It’s early morning again and I’m sitting in quiet. No TV, no distractions, just the faint sound of the new kitten shredding the side of my couch. But I’m in the kitchen counting blessings so I can’t quite see her.
Blessings, you say?
Well, okay, they aren’t blessings. That’s a little shallow. Let’s just say additions to my kitchen. We bought the house a little over a year and a half ago and Chris has hit overdrive when it comes to projects.
In the past six months he’s added brand new pantry doors, shelving everywhere, a whole new wall of cabinets, and a beer tap set in the most beautiful black walnut and white oak countertop.
Beer tap, you say? Isn’t your husband listed as an alcoholic by the VA?
Yes, he is. And yes, he was heading that way. I okayed the tap for a few reasons, but the biggest was the need to socialize. Veterans with PTSD tend to isolate themselves from both friends and family. We have battled this for the last several years. We do hunker down at times, but humans need interaction.
A few months ago my parents decided they’d like to move to a smaller house in a different state. They’ve proceeded to empty their home into mine. This has been great for Chris and his projects because my dad is an avid woodworker but doesn’t want to do anything but fish during his retirement. Our garage is full of the best tools money can buy and that we could have never afforded.
They also sent over a small fridge. It’s just big enough for a small keg.
I know what you’re thinking. How could you encourage his drinking by installing a keg?
When I taught fitness and helped people lose pounds I found the worst thing for them was to deprive themselves of every treat they so desperately wanted. You want cake? Have a piece. But don’t have half a cake, don’t have it every day, and don’t beat yourself up after you eat it.
Chris likes beer. We have three couples who we’ve allowed knowledge of his PTSD and they also enjoy a drink now and again. This keg is a reason to socialize. Invitations and talk of a larger get together were almost immediate once the keg was installed and the foam had subsided. Chris wants to show off his handiwork. He’s talented and though his PTSD has left him unable to cope with the world regularly, he doesn’t feel worthless anymore.
He smiles now. Pats the countertop. Points to the ebony carving mallet he fashioned into a tap handle.
“Nice, huh?”
It sure is. It’s beautiful as a matter of fact and he’s proud. His hands are idle no longer. No, he’s not working on patients. He’s not doing exactly what he was trained to do. But he’s doing something and he wants to share it with the outside world by inviting them in.
The first day, He enjoyed three or four beers. Each with a bigger grin than the last. Our neighbors came to admire and partake. They stayed and chatted for an hour or two and he beamed.
In Ireland, there’s a little place in the back of some pubs called ‘the snug’. It’s a cozy area of the bar where people can enjoy a little more privacy and a little more quiet but still socialize and have a nip.
This is our snug and it’s like seeing him shed a little of his protective armor. Things are still hard. They always will be, so we look for moments. And this moment has brought the possibility of more moments to cherish.
Yesterday, Chris started talking about pulling out the kitchen cabinets and reworking them. He’s excited. And so am I. Not only at the possibility of a new and beautiful kitchen – come on, who wouldn’t be - but the possibility we’re gaining ground. He’s winning. It happens.
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