Learning Never Seems to End

I found myself in an interesting predicament these past weeks. We’ve had for a lack of a better term some invaders in our space and it hasn’t been a pleasant experience, but it has taught me something vital to our ability to be part of the extended family. I cannot encourage bitterness and anger. Holding a grudge when I know my husband has been wronged has been something I’d held onto these past years. I’ve realized, for his health more than mine, I have to learn to let things go.

I would love to give all the dirty details and spew the anger I felt and still feel somewhat, but I won’t so forgive me if this all seems a little vague.

I watched myself, almost as if I was standing outside myself, encourage the anger he’d been harboring for years all because I’m angry they wronged him.  I made sure not one action was left unnoticed even to the point of letting him know they’d walked out over their hurt feelings while he was still unconscious on the floor after an episode.

Suddenly though, I had an epiphany.  The resulting anger was and is my fault.  He ground his teeth for days practically frothing with the expectation of another blow up.  I started slowly smoothing the wounds I hadn’t caused but had kept open.  My epiphany resulted in his epiphany. He let go of past hurts.  His eyes brightened and I learned a lesson about following my own advice.  Anger isn’t something to be saved.  Spend it right away, get it out of your system, and don’t waste time revisiting.
Deep breath.  I can do this. Wish me luck... and strength.

Nurse Mary

This is my husband's side of the story about our experience with medical marijuana in treating PTSD.  The language is rough but that's him pure and simple.

I was always one of those staunch anti-drug people. I would fall just shy of beating my chest on a soapbox when it came to my stance on drugs. It's funny how times and your personal beliefs change. That was before I was betrayed by my own mind. Since then I've tried everything legal to curb the memories, anger, sadness and visual manifestations. 

Trust me when I say, "I've tried everything legal" when it comes to controlling this damned PTSD. My first drug of choice, alcohol, came naturally to me.  Hell, I didn't even think I was "medicating" when I'd tip a bottle.  I was just doing what had always come naturally to me. 'Must be the Irish in me. I used to joke about "drinking to make the voices go away". 'Only thing is, as the people in the bar were laughing, I was dead serious.

It’s funny how when reality takes a vacation in your mind, you find ways of coping even if they damn near kill you.  Oh yeah, my liver has a label on it that says Vlassic.  But, as with most things, after a while even the alcohol stops working.  You drink and drink and nothing happens. As a matter of fact, you feel drunk when you’re sober and vice versa.  At least I did. Once the numbness of the alcohol wears off the intrusive thoughts and images came back. The only real difference was that the alcohol intensified them.  So much so that it leads you to make certain decisions that land you locked up in a VA playing checkers with yourself.

After my release from the VA I was given a bag full of drugs and told to go. I was prescribed four drugs that were supposed to work.  Well, they worked alright.  They made me a zombie.  In retrospect, I'm pretty sure they (the VA) were just trying to get rid of me and make it so I wasn't much of a liability.  They succeeded because I wasn't able to put two thoughts together to form cognitive verbal sentences let alone being a danger to myself or others. It all ended one day when I was so out of my mind on these drugs that I sat on the passenger side of the car for twenty minutes trying to find the steering wheel. Yeah, had I continued taking them I would have killed someone and possibly myself through a drug induced automotive accident or something. And we were once again dancing in double edge sword territory.

Some time past and I dealt the best way I could. The cycle went; Anger - lucidity - sadness - anger - a massive blowout that ended with an unconscious episode - repeat while anxiety ruled constant over the whole thing. I would mix alcohol and cigarettes into the mix.  Hell, that's pretty much what kept me from killing someone. Well that and the fact that I finally met a woman who was caring and selfless enough to understand what I was going through and made it a point to learn as much about my issue as she could.  You've read it before so I wont bore you with the whole "she's the only reason I'm alive today" story.

Then came the day when I read the notice the VA posted up about easing their policy on Medical Marijuana.  After much discussion and planning my wife and I decided that maybe it would benefit me to try it out.  So, we made an appointment with a local doctor.  See, the VA eased its policy but refuses to prescribe it or issue medical cards to obtain it. This doctor was very interested in my problem.  Hell, out of all his California patients, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who actually had a legitimate issue aside from "Mommy and Daddy don't understand me and that makes me sad".  He actually issued me a card AND prescribed me other meds. 

Like a kid worried about getting caught masturbating, I reluctantly drove to the "collective" to get my first dose of Medical Weed.  I was operating within the realm of the law but was totally convinced, in the back of my mind, that I was somehow being stalked by law enforcement.  And that feeling never faded the whole time I had a current card.  

I brought that first batch home and lit it up.  Holy cat shit, it was good.  I got that same feeling you get in your gut and ass when the aircraft first takes off.  That sinking, blood leaving my head feeling. And then it hit me. Something I hadn't felt for quite a few years...  Clarity. On top of that, it was like I was looking at the world through new eyes.  I really thought I had found a cure for PTSD. 

Then it happened.  The new wore off and I had to smoke more to get the same effects.  A few weeks would go my and I would have to smoke more, then more...  Until one day I didn't get the feeling anymore.  All I got was extreme paranoia.  Ok, when you already have paranoia, any additional paranoia is very unwelcome.  I was, for the first time in years, afraid to die and was pretty sure it was going to happen at any minute.   

The cherry atop this shit sundae was the fluttering in my heart.  Yeah, I recon enough THC was in my system to create issues with cardiac function.  Try being paranoid with a sense of impending doom and being terrified that your heart is going to stop.  Yeah, not really a good treatment for an already shitty existence.

I made the decision to stop. I had no ill effects, as a matter of fact, I felt better if that’s possible. Trust me on this... There is no realization more devastating than figuring out after years of dealing with this that there is no drug, be it legal or otherwise, that can treat this fucking condition with any success or without any God awful side effects. Kind of reminds me of the past couple elections.  You have to pick the lesser of two evils and press on. I can report however that after a year of being a stoner just shy of being a dirty hippie riding around in an old VW Bus, my wife has continuously commented on how nice it was to "have me back". I guess this shit even changed my personality.  

So, here I set right back where I was in the beginning with only time spent dealing to make informed decisions on how I want to proceed from here.  It appears that my choices are "Full blown scary prick who cries sometimes and screams in his sleep", "Bloated Zombie with no personality" or "Out of my mind paranoid Stoner with a heart that palpitates every other beat".  Well slap my ass and call me Sally, the choice is clear for me. Scary Prick it is! People around here are starting to understand how I am.  It doesn't really bother me anymore. Hell, I kind of like the solitude that comes with it. And I really don't mind that people run to get past my house.  It keeps the religious fruitcakes and door-to-door salesmen off my property. 

Suicide as a Comfort

Veteran/soldier suicide has been in the spotlight for a while now. Most of us have seen the horrible statistics of how many veterans commit suicide every day. It’s become an epidemic, but strangely I’d never wondered about the spouses or the toll they, we, are paying.

That is until I spoke to Jenny here at Not Alone about their new project Just Wait. I started thinking about my own struggle with suicide and how I’d used it as a sick sort of comfort for several years.
When things were bad, and don’t get me wrong they aren’t perfect now but they’re better… but when things were bad I would lay in bed not wanting to get up and knowing I had to face the day. I would tell myself if I needed to I could stop it all but today I needed to try and see if I could make things better before I made the final decision to end my life.

It was a strange sort of comfort I’m actually embarrassed to admit. Just like an alcoholic I used the knowledge I could stop the pain to endure more. One day at a time. Choose to live today and see about tomorrow, tomorrow.

When it was all said and done, each day I found a reason to live and those reasons varied. Today it might have been that my son had a project needing to be done. Tomorrow it may have been that we’d received a call from a congressman saying he was going to help us. The next it may have been that my husband was having a bad day and he needed me more than I needed peace.

I chose to wait each day, one day, every day until those days stretched into weeks, then months, and now years. Now that the worst of it has passed and we’ve come to understand what we must do to deal with the scars war caused I don’t look to suicide for comfort. I look to my husband, and my family. My kids. My pets. My plants. My life.

I chose to live. You can as well. Today, find a reason and just wait.

Medical Marijuana, My View

Last year the VA issued a statement on veterans seeking medical marijuana treatments outside the VA system.  Though they would provide neither the card nor the medicine, the legal use would not inhibit the vet’s ability to seek care through the VA.

Now researchers are seeking federal approval to study the effectiveness of medical marijuana in treating combat PTSD and I acknowledge the need, but a year ago my husband and I went to a doctor and got a medical marijuana card.  I’ve struggled to write about it because of the stigma attached yet here I am finally after a year writing about using ‘weed’ to ease the symptoms of PTSD.

I was skeptical when we walked into the office, especially when I was also offered the paperwork to get a card.  I wanted to walk out at that point.  But we’ve tried everything available to us when it comes to Chris’ PTSD so I bit my tongue and listened carefully to the doctor.  He felt my husband was a good candidate but that he also needed counseling – which I agree with – and other psychotropic medications – which I don’t agree with.  In the end the doctor scripted two other meds along with issuing a medical marijuana card.

Instantly, Chris’ symptoms seemed better.  It was like a miracle.  He was changed.  He was happy, easy going, sleeping marginally, and we were able to go places – though I had to drive always. Even the stomach problems he had disappeared.  I was happy.  It was amazing.

He instantly went into overdrive, doing projects and going places.  But that faded and he eventually spent most of his time sitting on the back deck looking at his computer.

Then, the paranoia set in.  On more than one occasion, he had episodes of paranoia and shaking so bad I thought he would have to go to the emergency room but I was afraid to take him.  Still, he seemed better than he’d been in years and I kept my mouth shut about the fact he was different.  He was being responsible enough with the meds to treat them with respect, including cutting back when they started to not work as well, so I was willing to accept him medicated if it made him feel better. 

A couple months ago, Chris came to me and said he thought maybe he would stop taking it.  I said whatever you want and that was that – but I did a little dance in my head.  After a few days I saw the man I married.  He was anxious but clear.  I had missed him so much and hadn’t even realized he was gone.  He told me he feels like he’s stepped out of a fog and woken up.

I know some have stated they’ve had fantastic results with medical marijuana, but our good results were fleeting, like with every other med he’s taken.  And the negative were easy to overlook until months had passed.  I feel like he’s come home again, and we’re back to dealing one day at a time with his symptoms, and that’s okay.  We’re clear and life moves forward.

Metabolic Syndrome

From my husband...

I read something interesting a while ago…

“Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) are more likely to have metabolic syndrome than veterans without PTSD, according to a study led by Pia Heppner, Ph.D., psychologist with the University of California, San Diego School of Medicine and Veterans Affairs of San Diego, VA Center of Excellence for Stress and Mental Health (CESAMH).

Metabolic syndrome is composed of a cluster of clinical signs including obesity, high blood pressure and insulin resistance and is also associated with cardiovascular disease.”

Oh sweet.  So, I’m not fat.  I just have “Metabolic Syndrome”.  Freakin’ awesome!  May as well ad that one to the growing list of syndromes I have.  What the article failed to mention was the use of “Psychiatric Medications” and their roll in this so called “Metabolic Syndrome”.  Back in November of 2007 I was prescribed a cocktail of Psych Meds to combat my PTSD.  The day I had the prescription filled I weighed 185 pounds.  These meds made me a zombie.  They didn’t fix my issues, except for the sleeping disorder I had.  They put me down.  Like an Elephant tranquilizer.  I’m not kidding, I slept for days on end.  The meds had other effects as well.

First, I started noticing that everything seemed backwards.  Left was right, up was down, I would go to walk down the stairs and take a step up.  Hell, I climbed into the passenger side of the car and sat there looking for the steering wheel. When I told my Doctor about this he looked at me like I had Lobsters coming out of my ears.  He didn’t believe me at all.  Hell, I would think that a shift such as this would spark some sort of study to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.  I guess 15 or so Vets have to die before the VA will study it.

Secondly, I started seeing things in my peripheral.  Flashes of shadows.  Echoes of people if you will.  Sometimes just shadows but other times full on, real life, in color people walking passed me in my peripheral.

And lastly, I started piling on the weight.  In 2 months, I gained more than 40 pounds.  My metabolism went to hell in a handbag.  I was fatigued and irregular.  When I look at pictures of myself from that time, I look like I’m nothing more than a big bag of fluid.  And since then I have been unable to successfully loose all the weight.  Nothing I did before works.  I’ve tried dieting and exercise. It seems like I have to work twice as hard as I ever have in my life.

So, after only a few months of taking the Meds, I stopped.  I came off of them cold turkey.  As a Medic, I knew better, but with the shift in my orientation, I felt it was necessary to stop before I killed someone or hurt myself.  Man, that was a shitty couple of weeks.  Headaches, Insomnia, Nausea, Chills, Shakes, you name it, I had it going on.

12 months out and I’m still feeling residual effects from these meds.  There are times where I still get disoriented and left is right and what not.  My weight is still high and I can’t control it.  I wish I could have eaten enough to make me this fat.  At least I would have had the pleasure food brings to the psyche.

Most recently, I have noticed a return in the shadows and people in my periphery.  Things I know aren’t there.  Hell, I guess as long as I know they aren’t there I’m not crazy.

I think the VA needs to restudy this and note that the medications are what’s causing “Metabolic Syndrome” in PTSD sufferers.

You know, at least I’m lucky.  There have been several Vets who died in their sleep of complications caused by the very same cocktail of meds I was on. And I’m sure the VA is still handing them out like M&M’s.  I guess it’s easier to hand out meds than it is to actually treat any issues.

Welcome to the Club

My husband’s uniform hangs silent in the closet. It’s something I’m drawn to now and again when a new story breaks his protected surface. I imagine how he must have looked. How he must have felt.

I never had the pleasure of seeing him wearing it except in pictures.  He was already medically red-lighted when we met and not long after that discharged.  He never got to put his uniform back on so his new wife could stand beside him puffed with pride. I have to imagine how it feels to be an Army wife.
Granted, he’s worn the beret for me.  Heck, I’ve worn it, though I only do it to pester him.  I pull it down over my ears and walk into the kitchen like nothing’s different. When I do this I’m instructed to take it off. I usually do not oblige, so he does. Before he removes it from my head however he fixes it into that very specific shape they learned in boot.  He smiles with a hint of sadness and I put it away.
I never got to be part of the club.  I don’t know what military life is like.  I don’t know what it’s like to wait while my husband is far away risking his life.  I don’t know what it’s like to worry while he’s gone. I got him broken and already ravaged by war. I worry about him here.

But I long for the knowledge of those days. I lament never having been there while he stood wearing his career in brightly colored ribbon on his chest. Seeing the man he sacrificed for his country. I missed it.

I feel cheated. Is that childish? So many places and shoulders for military wives. Such a strong and common bond, like an invisible tether between them, unites them in a way I’m not privy to.
I feel like I missed the most important part of his life. Like I may have been able to do something, to help him earlier, to stave off these years of suffering.

And then I remember those military wives in the club that I don’t belong to belong to another club none of us asked to be in. They were there and couldn’t keep it from happening. Their spouses still brought home the monster.

Welcome to the club.

An Open Letter to Congress

Dear Mr. President and members of Congress,

My husband is a 100% disabled veteran. He served during OIF as a combat medic and did his job to the absolute best of his abilities. When he returned home, he struggled to reintegrate into society outside a combat zone. He failed for a number of years before being diagnosed with PTSD and TBI.  

Suddenly, everything made sense.  The anger, the blackouts, the fear, the fact he couldn’t manage a normal relationship with those around him.

When we met he was near homeless and his paperwork was held up in the system leaving him to hang in the wind.  Together we fought tooth and toenail to get his needs fulfilled from those he’d fought for and who had promised him help.

I gave up my business and my job because he needed someone with him around the clock as his flashbacks had taken over his life. We lived on Ramen noodles and rice in an apartment with no furniture but he feared he could hurt someone without knowing it so I stayed home.  Finally, his paperwork was green-lighted and we were relieved.  But he wasn’t allowed to access his benefits because he required a fiduciary. I volunteered. We were not married at the time, so this required more time.  Time we did not have.

One month before we would have to leave our empty apartment his benefits arrived.  Three years later we sit in our own home that we purchased with a VA loan and his benefits. His PTSD is becoming more manageable as our life stabilizes and I have been able to finally pursue a career. Though I still work only from home and only part time, I am more than happy with his progress.

So, I have to ask how you and all of congress feel it is necessary to use my husband and every other veteran who depends on a disability check to get by as pawns in this game of chess you are playing. For you, if the debt ceiling is reached and the checks do not go out, nothing on a personal level will happen.  Your children will still eat. You will still be able to pay your bills.  Your home will be safe and life will go on as usual.

But for us, we will sit here with our chests tightened at the fact that we cannot pay our mortgage and may end up losing the house we fought so hard to get. We will not go to the grocery store and we will not be able to buy my son school supplies for the coming year.

I will also spend each night waiting for the anxiety to cause my husband to fall into the shadow that his experiences in Iraq have cast over him these last seven years. He will put on his Kevlar and ready his medic bag for patrol. He will call out the names and perform triage during the night. He will spend months in the desert again even if he is only gone for moments.

And all this is because the men and women we as Americans trusted to take care of our country’s business have to play the blame game.  I have news for you, standing over an open chest trying to decide which bullet caused the most damage is futile. Stop playing the partisan game of who is to blame, Republicans or Democrats, and start being Americans.

Sincerely,

Proud wife of an American Veteran