempt to bask in sympathy, not talk about how depressed or how horrible and sad their life is when it is no different than anyone else’s reality, and not expect him to solve all their self-made problems when they’ve not spent a single moment trying to help or understand his condition and what he’s been through?

How? 

To be continued when I find a solution. Wish me luck.

what might come may never come...

Sometimes he doesn't see me. When I say that I don't mean he can't see me, I mean he doesn't know who I am. It happens most often after a longer flashback.  It’s not fun.

He told me once about how he lost a couple of years and found himself at the house he'd shared with his ex-wife before they’d divorced. She was wide-eyed about him walking in unexpected. I imagine for her it was distressing but for him even more so. For a moment the woman he'd loved didn't know him; didn’t want him there; didn’t love him back. I've felt that. I've looked into his eyes more than a few times and found myself a stranger.

He shrinks from my touch when it happens and regards me with suspicion. It's frightening for the simple reason that the possibility exists that he might stay that way, that our years together could be wiped clean in the blink of a flashback. What do I do then? Other than convince him he's got to see a doctor, I'm not sure what course I would take. This fear leads me to want to carry our marriage license; leads me to want him to wear a medic alert bracelet with my phone number; makes me want to never let him leave the house alone ever again. But I can't do these things. I need a normal life as much as he does. I need to be able to smile as he goes out and not be paralyzed with worry. And that's what I do. I smile and I put the possibility out of my mind though upon his return I can feel the invisible truck drive off my chest.

I know I’ve written about this before but each time it happens it’s like the first.  As strange as it sounds I’ve grown accustom to his seizures, his flashbacks, his bouts of anger.  But this, this not knowing me, not loving me, I can’t get used to it.  I don’t want to get used to it.  I’ve accepted he’ll have certain symptoms for the rest of his life.  I’m okay with that.  I signed up knowing about them.  Hell, I signed up knowing about this.  He’d spent time before we were married struggling to find me in his memories.  And I’ll muddle through, but I don’t want to get used to it.

So what do we do when the person we love has something we can’t get used to but have to accept.  Do we ignore?  Do we get upset?  Or do we push it aside after the initial sting?  What is the healthiest option?

I suspect my best path is to keep the bridge in sight but to not worry about it until I am forced to cross.  Being prepared is always more desirable than letting things blindside you.  But sometimes you can’t be prepared no matter how much worry and thought you put into possibilities.  So, in light of that, I’ll continue to write and put thought into what may come, but I’m going to try and keep that truck parked elsewhere.  After all, worry is a waste of time.