I am always thrilled when my husband writes, but when he chooses to share it's a special day. This is another of his pieces he's graciously allowed me to post here at Not Alone.
How did I get here? I mean today. How did I get to this point? For all intents and purposes I should be dead or at the very least in jail. And why me? Why am I one of the lucky ones who has a nice warm bed to sleep in and what, from the outside, is a seemingly normal life? There are so many vets who are homeless, dead or trapped in the infinite loop that is dealing with the VA. Why was I spared? Why am I so lucky? This almost feels the same as what the doctors told me was the “survivors guilt” I struggled with when I got home. There are teenagers who will forget what it was like to walk or the simple task of shaking ones hand, yet I waltzed through my deployment mostly unscathed. I would really like the answers but I can't seem to find them in the jumbled up mess that is my mind.
How am I allowed to roam free? You see, under certain circumstances I have absolutely zero control over my anger. None. Granted, I have to be pushed but not nearly as far as in the past. I keep asking myself this question and to be honest, I cannot tell you the answer. What is it that I have inside that keeps me from going off the deep end and taking weapons to town or from tearing someone into tiny pieces?
Could it have something to do with my medical training? Is there something in my self-conscious that maintains a “do no harm” attitude? I can't tell you. All I know is that I've been able to stay clear of situations that would land me in front of a judge then behind bars. I wish it were as easy as taking some blood and running a few tests to find out the answer. I sure as hell wish I could give a small bit of whatever this is I have to my brothers and sisters dealing with this.
I once had a doctor ask me to tell him about my recent dealings with law enforcement and any trouble I'd been in since coming home. When I told him there was nothing to report, he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. But, I did admit to him that I've shut down. I never leave the house and when I do, it's rarely for more than an hour and I limit the mileage between me and home. I always have an exit plan and I know a number of routes to get me back quickly. I figure if I go ahead and lock myself away, the authorities won't have to do it for me.
There is a monster lurking just under the skin and every once in a while I see his devilish eyes peering back at me in the mirror. I know he's there. Tormenting me and pacing back and forth in his cage stopping frequently to rattle the bars. If I never give this monster the chance to destroy anything outside of the house, the chances are we'll be OK at the end of the day.
The one thing I've learned to do however is to keep myself constantly occupied. I need a hobby always. As long as my mind and my hands are engaged, I maintain a level of normalcy. Granted I have bouts with anger even when doing something I like. Sometimes, tedious aspects of whatever project I'm working on drive me to the point of destruction. I have actually sent things I've spent hours even days on crashing into the wall and onto the floor. I can't help it. But, for the most part, a hobby is just the thing I need to keep me on an even keel. The more challenging the project is the better. I find that if my mind is always working out complex problems I'm less likely to dwell on the macabre images my mind persistently conjure up.
I really wish I could work. There is no feeling in the world quite like the guilt one gets from laying on their ass all day when they know how able they are to work. Sort of that scared, sick feeling you got when you fibbed about being sick to stay home from school as a kid. That, “I can't leave the house or someone might see me” paranoia. The sad truth is, I lack the patience to play well with others. The several jobs I lost once I got home is a painful reminder of that.
I inherited my grandfather's work ethic. “Never let the boss see you slacking. Always be on time. Always do your best. Give the boss an honest days work for an honest days pay”... That sort of thing.
Before I got infected with this damned PTSD, I obeyed these teachings as though they were gospel. When I worked, I stayed with the same employer for years. By the time I entered the military, I was fully prepared to make it my career. I had everything in place and PTSD broke my window, climbed in and stole everything. All I could do was stand there with my mouth open in disbelief. Gone was the years of reliability I had to offer an employer. I went from being dependable and trustworthy to being someone my coworkers were afraid of. Until after I got home I had never been “asked to leave” a job. Also, I was never the kind to walk away without finishing the task at hand. All that is gone now and I can't hold a job to save my ass.
So... How did I get here? What keeps me safe? Well, I can tell you that I am very blessed. I have the best support system in the world. I have a wife who loves me for who I am no matter how broke up and ugly I get. A true saint that gives and gives even though she knows that sometimes I can't give back. She doesn't judge me. And you know, I think some of success to our relationship comes from the fact that she has no idea about who I was before PTSD. She never knew the flawed individual and the soldier that left. All she sees is the person I am now.
This raises another question. How is it that I'm capable of maintaining a relationship? There again, I don't know. I know I'm a huge burden on her. She could have picked way better than me. She could have had it easier. She could have ended up with someone normal. God knows why she chose me but I'm damned glad she did. She actually saved my life and on more than one occasion. She's talked the gun out of my mouth and held my hand and led me from the ledge. And these are not exaggerations.
I can tell you what doesn't work. The drugs the VA wanted to force-feed me. The cocktail of anti-psychotics, the antidepressants and the blood pressure medication that was supposed to help with my nightmares. They made me sick and zombie-like and caused physical issues which I'm still dealing with today. The doctors at the VA didn't want to even entertain the fact that they were not working for me and their answer was to up the dosage. Fuck that! I refuse to replace one problem with another. So I stopped taking them. As a medic, I knew better but I quit them cold turkey and didn't wean myself off them. That was a shitty month.
Do you know what the damnedest thing is? I set here writing this, hoping that some of my words may help others like me, but I can offer no advice on how to deal with this thing. Most days it's like trying to piss up a rope. The other thing that really scares the shit out of me is the fact the this thing rarely affects every person who has it in the same way. If you read up, it seems like everyone has different or unique problems associated with PTSD. It's the damned “fingerprint” of disorders and everyone experiences differences in severity and symptoms.
Honestly, it would be easier to school those who are caring for someone with this disorder than it is to even begin to help one in trying to recover from it.
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