I have a guilty pleasure. Reality TV. Not because I like to watch other people’s drama, but because I like to watch people. And why not, I write fiction. It’s like stealthy research for future characters, and yes, I have a little black book full of juicy notes.
Yesterday a show called hoarders was on all day. Marathon style is always my favorite because I can get other things done while feeding my curiosity about human nature. A gentleman came on. Good looking guy, nicely dressed, soft spoken, Navy veteran. His house was packed full of stuff. Not trash, not pets and filth, just stuff.
His big moment was showing the home to his girlfriend. He’d come to the epiphany that he wanted a long-term meaningful relationship with her and he knew he had to change. She had no idea what to expect, but she kept insisting she loved him.
Her reaction when she walked into this man’s house was “what is wrong with you” and “this is what crazy people do.” He was crushed. He’d reached out and had his hand slapped away.
I’ve been steaming about that show ever since. In fact I spent over an hour afterward ranting about her abandoning this man she professed to love.
I remember the moment Chris told me there was something wrong. Something broken inside his head, something that made him unlovable and a monster. He expected me to hang up the phone and never talk to him again. He braced for impact so to speak. It didn’t happen. I was willing. But more importantly, I was able.
Over the last two years, I’ve judged and raged about people who don’t stand by the person they love no matter what. But what I’ve come to realize is we all have our breaking point. If you can’t make the journey, get out of the car now. That’s what the woman did when she found out her boyfriend was a hoarder. She knew she wasn’t willing to be his support system so she didn’t give him false hope. I am so lucky. So lucky that I have something inside me strong enough to stay beside a man I love desperately. Lucky I knew. And I am lucky to have him.
So tonight I raise a glass to anyone who knew they could make it. To anyone who knew they couldn’t and broke quickly. To those who were left to fend for themselves, to those who were carried. We are after all, human. It’s best to leave behind resentment and focus on forgiveness, both those who’ve wronged us and ourselves. No need to forget, but forgive and move on.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
How Much Force Is Necessary
He is many things, loving, intense, aggressive, caring. He’s also difficult. It’s one descriptive word I use a lot when talking about my husband. He’s difficult. And I am a push over for him.
It’s so easy to fall into status quo and allow ourselves to be satisfied with just surviving PTSD. We survive without hope of this thing looming will ever be quieted for good.
Instead, we search for little victories. Tiny. And though small victories are of merit, where would we be if our finest had stopped at just winning the battle forgetting the war? My husband can’t forget the war but I seem to be day to day. I just want life, but have we lowered our standards as to what life really means? What it should hold?
So I find myself happy with marginal days saying they’re good when to anyone on the outside looking in would clasp their hands over their mouth and stifle tears. Is this what I’m doing? Stifling tears and pretending?
It’s so easy to not push because I’ve learned not to hope for normal days. No, I’ve learned normal is relative and it’s a sliding scale. But what about my husband? He’s surviving. Just barely. Is that fair? Is it fair that I pulled on my big girl panties and said I can walk this path with him, carry him if I have to, only to sit down with him when he’s found a comfortable place at the edge of the cliff and hope he doesn’t take a tumble?
Is it fair I’ve tired of doctor visits and pills and therapists so when he bucks against them I’m more willing to cave now than before?
No.
When a soldier falls in battle his brothers do not leave him behind nor do they give up and sit down with him to wait for inevitable loss. And yet here I sit with my legs dangling over that cliff watching him accept PTSD. I find excuses. My parents are staying with us at the moment. The kiddo is sick. I need to get the house in order. Every blip on the radar screen is an excuse not to call the doctor and make an appointment.
On the flip side however, it’s freaking hard to get my husband to do what he needs to do when it comes to his health. He won’t take the pills prescribed. He tells me to cancel appointments. He shuts down and refuses to take an active role in recovering. Status quo is fine and he’s marginally comfortable.
What do I do? Do I tell myself he’s happy and comfortable and don’t bother him or force his hand? Do I risk flashbacks, seizures, or deepening depression? I’m at a loss at this point as to what I should do. I know he wants to get better, I know he wants to be normal. I know he wants to be the man he was before he walked the sand. But he knows he can’t. And I know he can’t.
So here I sit at the kitchen table worrying every choice I make is the wrong one.
It’s so easy to fall into status quo and allow ourselves to be satisfied with just surviving PTSD. We survive without hope of this thing looming will ever be quieted for good.
Instead, we search for little victories. Tiny. And though small victories are of merit, where would we be if our finest had stopped at just winning the battle forgetting the war? My husband can’t forget the war but I seem to be day to day. I just want life, but have we lowered our standards as to what life really means? What it should hold?
So I find myself happy with marginal days saying they’re good when to anyone on the outside looking in would clasp their hands over their mouth and stifle tears. Is this what I’m doing? Stifling tears and pretending?
It’s so easy to not push because I’ve learned not to hope for normal days. No, I’ve learned normal is relative and it’s a sliding scale. But what about my husband? He’s surviving. Just barely. Is that fair? Is it fair that I pulled on my big girl panties and said I can walk this path with him, carry him if I have to, only to sit down with him when he’s found a comfortable place at the edge of the cliff and hope he doesn’t take a tumble?
Is it fair I’ve tired of doctor visits and pills and therapists so when he bucks against them I’m more willing to cave now than before?
No.
When a soldier falls in battle his brothers do not leave him behind nor do they give up and sit down with him to wait for inevitable loss. And yet here I sit with my legs dangling over that cliff watching him accept PTSD. I find excuses. My parents are staying with us at the moment. The kiddo is sick. I need to get the house in order. Every blip on the radar screen is an excuse not to call the doctor and make an appointment.
On the flip side however, it’s freaking hard to get my husband to do what he needs to do when it comes to his health. He won’t take the pills prescribed. He tells me to cancel appointments. He shuts down and refuses to take an active role in recovering. Status quo is fine and he’s marginally comfortable.
What do I do? Do I tell myself he’s happy and comfortable and don’t bother him or force his hand? Do I risk flashbacks, seizures, or deepening depression? I’m at a loss at this point as to what I should do. I know he wants to get better, I know he wants to be normal. I know he wants to be the man he was before he walked the sand. But he knows he can’t. And I know he can’t.
So here I sit at the kitchen table worrying every choice I make is the wrong one.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Fear of a Veteran
We’ve all heard it before, probably even said it at one point or another - “Not in my neighborhood.” Not in my neighborhood, the call of the concerned homeowner, used to be restricted to pedophiles and criminals. Halfway houses kept from areas with children or residential areas are a standard.
So my surprise when I read in article about a neighborhood in my own backyard fighting to keep out a place for veterans with PTSD and TBI to come for treatment was quite warranted. In San Diego, a place filled to the brim with military, neighbors are “questioning” – a word I find hilarious – whether the Old Town area is a suitable place for recovering veterans.
It would be a treatment center plain and simple and one of few of it’s kind in the country. It would be in my opinion a shining example of how San Diego cares for it’s veterans.
Another article, one I think ties into San Diego’s fight against the Aspire Center, calls the media out for causing a state of fear over returning Iraq and Afghanistan war vets. That piece spoke of the “Dangerous” veteran. That I think is why there is growing concern about where these veterans are treated.
Now I’m generally not a conspiracist or a fatalist. I believe in good intentions so when my husband and I sat over coffee discussing the recent portrayal of veterans with PTSD in the media prompting his statement that they feel the American public needs a boogieman to keep our eyes off the real problems in this country I wasn’t quite in agreement. But I’m not sure I can’t give it some thought. Since the days of William Hearst and cries of yellow journalism the media has been known to swing the public attention to their desired subject.
I tend however to lean toward the thought that blood and fear sell “papers”. PTSD is in the public eye under a spotlight at the moment. Beside the patriotic “let’s support our troops” attitude there is an underlying current of fear over the unknown because as much people think they know about PTSD they do not know it like those of us who live with it do.
I understand this fear. I have a lot of experience with PTSD and yes the symptoms are scary. I’ve also read the stories of vets and soldiers “snapping”, most recently the soldier who killed all those civilians in Afghanistan. But are the public, and worse, our police force buying into this “dangerous” veteran?
I tend to think they are.
Not long ago a local Marine was killed in front of his children by an officer. He was unarmed and though the reports were slow to come out, it was clear his vehicle was marked with the familiar stickers many of us have. My own vehicle is adorned with an Army sticker and my husband’s with a veteran tag. Am I taking my life into my hands? Should I worry that the public is becoming increasingly leery of returning veterans who might suffer from this PTSD the media has told them about?
I’m going to let my geek hang out a bit here but I remember an episode of Star Trek where the soldiers who had fought to keep their people safe were exiled from society because of fear. After all they were killers. Trained killers. Life often imitates art and more than once my PTSD suffering husband has said “eventually the government is going to round us all up and lock us away for the safety of the public.”
I scoffed. I laughed and joked with him. And underneath it all, I feared what he said was closer to the truth than I cared to believe.
So my surprise when I read in article about a neighborhood in my own backyard fighting to keep out a place for veterans with PTSD and TBI to come for treatment was quite warranted. In San Diego, a place filled to the brim with military, neighbors are “questioning” – a word I find hilarious – whether the Old Town area is a suitable place for recovering veterans.
“Called the Aspire Center, the proposed facility would have 40 beds, including six for female veterans and 10 for veterans with mild traumatic brain injury. The aim is to provide temporary housing for honorably discharged veterans for an average of 60 to 120 days, according to VA San Diego Healthcare System."
It would be a treatment center plain and simple and one of few of it’s kind in the country. It would be in my opinion a shining example of how San Diego cares for it’s veterans.
Another article, one I think ties into San Diego’s fight against the Aspire Center, calls the media out for causing a state of fear over returning Iraq and Afghanistan war vets. That piece spoke of the “Dangerous” veteran. That I think is why there is growing concern about where these veterans are treated.
Now I’m generally not a conspiracist or a fatalist. I believe in good intentions so when my husband and I sat over coffee discussing the recent portrayal of veterans with PTSD in the media prompting his statement that they feel the American public needs a boogieman to keep our eyes off the real problems in this country I wasn’t quite in agreement. But I’m not sure I can’t give it some thought. Since the days of William Hearst and cries of yellow journalism the media has been known to swing the public attention to their desired subject.
I tend however to lean toward the thought that blood and fear sell “papers”. PTSD is in the public eye under a spotlight at the moment. Beside the patriotic “let’s support our troops” attitude there is an underlying current of fear over the unknown because as much people think they know about PTSD they do not know it like those of us who live with it do.
I understand this fear. I have a lot of experience with PTSD and yes the symptoms are scary. I’ve also read the stories of vets and soldiers “snapping”, most recently the soldier who killed all those civilians in Afghanistan. But are the public, and worse, our police force buying into this “dangerous” veteran?
I tend to think they are.
Not long ago a local Marine was killed in front of his children by an officer. He was unarmed and though the reports were slow to come out, it was clear his vehicle was marked with the familiar stickers many of us have. My own vehicle is adorned with an Army sticker and my husband’s with a veteran tag. Am I taking my life into my hands? Should I worry that the public is becoming increasingly leery of returning veterans who might suffer from this PTSD the media has told them about?
I’m going to let my geek hang out a bit here but I remember an episode of Star Trek where the soldiers who had fought to keep their people safe were exiled from society because of fear. After all they were killers. Trained killers. Life often imitates art and more than once my PTSD suffering husband has said “eventually the government is going to round us all up and lock us away for the safety of the public.”
I scoffed. I laughed and joked with him. And underneath it all, I feared what he said was closer to the truth than I cared to believe.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Finding His Voice
It took a few weeks, but Chris shared with me another piece he'd written. And graciously he has agreed to allow me to share it with you...
I made some headway today. A small breakthrough towards recovery if you will, if there is such a thing. Somewhere underneath the layers of shit that has become my mind there remains a spark of the original fire which once burned bright and infinite. Something happened to me today that made me feel as though the real me, the old me is still in there jumping up and down, waving and screaming. I saw him today. I heard him speak.
The calm, cool and collected man that once dwelled within these halls came back for a visit. For as brief as it was, it was still a visit. It gave me hope that maybe someday he can come back to stay. I know all too well that a new set of circumstances will emerge that will give rise to the tyrant again. But for now, right now, the guns are silent and the field is still. I'll take it any way I can get it.
See, I was going to write about how I am no longer able to verbally communicate anymore.
One of the largest issues I struggle with now is a generalized lack of verbal communication. I was born with the gift of gab and always found it very easy, even from a young age, to fully express myself to others through speech alone. I was like a fucking pint sized motivational speaker who also sold used cars. By the time I was entering adulthood, I had created a network of acquaintances from all walks of life and in a small town like mine, I pretty much had Carte Blanche.
Where ever I went I was able to network to get me where I needed to be. From the didactic standpoint it has always been very easy for me to retain knowledge through little more than hearing it in the background. I swear, honestly all I did throughout my educational career was show up and only half pay attention and was able to pass subjects without studying. Both of these attributes served me very well in college and in the military. Very well indeed. Speaking in front of large groups, conducting classes and briefings were as natural to me as breathing.
Since my return home, I've slowly turned into little more than a high functioning bowl of snot-flavored Jello. Early on, I was just angry and emotional. Now I'm angry, emotional AND retarded and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. I swear to god it's like I'm reverting back to my primordial self. At this rate, it won't be long before I start clubbing dinosaurs in the nut sack. The only thing I can still do to express myself, aside from the tried and true “middle finger” is setting here, in front of this soul stealing porn box typing away. And even that gets mucked up sometimes so bad that I have to walk away.
It's almost like there is a bridge out in my head. Like traffic has to detour around town to get the to expressway to my mouth. Sometimes there’s a moron in the passing lane texting and they take out the guardrail. The only real problem with that is that there's so much fog up there that about five or six others plummet off to their demise as well. Then come the “looky-loos” who rubberneck and back the damn traffic up until the whole damned upper east side gets gridlocked. At this point what began as a clearly thought out and executed verbal response to normal interacting communication has now turned into a long string of glistening drool hanging from my lip accompanied by the light sounds of crickets in the background.
Well, today the tension level in the house reach a crescendo. You see, my twenty-year-old daughter recently moved into our home. We had been estranged for most of her childhood. As with all twenty-somethings I've ever known, her personal level of drama is rivaled only by her incredible sense of self-loathing. Emotionally she's a train wreck and as much as it sucks, in this house, her train not only wrecks but the emotional fuel which fired the train is made by NASA so when it explodes it takes out two counties. Well, that is to say that's solely because of my inability to cope. My instability causes seemingly normal issues to become enough of a threat to household security that I go into DEFCON 4.
Today however something inside of me was different. For the first time in over six years I spoke calmly. My breathing never elevated, my heart rate was at a normal level and those beads of sweat that form on my hands and face when I have to deal with issues was absent. Gone also was the “puffy” stance the wife says I get when irritated.
As with everything I've learned from PTSD it never ceases to amaze me how sometimes situations still find a way to dictate. Today, somewhere in the deep dark reaches of my psyche behind the battlefront, the messenger climbed aboard his motorcycle and took a vital communique to the commander at the front. Needless to say there was plenty of opposition but he made it through and a temporary armistice was negotiated.
I can't set here and honestly say to you that I know why. Maybe it's because she's my little girl and I love her with all my heart. Maybe it's that I see so much potential in her that to watch her fail and not intervene would be one of the greatest tragedies in my life and hers. Hell, maybe it's as simple as chemical levels in my brain being freakishly normal for a brief moment. Who knows? I don't care. For the first time in this kid's life I was her Dad. Not merely a biological interest. No, a real dad. The kind that uses his life experiences and delivers them in a manner that is not only relevant but can be used to explain the point I was trying to make. The kind of dad I always wanted. I was able to rationally discuss with her all the issues that needed to be aired.
I have to tell you. When the realization of this finally sunk in, I was proud, happy, anxious and sad all at the same time. But all of these feelings paled in comparison to the actual deed. For the first time since leaving my post I had taken a bad situation and resolved it without punching a wall or banging my fists to the table. I didn't raise my voice nor did anything get broken. It was enlightening if only for a moment. Am I cured? No. Even I'm not crazy enough to believe that. Is it a step in the right direction? God, I hope so.
It felt really good to be me. And if I spend the rest of my days circling the bowl, well at least I had this brief moment of clarity. And you know what? Right now, today and on the heels of the stress that is this holiday... It's good enough.
I made some headway today. A small breakthrough towards recovery if you will, if there is such a thing. Somewhere underneath the layers of shit that has become my mind there remains a spark of the original fire which once burned bright and infinite. Something happened to me today that made me feel as though the real me, the old me is still in there jumping up and down, waving and screaming. I saw him today. I heard him speak.
The calm, cool and collected man that once dwelled within these halls came back for a visit. For as brief as it was, it was still a visit. It gave me hope that maybe someday he can come back to stay. I know all too well that a new set of circumstances will emerge that will give rise to the tyrant again. But for now, right now, the guns are silent and the field is still. I'll take it any way I can get it.
See, I was going to write about how I am no longer able to verbally communicate anymore.
One of the largest issues I struggle with now is a generalized lack of verbal communication. I was born with the gift of gab and always found it very easy, even from a young age, to fully express myself to others through speech alone. I was like a fucking pint sized motivational speaker who also sold used cars. By the time I was entering adulthood, I had created a network of acquaintances from all walks of life and in a small town like mine, I pretty much had Carte Blanche.
Where ever I went I was able to network to get me where I needed to be. From the didactic standpoint it has always been very easy for me to retain knowledge through little more than hearing it in the background. I swear, honestly all I did throughout my educational career was show up and only half pay attention and was able to pass subjects without studying. Both of these attributes served me very well in college and in the military. Very well indeed. Speaking in front of large groups, conducting classes and briefings were as natural to me as breathing.
Since my return home, I've slowly turned into little more than a high functioning bowl of snot-flavored Jello. Early on, I was just angry and emotional. Now I'm angry, emotional AND retarded and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. I swear to god it's like I'm reverting back to my primordial self. At this rate, it won't be long before I start clubbing dinosaurs in the nut sack. The only thing I can still do to express myself, aside from the tried and true “middle finger” is setting here, in front of this soul stealing porn box typing away. And even that gets mucked up sometimes so bad that I have to walk away.
It's almost like there is a bridge out in my head. Like traffic has to detour around town to get the to expressway to my mouth. Sometimes there’s a moron in the passing lane texting and they take out the guardrail. The only real problem with that is that there's so much fog up there that about five or six others plummet off to their demise as well. Then come the “looky-loos” who rubberneck and back the damn traffic up until the whole damned upper east side gets gridlocked. At this point what began as a clearly thought out and executed verbal response to normal interacting communication has now turned into a long string of glistening drool hanging from my lip accompanied by the light sounds of crickets in the background.
Well, today the tension level in the house reach a crescendo. You see, my twenty-year-old daughter recently moved into our home. We had been estranged for most of her childhood. As with all twenty-somethings I've ever known, her personal level of drama is rivaled only by her incredible sense of self-loathing. Emotionally she's a train wreck and as much as it sucks, in this house, her train not only wrecks but the emotional fuel which fired the train is made by NASA so when it explodes it takes out two counties. Well, that is to say that's solely because of my inability to cope. My instability causes seemingly normal issues to become enough of a threat to household security that I go into DEFCON 4.
Today however something inside of me was different. For the first time in over six years I spoke calmly. My breathing never elevated, my heart rate was at a normal level and those beads of sweat that form on my hands and face when I have to deal with issues was absent. Gone also was the “puffy” stance the wife says I get when irritated.
As with everything I've learned from PTSD it never ceases to amaze me how sometimes situations still find a way to dictate. Today, somewhere in the deep dark reaches of my psyche behind the battlefront, the messenger climbed aboard his motorcycle and took a vital communique to the commander at the front. Needless to say there was plenty of opposition but he made it through and a temporary armistice was negotiated.
I can't set here and honestly say to you that I know why. Maybe it's because she's my little girl and I love her with all my heart. Maybe it's that I see so much potential in her that to watch her fail and not intervene would be one of the greatest tragedies in my life and hers. Hell, maybe it's as simple as chemical levels in my brain being freakishly normal for a brief moment. Who knows? I don't care. For the first time in this kid's life I was her Dad. Not merely a biological interest. No, a real dad. The kind that uses his life experiences and delivers them in a manner that is not only relevant but can be used to explain the point I was trying to make. The kind of dad I always wanted. I was able to rationally discuss with her all the issues that needed to be aired.
I have to tell you. When the realization of this finally sunk in, I was proud, happy, anxious and sad all at the same time. But all of these feelings paled in comparison to the actual deed. For the first time since leaving my post I had taken a bad situation and resolved it without punching a wall or banging my fists to the table. I didn't raise my voice nor did anything get broken. It was enlightening if only for a moment. Am I cured? No. Even I'm not crazy enough to believe that. Is it a step in the right direction? God, I hope so.
It felt really good to be me. And if I spend the rest of my days circling the bowl, well at least I had this brief moment of clarity. And you know what? Right now, today and on the heels of the stress that is this holiday... It's good enough.
Wrestling the Reaper
"Achieving life is not the equivalent of avoiding death." -Ayn Rand
A simple quote I’ve had associated with my screen name on many forums over the years. But I stopped today to really examine it because yesterday Chris and I spoke of life, death, and adrenaline rushes.
It started as a discussion about finding a gym. I used to work as a self-defense/fighting/fitness instructor and I miss it. I spent my days with gloves on my hands, calling my students cupcakes, and seeing how far I could push them without making them drop – though sometimes admittedly a few did. My students knew me well from my double yes yes after I’d given an instruction to my favorite statement ‘it ain’t over till someone pukes or cries.’ Out of the six men I worked beside on the self-defense side of the house, I was considered by many the meanest instructor in the place and it was well earned. I was physically the smallest so in training I had to try to be the biggest dog in the pound. But I got hurt because of my inability to tap out when I’d been beat. Losing was something I couldn’t avoid sometimes but admitting it and giving up was something entirely unacceptable.
So when I told Chris I wanted to find a gym and maybe give working out in a class a try again, he got this panicked look across his face. He knows me, he knows my injuries. He knows how I choose to test limits until my shoulders are out of joint and I’m hurting from head to toe. He knows the doctors said not one more concussion.
But I know him as well. We were both adrenaline junkies at one point or another, only his involved Iraq and things I’d rather never experience personally. So we started to talk about adrenaline and that high we both remember so well and still crave.
He talked about getting through a patrol when things got hot. His only way to describe the feeling afterward was with an almost insane laughter. He misses it, like I miss what I used to do. It does seem strange to outsiders. No one in my family understood why I wanted to fight and I get the feeling no one in Chris’ family understood why he volunteered to stay after his tour in Iraq was up. But I do.
Avoiding death is not the same as achieving life, but cheating death is even more thrilling. Do it too much and I’m guessing it haunts you in way most don’t understand. I think that inner conflict between the anxiety and fear and the secret need for the excitement those days brought will always be a silent struggle. He gets a certain gleam in his eyes when he talks about Iraq but there are always memories tucked in to the stories that steal the fondness away just as fast. It’s that desire to go back and the fear of going back that seem to work on him the most. Like a drug you know will kill you eventually but you want it so desperately.
That want causes him to buy games he eventually cannot play after one or two sessions. The gunfire, the too real graphics all end up seeping into the back of his mind bringing to light the other memories, the ones he’s buried and tried to forget.
I’m not sure what the point of all this is other than I’ve been doing a bit of soul searching lately. Some things I see catch my eye and make me wonder. The depth of this thing, and I call it a thing because some days it seems solid like a gorilla in the room tossing things about, is immense. The more people I speak to, the more I realize there isn’t a one size fits all cure.
A simple quote I’ve had associated with my screen name on many forums over the years. But I stopped today to really examine it because yesterday Chris and I spoke of life, death, and adrenaline rushes.
It started as a discussion about finding a gym. I used to work as a self-defense/fighting/fitness instructor and I miss it. I spent my days with gloves on my hands, calling my students cupcakes, and seeing how far I could push them without making them drop – though sometimes admittedly a few did. My students knew me well from my double yes yes after I’d given an instruction to my favorite statement ‘it ain’t over till someone pukes or cries.’ Out of the six men I worked beside on the self-defense side of the house, I was considered by many the meanest instructor in the place and it was well earned. I was physically the smallest so in training I had to try to be the biggest dog in the pound. But I got hurt because of my inability to tap out when I’d been beat. Losing was something I couldn’t avoid sometimes but admitting it and giving up was something entirely unacceptable.
So when I told Chris I wanted to find a gym and maybe give working out in a class a try again, he got this panicked look across his face. He knows me, he knows my injuries. He knows how I choose to test limits until my shoulders are out of joint and I’m hurting from head to toe. He knows the doctors said not one more concussion.
But I know him as well. We were both adrenaline junkies at one point or another, only his involved Iraq and things I’d rather never experience personally. So we started to talk about adrenaline and that high we both remember so well and still crave.
He talked about getting through a patrol when things got hot. His only way to describe the feeling afterward was with an almost insane laughter. He misses it, like I miss what I used to do. It does seem strange to outsiders. No one in my family understood why I wanted to fight and I get the feeling no one in Chris’ family understood why he volunteered to stay after his tour in Iraq was up. But I do.
Avoiding death is not the same as achieving life, but cheating death is even more thrilling. Do it too much and I’m guessing it haunts you in way most don’t understand. I think that inner conflict between the anxiety and fear and the secret need for the excitement those days brought will always be a silent struggle. He gets a certain gleam in his eyes when he talks about Iraq but there are always memories tucked in to the stories that steal the fondness away just as fast. It’s that desire to go back and the fear of going back that seem to work on him the most. Like a drug you know will kill you eventually but you want it so desperately.
That want causes him to buy games he eventually cannot play after one or two sessions. The gunfire, the too real graphics all end up seeping into the back of his mind bringing to light the other memories, the ones he’s buried and tried to forget.
I’m not sure what the point of all this is other than I’ve been doing a bit of soul searching lately. Some things I see catch my eye and make me wonder. The depth of this thing, and I call it a thing because some days it seems solid like a gorilla in the room tossing things about, is immense. The more people I speak to, the more I realize there isn’t a one size fits all cure.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I Dreamed of Iraq
Nightmares are not new to me. My earliest memories involve dreams of things growing out the floor and houses with dimly lit plywood mazes filled with monsters I could hear but never glimpse.
Last night I dreamed of Iraq. We were home, Chris and I and my youngest son, enjoying beautiful Southern California weather and standing in the garage. Around the edges of my vision the landscape began to change. The colors washed out and heat distorted the distance. Soon I could hear small arms fire.
I was first to see them. A group of soldiers hunkered down behind a short wall sending rounds down range. When they saw us they called for my husband.
Maybe they were short a medic, maybe they needed cover, or maybe I was just having an anxiety dream about the knowledge that, given the chance, Chris would go back in a heartbeat. And in my dream he did go. He ran off back into the sand leaving us to watch the war drift closer and closer until in enveloped our world.
At six when I woke I told myself the dream would leave me like so many of them do after a few hours. Only a small number of very specific images linger in my mind for more than that. This one however has not only lingered but has hung at the back of my eyes all day waiting for a chance to create the hot feeling I get across the bridge of nose warning me of impending tears.
I learned a new sympathy for Chris though I know what I experienced is nothing close to the dreams that wake him screaming some nights. Why? Because the monsters I dreamed of do not exist.
Chris’ monsters are real and he’ll always carry them.
Last night I dreamed of Iraq. We were home, Chris and I and my youngest son, enjoying beautiful Southern California weather and standing in the garage. Around the edges of my vision the landscape began to change. The colors washed out and heat distorted the distance. Soon I could hear small arms fire.
I was first to see them. A group of soldiers hunkered down behind a short wall sending rounds down range. When they saw us they called for my husband.
Maybe they were short a medic, maybe they needed cover, or maybe I was just having an anxiety dream about the knowledge that, given the chance, Chris would go back in a heartbeat. And in my dream he did go. He ran off back into the sand leaving us to watch the war drift closer and closer until in enveloped our world.
At six when I woke I told myself the dream would leave me like so many of them do after a few hours. Only a small number of very specific images linger in my mind for more than that. This one however has not only lingered but has hung at the back of my eyes all day waiting for a chance to create the hot feeling I get across the bridge of nose warning me of impending tears.
I learned a new sympathy for Chris though I know what I experienced is nothing close to the dreams that wake him screaming some nights. Why? Because the monsters I dreamed of do not exist.
Chris’ monsters are real and he’ll always carry them.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Collateral Damage
My family has had several tough years recently. My divorce from my first husband after almost 16 years, finding out my brother was about as dishonest a person as anyone could be, and my marrying a man with some grave health issues. Now that Chris and I seem to be settled and safe, my mother and father have placed the house up for sale and are leaving my state.
I’ve never lived farther than a few minutes from my parents so this will be quite a transition for all of us especially since my father has grown quite close to Chris this past year. They’ve found out they share many interests which has led my pops to give Chris more woodworking tools than I can count.
This afternoon I visited my parents after they showed the house. We sat and talked about things, about how I’d rather they not leave but I understood. That’s when Mom said something that broke my heart because I hadn’t understood at all.
She can’t take the stress. This last year with Chris and dealing with his health and the VA and everything else had been heavy on me, but it had weighed on my parents as well - especially my mom because she understands something very deep about loving someone with declining health.
My father has had rheumatoid arthritis since he was thirty-four years old. It started the summer we were painting the old two-story farmhouse in Kansas. At first it settled in his feet and we assumed it was from standing on the ladder. The following months I watched my father grow crippled. He curled up as his body betrayed him. Just as Mom started making plans to have a ramp installed for when Dad became wheelchair bound and looked into a job at the local grocery store, there was a miracle of sorts. My dad got better. He found a level of comfort, tenuous as it was, and life started back up again. Pops is sixty-five and has won and lost when it comes to his disease. He takes a medication now that controls it, barely, as it destroys his liver.
Mom looked at me today and said she couldn’t take watching Chris deteriorate. She couldn’t bear to see the pain on my face while I took care of him. It was a moment of such sorrow and joy I can’t describe it. Like I said, it’s been a hard couple of years and Chris wasn’t exactly welcomed into my family with open arms. I more or less tossed him in and said like it or not this is your son-in-law. And they didn’t like it – at first.
I’d never considered my family when Chris’ health ebbed and flowed. My son, who spends half his time at our house, my dad, my mom, his daughters. I’ve tried hard to shield everyone in our lives from Chris’ PTSD, but it’s near to impossible to do. His symptoms are obnoxious and rude. They never call before they drop by. If we have plans, they don’t get the hint when we grab our coat and keys. No, they squeeze themselves in even when we don’t have the energy or the room.
Luckily, I’ve kept my parents from seeing the very worst, but I’ve confided in my mom on more than a few occasions. I hadn’t realized what I was doing was inviting his symptoms to her house via my own need to speak to someone. She’d become an unwilling counselor and because she loves me, her heart bleeds with my wounds.
When she said she couldn’t watch Chris deteriorate, I saw the damage I’d done and knew I needed to remember she doesn’t see the good days. I tend not to tell her when he’s slept beautifully and soundly for more than one day in a row, or about how we were able to go to the grocery store without incident, and how he managed to go to the gas station by himself and not come home in a panic. No, I don’t talk to her about the good things. Maybe I’m embarrassed those are victories to me. But more than likely I was taking for granted my mom understood there were good times as well as bad.
I’m taking her homemade soft pretzels tomorrow. We won’t talk about Chris’ health. We’ll talk about Christmas and all those years stretching behind us with no audible worries of the years ahead of us.
I’ve never lived farther than a few minutes from my parents so this will be quite a transition for all of us especially since my father has grown quite close to Chris this past year. They’ve found out they share many interests which has led my pops to give Chris more woodworking tools than I can count.
This afternoon I visited my parents after they showed the house. We sat and talked about things, about how I’d rather they not leave but I understood. That’s when Mom said something that broke my heart because I hadn’t understood at all.
She can’t take the stress. This last year with Chris and dealing with his health and the VA and everything else had been heavy on me, but it had weighed on my parents as well - especially my mom because she understands something very deep about loving someone with declining health.
My father has had rheumatoid arthritis since he was thirty-four years old. It started the summer we were painting the old two-story farmhouse in Kansas. At first it settled in his feet and we assumed it was from standing on the ladder. The following months I watched my father grow crippled. He curled up as his body betrayed him. Just as Mom started making plans to have a ramp installed for when Dad became wheelchair bound and looked into a job at the local grocery store, there was a miracle of sorts. My dad got better. He found a level of comfort, tenuous as it was, and life started back up again. Pops is sixty-five and has won and lost when it comes to his disease. He takes a medication now that controls it, barely, as it destroys his liver.
Mom looked at me today and said she couldn’t take watching Chris deteriorate. She couldn’t bear to see the pain on my face while I took care of him. It was a moment of such sorrow and joy I can’t describe it. Like I said, it’s been a hard couple of years and Chris wasn’t exactly welcomed into my family with open arms. I more or less tossed him in and said like it or not this is your son-in-law. And they didn’t like it – at first.
I’d never considered my family when Chris’ health ebbed and flowed. My son, who spends half his time at our house, my dad, my mom, his daughters. I’ve tried hard to shield everyone in our lives from Chris’ PTSD, but it’s near to impossible to do. His symptoms are obnoxious and rude. They never call before they drop by. If we have plans, they don’t get the hint when we grab our coat and keys. No, they squeeze themselves in even when we don’t have the energy or the room.
Luckily, I’ve kept my parents from seeing the very worst, but I’ve confided in my mom on more than a few occasions. I hadn’t realized what I was doing was inviting his symptoms to her house via my own need to speak to someone. She’d become an unwilling counselor and because she loves me, her heart bleeds with my wounds.
When she said she couldn’t watch Chris deteriorate, I saw the damage I’d done and knew I needed to remember she doesn’t see the good days. I tend not to tell her when he’s slept beautifully and soundly for more than one day in a row, or about how we were able to go to the grocery store without incident, and how he managed to go to the gas station by himself and not come home in a panic. No, I don’t talk to her about the good things. Maybe I’m embarrassed those are victories to me. But more than likely I was taking for granted my mom understood there were good times as well as bad.
I’m taking her homemade soft pretzels tomorrow. We won’t talk about Chris’ health. We’ll talk about Christmas and all those years stretching behind us with no audible worries of the years ahead of us.
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