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.