When I started this piece we were sitting at my father’s home in the center of the mid west. It was a short visit and we drove the twenty plus hours to arrive here yesterday. It was a stressful two days on the road, but the visit itself is going as well as can be expected.
The area is beautiful. Tree filled acres lining a wonderful lake, deer have been crossing the property regularly and we had the pleasure of watching a mother with her fawns this morning. The droning calls of cicadas are relaxing for me, considering I grew up with them in Kansas. The fireflies, which I haven’t seen since I was a child, are thick at night. All this should be a wonderful experience for the whole family. But, remember, my husband has PTSD.
Strange noises and being away from home are difficult for him. We’ve spent a number of years making our house into a safe zone and we’re two days out with our asses hanging over the wire.
It’s a short trip, but by it’s end it will be the longest we’ve ever spent away from home. I tried to prepare for everything including bringing our own pillows to raise that comfort level up a bit. It’s marginally working.
Unfortunately, pillows and prep don’t keep the boogyman at bay. No matter where we go his shadow follows. It hasn’t been too bad though, considering. But it is difficult keeping his PTSD… well, private. We’ve spoken to the family about it because they really do need to know, but sometimes they don’t realize though we try to stay light about his issues it’s not something to be joked about in the company of outsiders. This community, though strangers, is not what I consider outsiders. Outsiders are those tertiary relationships who family members bring along for the ride. They aren’t family and they aren’t our friends and they really don’t need to know.
That moment, when his PTSD was mentioned off the cuff, was the moment I realized he’s still ashamed. I could see it on his face and I ached for him. I’d hoped that part was gone.
We’ve spent a fair number of hours on the back porch talking and listening to the woods behind the house. Those old vets with their POW flags and hound dogs out in the middle of nowhere really seem to have it right. It’s quiet, there are few neighbors, and there’s little chance of being bothered by anything other than the mosquitoes. I see it now. I see why that picture of a vet sitting in the middle of nowhere comes to mind when I think of the guys who’ve finally found peace. I get it. We could fall into the life if we only had to deal with family sans their extraneous tag-alongs.
I see it because usually people go on vacation and spend their time humping around seeing the sights, drawing in everything they can about the areas attractions before it’s time to leave, we however did not. We sat on that porch, in the quiet and solitude, and soaked up family. In the end, even with the stress here and there, it was good. We had a good time and it’s spawned the possibility of finding a little place in the middle of nowhere someday.
Maybe we will. I’ll name the hound dog Sigmund.
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