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.
No comments:
Post a Comment