I Remember Their Names

I’ve been going over things in my head the last few days, trying to push stress aside and find something to write about this month.  A lot of things have gone wrong and we’re in a tough place right now, so I went to some of my old writings.  I wrote this back in 2009 when Chris’ flashbacks were out of control.  I still remember the names.

...

I’ve spent some days thinking about this, and trying to form my thoughts into words. It was prompted by a stupid thread on a message board where people callously discussed who’s fault it was that a 93 year old man had frozen to death in his home after his power was shut off.

He has a name.

His name was Marvin Schur and he was a US Army Medic who earned the Purple Heart in World War II. His nickname was “Mutts” and he saw six years of battle while serving his country. My country.

Soldiers have names. And in the name is power. I learned the names of four soldiers who gave their lives for this country last night.

Out of respect for my husband, I will not state them, most specifically because he doesn’t remember their names. He has blocked them from his mind.

This flashback was a long one. Two and a half hours long. We went rounds. He fell to the ground, hit his head, and ran. He laid on the ground and ran like he was being chased, the back of his legs pounding the floor. It continued for so long I thought he would pass out from exhaustion, but he finally stopped and I got him talking. I went through my usual questions.

Where are you? Iraq.

Who are you? Sergeant C.

Who am I? He paused. 

Who am I? That new medic. He said her name. And then he told me he’d been hit. He couldn’t feel his legs. It hurts. It burns.

Where are my men? he asked.

I lied.

I told him over and over they were fine.

He rattled off three names and I lied. They’re on the chopper being evac-ed. They’re ok. Yes, they are alive.

And then, he asked about a specific soldier. By name. He tried to get to him. Tried to save him. He was just a kid. They blamed him. They all blamed him. And then he ran. He ran and ran.

I will never forget their names. They are ingrained in my mind.

Power in a name.

Those soldiers are people. And they have names.

Power.

I know their names.

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.

Dismantling Monsters

I have the plague. Okay, I don’t, but I feel like I do. It all started a week ago not more than a couple hours after the VA field inspector rang my doorbell. I know it’s coincidence but I also know stress can cause a simple cold to become full blown Zombie Flu. Okay, okay, not Zombie flu… but here’s where I’m going with this.

When the field inspector called I smiled to Chris and shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal. He was dealing with his father being in the hospital so I chose to not pass on any of my fears to him.
And fears I had.

But now, after all is said and done, I don’t know why. Basically, Chris and I have been waiting for the field inspector to come to change my status from fiduciary to spouse payee for over a year. This fiduciary thing has irritated me from day one because in my eyes this man has suffered the removal of rights, the loss of his career, and lived every day with the fear he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t need any more indignities. So I bucked and bucked and built this VA monster up in my mind.

By the time the morning rolled around my walls were securely up against a snaggle toothed demon there to judge me and my ability to take care of Chris – yes, I’ve had this secret fear they could take him, childish I know.

When the gentleman came in I was almost shaking. In fact, I had a hell of a time filling out the paperwork because my hands weren’t steady.

This monster sat at my table and I found out the strangest thing. This VA rep was here to make sure not only Chris was benefiting from his benefits but that I had shifted my way of thinking and that I was taking care of myself.

Me. He was concerned about me.

We spoke about aid and attendance, that I needed to place my own needs into the budget every month, and then he talked a while about the fact I hadn’t put in for health care.

I didn’t know I had health benefits. He was so genuinely concerned I was, I’m embarrassed to say, flabbergasted. This is the VA we’re talking about here. Seriously. That horrible place where veterans are shoved around and mistreated.

I realized I’d allowed stories I’ve read and angry people who didn’t get the service they wanted color my view. Yes, we had issues in the beginning, and yes it’s still a bloated organization that has had some major scandals, but the individuals, specifically the man who came to our house, give me hope that I was spending too much time with a broad brush painting the whole organization with my fear.

I still have the plague – a cold – and I believe I caused it to be worse than it should have been. Those of us who are taking care of veterans need to relax and not allow our stress to take over. Unknown fears are just that. Unknown. No need to build a monster.


And I have a special shout-out to Groupon. Thank you for joining Not Alone and helping us spread the word.

When

When do we get to call him a survivor? When will there be t-shirts and wrist-bands commemorating his fight?

When will the fight be over?

I sat mulling over the word survivor for hours.

He came home from war and ‘it’ reared its ugly head as soon as he attempted to regain a normal life. He tasted gun oil, spent time in the hospital, took meds, saw doctors, and fought like hell to recreate something similar to normality.

For a long time it didn’t look like he was going to make it. But then he met someone. Someone who was willing to look past the duffle full of issues he’d carried with him since war awarded him with its dark parting gifts.

They built a life together. Got married. Bought a house. And they were generally happy. But it reared its head each time they thought they were free.

Still they lived on together in happiness even with its presence looming like a black cloud waiting for an opportunity to remind them and reclaim him.

But when does he become a survivor instead of a sufferer? We’ve clung to each other for three years and I have no intentions of him being a sufferer forever. But when? I want a new title.

I want him to be a survivor and I say he is.

It’s been years since he’s been in the field. He’s survived gunfire, IEDs, mortars. He survived his own attempts to quiet the voices. He’s survived to build a life not ruled by alcohol and anger, drugs or violence.

He’s managed to stay alive a damn long time. Longer than, at one point, I thought he would. Isn’t this the definition of survivor?

But he says no. Not a survivor until it’s gone. We disagree on this point and will continue to do so, because when I look at him I see him surviving.

All Questions and No Answers

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.

Twisting Love to Hate

Chris has changed a little since I met him. Mostly, he’s changed for the better. But in some ways it’s worse or maybe he’s just letting me see farther into the façade he’s built around himself.

A little boy wandered across the street the other day. He’s the new neighbor’s boy, about three years old, Mexican, and hopefully, doesn’t speak English. I say this because my husband’s reaction to him was rather… negative.

Chris didn’t yell at him, he just turned white and came inside after uttering a few choice phrases. He then began ranting about how the damned neighbors should take care of their damned children and that he didn’t want kids on his property and so on. He was visibly shaken in a way just a random child should not have caused. I listened and then I went outside and walked the little boy across the street giving him back to his now frantic mother who’d been inside yelling his name.

When the little boy looked up at me with those darling brown eyes as I coxed him to follow me I realized what was happening. See as a medic, Chris worked on everyone, including Iraqi children who’d been accidentally caught in the crossfire. That little round dark face with out of place black hair was too much, too close. Too many memories. Too many little faces.

We spoke later that day about it and Chris told me with a mostly horrified look on his face that he hated children. It was easier than loving them and knowing what had happened to so many. His mind was doing all it could to keep his heart from tearing. In turn mine bled for his because I knew it pained him to have to feel this way.

I know I say it a lot, but I just can’t imagine. I know the stories, some of which I will never repeat out of respect, but I can’t imagine how a man who has two beautiful young daughters and has been a wonderful step-father to my two boys can harbor such feelings and function as a father. It could be we have two adult kids and two teenagers but no little ones.

Chris’s mind tells him he ‘hates kids’. I know he hasn’t always. He described to me once ruining a uniform making cotton candy for the kids at a family day on base. He loved kids once upon a time. Now though, his strained smile at the laughter and antics of children betray his thoughts to me.

Things change. People change.

War changed Chris. It caused an MC Escher sort of compound around his core. I have learned the path inside, it’s easy now, but I’m afraid very few other people will be able to get past the many twisted stairwells and deadly guard towers and I’m realizing I’m still making my way gingerly along a path he’s setting out for me. Still learning, still watching him discover just how much his experiences in Iraq have changed who he is.

But, in the very same breath I say war changed Chris I know that change is possible. This is good. Change brings new opportunities to deal and heal.

War changed him which means he, as well as all of us, can change. We can change our approach and help those who need our help to change. He can change, too. Change is good even when at the time it sometimes feels awful. It’s still movement and movement is the only thing that keeps us from stagnating.