A Defective Soldier

Once again, I have to thank my husband for writing a piece and allowing me to share it.  I never know exactly what to say after I read them, but I know they need to shared.

Most people wouldn't understand the bond a soldier forms with his weapon.  Remembering back I don't remember idealizing it as a bond.  No, it was more of tool.  An extension of myself if you will. An extension as necessary as an arm or leg.  Without any of my limbs I couldn't have done the job I was sent there to do. For those of you who have never had the godforsaken pleasure to have served in a combat zone, and I hope you never will, the only constant you can depend on is that you never go anywhere without your weapon. 

You patrol with your weapon.  You eat with your weapon.  You smoke with your weapon.  You sleep with your weapon. You shit with your weapon. You... Well, you get the idea.  And whenever you aren't doing any of those things and you're not engaging the enemy, you're ritualistically cleaning it, caring for it and keeping it safe. Once I got home and had to turn my weapon into the armory, I had no idea I'd never see it again.

I would have also never thought that someday my 2^nd amendment rights would be taken away from me.  An amendment to the very same Constitution that I swore under oath to support and defend. Well, that's exactly what happened once my rating from the VA came back and they had deemed me “incompetent”.  The very government that I volunteered to fight for in preservation of freedom took away my Constitutional, 2^nd Amendment rights for the rest of my natural life.

I agree that at times in the past and even now that my owning a firearm isn't exactly the best thing for society. But you know, just as in combat, I believe fear and common sense would keep me in check and prevent me from doing anything stupid.  I mean yeah, I admit to outbursts and breaking things, but I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.  I not one of the “turning his aggression on to others in violent fits of rage leaving behind death and destruction” kinda crazy Vets. I'm more the “Lovable, I'm gonna slice you into bits with my tongue and burn a few bridges that I'll never be able to rebuild, then stand here in the kitchen and break all of your shit” crazy vets.

I don't know if it was all my “do no harm” medical training but I'd rather see myself hurt or an object destroyed rather than to ever lay a hand on my wife or those close to me.  Now, if you fuck with them it's a different story.  I'll be going to jail in a cop car, running lights and siren, shackled up like Hannibal Lecter if that ever happens. 

Now I'm gonna speak even more candidly here for a minute. Every time the people at the VA ask me “Are you having any thoughts of doing harm to yourself?” there's a little voice inside my head that answers back in an arrogant, teenage bully kind of way “Well Duh!!! What the fuck would you do about it if I did?”  Of course, I always answer with “NO” on the record. I'd rather not be locked away again for 5 days, heavily medicated, playing checkers with myself and trying to put together a model car they gave me with no fucking glue. Yeah, no thanks!

OK, I have to admit that there have been times that the thought has crossed my mind.  If for just one minute I didn't have to carry the weight of this torment around or have the intrusive thoughts.  If for just a little while I got to take a deep breath and could relax without my mind replaying sounds and flashing images of things which can not be unseen. If this constant pain would go away and quit gnawing on me, them maybe I wouldn't have thoughts of making them end permanently.   

I've learned, through the help of my wife, to cope with these thoughts. When I'm really down she has this uncanny knack of reading me.  She clinches her fist, draws back her arm and punches her way through my depression and grabs me up by the scruff of the neck.  I can't tell you how many times she has pulled me back to reality.  But I can tell you this; because of her I now have a reason NOT to entertain those thoughts. I hold onto her so desperately.  I have a death grip on her.  I know that sometimes I can be a bit too much to handle but no matter what the circumstance, she still loves me unconditionally. I catch myself asking her all the time if she's happy, wondering how she has the strength to find any pleasure while dealing with the way I am. I've written it before, she saved my life. She always brushes it off like I'm joking when I tell her. But the truth is she did. If it were not for this selfless soul I would be dead.  

But back to the topic at hand.  I can remember those first few weeks home without my weapon. I've never felt more naked in my life.  When I first got home I still had all my personal weapons. So, I carried all the time. Just as in Iraq, my weapon was right there with me in bed, in the car, on the can, etc.  And even though you're carrying a side arm, you find yourself looking around you for things to fashion into weapons.  It was really hard for me to walk around without my M4 at the ready. Sort like when you quit smoking but you still need to do something with your hands.  I needed that larger weapon to carry.

You have a desperate need carry something you can use to defend yourself with at all times.  I was like most of the other older fellas in my unit.  A large percentage of us had concealed weapon carry permits filed with the local authorities. On regular occasions we would get together on the weekends and go send some rounds down range at the local gun club.  We all had our own stash of weapons at home safely locked away with trigger locks and strong boxes or safes.

I'm gonna leave out the personal stuff that led the VA to give me the rating they did.  You don't need to know any of the gories.

So, after personal setbacks, years of not being able to hold down a job, dealing with this shit and waiting for my rating to come back, they told me all my weapons needed to go away.  Luckily for me I was so broke by then that I had already had to sell all of them.  So, the shock of what had just happened didn't sink in at first. But, the more I thought about it, the more I thought “how dare they.”  How dare they train me to fight and condition me to defend myself, train me to do a shitty job no one else wants to do and that no one back home will support, and when all is said and done and I've outlived my usefulness, strip me of my rights and discard me?  I kind of know what a racehorse with a broken leg feels like.

Now, I know it goes deeper than that and I've come to terms with it.  I know they are only looking out for my best interest and safety of me and my loved ones, but goddamn.  It doesn't make it hurt any less. And it sure as hell doesn't do any wonders for the ego. 

“We sure do thank you and yours for killing all of those bad guys and breaking their shit and all... But, you see, now we're terrified of you and would really like it if you would just go away.  So, here’s some pills that may or may not kill you in your sleep and, oh by the way... If you so much as touch another firearm again, we'll put you away for good in Federal 'pound you in the ass' prison.  Got it? Oh and we almost forgot the best part...  You're no longer allowed to handle your own money anymore either. Good luck with that and thanks for playing Sergent. Bye-bye now! *wink*”

The sting of the thing has kind of worn off but it still chaps my ass. And if you were to ask if I still feel naked without a weapon I'd say “you bet your sweet ass I do!” If you'd like to know what it feels like, hang your bare ass out the window of a car and have your buddy drive eighty miles an hour as close to a barbed wire fence as he can without scratching you.  That's about how I feel everyday that I don't have my weapon at the ready.  Do I still wake up every day and think I should reach for my weapon?  Yes, I do, but when I look, it's never there.  Let me tell you, that's a shitty way to greet the day.

You know, if the VA wants to form a “support group” that actually does something other than cause more stress, all they would have to do is install an armory at their facilities.  There would be no ammo necessary, just let us psychos get together once or twice a week, check out an inert firearm or two, clean and inspect them and shoot the shit.

So, yeah.  I sit here before you a defective soldier.  I am however still a soldier none the less even as defective as I am.  I stand fast in the notion that it would be the very worst day of someone’s life if they ever broke into my home with or without a firearm. I have to.

Madeline

Two years ago, on the day we moved into our house, Chris brought home a rolli-polly puppy and it’s been a struggle with this dog since then. I know, dogs are supposed to be great for vets suffering from PTSD. There are programs out there to provide trained dogs to veterans in need.

Here’s the mistake we made to keep anyone else from ending up in our boat.

A long time ago, before Chris went to Iraq, he had a beautiful boarder collie. He trained her to the point she actually put her own toys away. His patience with that dog paid off in the long run because she was amazing. Unfortunately, when he came home, the dog was gone - long drawn out story about a lousy divorce started while he was in the combat zone.

When Chris and I got together, I wanted to help him rebuild his life to what it was before PTSD. That was my mistake. We can’t go back in time and right all the wrongs and fix all the mistakes. We can only move forward to where we’re going and hope we make better choices and create happy times.
He desperately wanted a puppy. But I knew in my heart this was a bad idea. Puppies are difficult. They’re like having a small child in the house. They cause stress and mess no matter how hard you try to keep them contained. So against my better judgment I said yes and we got Madeline.

Madeline is a strong willed beautiful dog. She however is now spastic, desperate, and terrified at times of Chris. His volatile nature is something the cats couldn’t care less about, but the dog cannot cope with. I have tried to train her and she does listen to me, but with him she’s either all on or all off. Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not a dog person and he realizes now that he just doesn’t have the patience or the temperament to train a dog like he did back in the day.

She causes a terrible amount of stress in our life and though I do love her I regret getting her not only for the stress she causes, but for her as well. She somehow knows she’s dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde situation so she takes her chances with Chris as much as she can to get a positive response. Most days, things are fine. When she just doesn’t give up and keeps jumping all over him eventually he yells and she cowers. It’s become an exercise in trying to keep the dog away from Chris and still giving her the attention she needs.

It’s incredibly difficult and I think this could have been avoided had we at the very least gotten an older dog. So, this is sort of a warning to those who are trying to rebuild. If you want a dog, think long and hard, but if you have a loved one in the house who has PTSD, think longer. Make more plans. Consider everything - breed, size of your home, time you have, patience. Consider your loved one’s ability to cope with a young animal and consider your commitment to caring for the animal yourself.
We’ve made the conscious decision to keep Madeline. She is family and she is ours. We’re working through the issues and though there is still a stressful push pull we are making headway. Chris recognizes his erratic behavior, though not a problem for the cats, is hard on the dog which is hard on him in return. He’s taking a breath and not yelling at her as much. We’re teaching her hand signals so he doesn’t have control his tone as much and she’s starting understand jumping is not acceptable with anyone, but especially Chris.

It’s working but it has been a long road. Don’t make the same mistake we did.