I’m so desperately tired. It has been an incredibly difficult couple of months and with impeccable timing and infinite wisdom the VA has decided it’s time for another home visit. The letter came with attached paperwork to fill out, paperwork which I found to be inappropriate.
But let’s go over some history before I get into that whole mess. This is not the first time the VA has sent a field inspector out to pry into our personal business. When my husband and I were not married and I was simply a girlfriend/fiduciary I understood. He needed to be protected. They didn’t know me, didn’t know if I was in it for the money.
Wait though, I have to stop there and laugh. And I mean really laugh so hard my butt could literally fall off. Just in case anyone from the VA is reading this, there is no amount of money in this world that could entice me to live with, let alone care for, a PTSD sufferer whom I did not love with every ounce of my being. He is my best day and that’s why I’m here. Good, we cleared that up.
The instructions when I became fiduciary were let’s say vague at best. In fact, they were a post-it note attached to the letter telling me I was accepted at his fiduciary that said “Oh you do have to keep account of the money”.
Well a year later that accounting that was explained in a post-it was extremely complicated. Hope they’ve changed that up since I signed on for the job several years ago. Fast forward past the rejected accountings, the nasty-grams and threats, to Chris and I being a somewhat normal married couple. The field inspector came last year, this would be the third time they’ve been in my home, to confirm we were married and change my status to spouse payee. Please take into consideration that our third wedding anniversary is this year. We’d married a year and a half by the time they made it out. But okay, whatever. They have to check, I understand. I handed over our bank records, let him look where ever he wanted in the house – yes, they like to look in your closet to make sure you’re buying your veteran clothing, fun stuff. It was degrading and unbelievably stressful for my husband.
Jump forward to not too long ago when I get the newest letter from the VA fiduciary hub. Attached were three pages to fill out. On the first page they asked the “nature” of my husband’s disability. Well that tore it, along with their timing – Chris’ father died in November, my mother died in March – I wasn’t very cooperative in what I wrote back to them. I’m tired. I’m tired of their intrusion into our lives. My husband is not a charity case. His benefits were earned from what he permanently sacrificed and if he wants to stick the money in a rat hole that’s his business and not theirs. It’s bad enough he’s lost so many freedoms, but to have some stranger demand access our bank records, his medical condition, and our home is too much.
I hate that I’m gearing up for a fight. I have letters prepared ready to hit the inboxes of congress if I have any issues. I’ve had enough of this intrusion. I’m tired. Every day my goal is keep my husband’s stress level to a tolerable level. They made me his custodian. They gave me the job of protecting him and caring for him. Now they are the problem.
How sad that I have to protect him from the very people the American public has trusted to take care of her veterans.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Pain, Anger, Frustration
Sometimes, when things seem to be going well, I forget how angry and frustrated my husband gets with his physical as well as mental issues. That frustration used to manifest itself in emails I got in the morning after he'd been pacing all night. Now he writes to you, the readers of this blog. I think he wants to scream to the world and shake them awake. To force them to understand, but I'll settle for him helping any veteran who can take solace in the fact they are not alone.
As if having a "disorder" wasn't bad enough, along with it comes a great deal of pain. Anxiety carries with it its own form of pain which manifests itself in many ways. Lower back pain, joint pain, headaches, stomach and gastrointestinal discomfort. The list goes on and on.
But, it seems that PTSD, as a whole, not only creates pain but exacerbates the pain that years of beating your body up produces. Hell, I'm writing this at 3am just because the pain is keeping me up. Shit, I'd rather have had a nightmare tonight rather than being awakened by the burning, tingling and pulsating I've got. It's like some weird shit from a science fiction movie. I shit you not, this thing is straight out of Raccoon City. All I need is to grow some big ass hook for an arm and start spewing acid out of some freshly formed orifices.
So, when pain is injected into an already unstable condition it can tend to make one more suicidal or homicidal. I'm not kidding, if I'm having one of "those" days, and I'm behind the wheel of my truck or waiting for the mailman or just trying to take a shit, my patience is gone. The horn blows, the finger goes up, I get "puffy" as my wife likes to call it or I strain out a huge purple, pulsating vein on my forehead. I swear to god, one of these days, I'm gonna stroke out. That is, if I'm lucky and I haven't already snapped and killed a bunch of people.
And, lets talk for a minute about tinnitus. Yeah, I know what you're thinking... "Tinnitus doesn't hurt!" Agreed, but when every fucking thing hurts and you lay there, trying to sleep and all you hear are two mismatched tones somewhere around four octaves above high C, it sure as hell adds to an already shitty situation. And although the tinnitus doesn't actually hurt, the residual ear and head pain from my initial injury does. And, there again, it seems to be worsened when I’m overly anxious or stressed.
I'm not trying to whine here but since I've been diagnosed, I've experienced pain in many forms all over my body. Some days everything hurts. Every joint, every muscle, every single fucking cell. On good days only one or two things hurt. Sometimes I feel like all of my joints are solidifying. Sometimes it all hurts so bad that I feel like I'm gonna puke then pass out. Sometimes it only hurts just enough to piss me off and make me unbearable to the people around me. Oh sure, you learn to live with it and press on but god damn, once in a while I'd like a fucking break. Alcohol sometimes takes the edge off or makes it so that I hurt but I don't really give a good god damn. But, more often than not it comes back to bite me harder than before when I sober up.
And NOTHING over the counter helps. Aspirin, Motrin, Aleve... None of that shit. Oh, and I dare not ask my Primary Care Provider for pain meds because then it becomes a big deal. Hell, the VA doesn't trust me enough to handle my own money, they sure as hell aren't about to willy-nilly give me any "controlled" drugs to take. Fuck, I can't even get a sleeping pill! You know that old joke about building bridges and dams and not ever being called an "engineer" but if you suck one little peter, you're a cocksucker for life? Well, all you have to do is tell your shrink, one time, that you've had thoughts of suicide and BOOM, you're on the fucking list for life my friend. And after that, trying to get any medication that works is moot. Oh and just FIY, DO NOT under ANY circumstance tell the doctor you've had a seizure either. They are bound by law to contact the DMV and POOF, there goes your license. But, I digress.
Going to the doctor also presents a rather odd set of circumstances. I was a medic for years and for the life of me, some of this shit I simply CAN NOT find words to describe be them medical terms or just a simple description. Some of it boggles my mind. I mean, how do you tell a doctor that your arm aches, but has sharp pains and all the while it's feeling numb and tingly like you've slept on it wrong and is cold and hot at the same time and feels full like it's swollen and is hard to bend at the elbow?
Let me speak from the experience I've gained from the doctors I've worked with in the military and the ones I've seen in the VA; If you come at that son of a bitch with that much information at once he'll either start laughing, tell you you're nuts or focus on just part of what you said and end up telling you that your arm is the least of your worries because you're fat, and you smoke. Then, he'll end up treating you for a fucking eye infection you don't have, give you blood pressure medicine to "help with the nightmares" and then prescribe you Motrin. Remember kids, that's 800mg every 8 hours with food OR 600mg every 6 hours. What the hell ever.
Hell, I don't know why I'm bitching so much because I'd rather have this pain all over my body as opposed to the way my ass burns when I have to go to the VA. I can't help but get defensive every damned time I walk into that place. Oh, I know that due to recent law suits from some Senators son who got pushed aside like the rest of us and what not, they are now walking behind you, blowing sunshine up your ass, throwing rose petals in your path, fanning you, feeding you grapes and stroking you every chance they get. Hell, they even sent me a new "personalized" book in the mail outlining their findings and, get this shit, giving me a complete list of POC's for the VA and the Clinic. Yeah, I know. That's a sure sign the apocalypse is upon us. But don't get too excited, this won't last. The new will wear off, the public will forget about the last two wars and the hundreds of thousands of new veterans and it'll be business as usual all too soon. Then the VA can sweep us all under the rug once again and go about doing what they do best... Spending money and neglecting veterans.
And on that note, when's the last time ANYONE at the VA gave you the right phone number for ANYTHING? Eh, it doesn't matter, they're just written down in this fancy book that costs millions of dollars to print. It's not like anyone is actually going to answer the phone when you call. You'll have to bash the phone receiver against your head trying to navigate the automated "please get frustrated and hang up so we functionaries don't have to do our jobs" telephone system. On the bright side, maybe the mild brain damage you'll suffer will ease the pain somewhat. There I go digressing again.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Four Crooked Years
April marks four years for Chris and I being physically together. For me, it’s four years living with the reality of PTSD and not just morning emails written desperately in the wee hours while I slept and he didn’t. So many things have changed from then to now, yet some are exactly the same.
Four years ago I experienced being pulled out of bed for incoming for the first time. Being woken from a dead sleep, yanked to the floor, and covered by someone who not only thinks they’re back in a combat zone but sees, hears, and smells all that’s associated with that place is an eye opening experience. Lately though, the nightmares are still as frequent but not as violent. He rarely even wakes me anymore with his moving about. No more midnight triages or helping him get his gear together for patrol.
I can’t attribute this to him getting better. I have to be honest with myself. I don’t think he’s getting better. I think as a team we’re getting better at coping with the symptoms. Flashbacks are less frequent, not because he’s free of them but because I’ve been diligent about learning the triggers and heading them off. He’s learned avoidance in certain situations. I’ve learned to catch him when that distance look darkens his eyes. We’re working at coping.
However, I don’t think he’s getting worse. I think he’s on a level plane but think of it as a glassy ocean that can change in an instant. Like a storm at sea, his anxiety and pain still rule our life.
Despite this, we managed a couple of years ago to buy a house, build a home, and carve out what we both consider a sanctuary. Yes, we sometimes spend weeks at home without leaving but that’s our life and we like it. Then it gets called to my attention and I start to wonder. Not if I’m happy but if I’m or we’re getting a normal life. Building it correctly or just slapping together shoddy materials in an effort to fool ourselves.
I spoke to an old friend from college a couple of weeks ago and she wanted to do some catching up. As I wrote the email I started to think, My God my life sounds like a disaster zone with so much heartache in the last years. But I don’t feel like it’s all that bad as crooked as it may seem to outsiders. We’ve managed to eek out a lot of really wonderful moments.
Maybe my idea of a normal life has shifted but I do consider our life normal. Just for us, normalcy is a little more… interesting. Find joy.
Four years ago I experienced being pulled out of bed for incoming for the first time. Being woken from a dead sleep, yanked to the floor, and covered by someone who not only thinks they’re back in a combat zone but sees, hears, and smells all that’s associated with that place is an eye opening experience. Lately though, the nightmares are still as frequent but not as violent. He rarely even wakes me anymore with his moving about. No more midnight triages or helping him get his gear together for patrol.
I can’t attribute this to him getting better. I have to be honest with myself. I don’t think he’s getting better. I think as a team we’re getting better at coping with the symptoms. Flashbacks are less frequent, not because he’s free of them but because I’ve been diligent about learning the triggers and heading them off. He’s learned avoidance in certain situations. I’ve learned to catch him when that distance look darkens his eyes. We’re working at coping.
However, I don’t think he’s getting worse. I think he’s on a level plane but think of it as a glassy ocean that can change in an instant. Like a storm at sea, his anxiety and pain still rule our life.
Despite this, we managed a couple of years ago to buy a house, build a home, and carve out what we both consider a sanctuary. Yes, we sometimes spend weeks at home without leaving but that’s our life and we like it. Then it gets called to my attention and I start to wonder. Not if I’m happy but if I’m or we’re getting a normal life. Building it correctly or just slapping together shoddy materials in an effort to fool ourselves.
I spoke to an old friend from college a couple of weeks ago and she wanted to do some catching up. As I wrote the email I started to think, My God my life sounds like a disaster zone with so much heartache in the last years. But I don’t feel like it’s all that bad as crooked as it may seem to outsiders. We’ve managed to eek out a lot of really wonderful moments.
Maybe my idea of a normal life has shifted but I do consider our life normal. Just for us, normalcy is a little more… interesting. Find joy.
Monday, March 26, 2012
2x+y=sleep
We look for patterns. It’s human nature. A long… long long time ago, when I was in college, we learned a great deal about how people create pattern where there is no obvious one. We can find faces in granite, or groups in seemingly random things. So I hope this is not just a Gestalt happening when I say I think after all these years I’ve found a pattern in my husband’s sleeping or lack of sleeping actually.
Over the past few weeks we’ve done some renovations to the house. We had an extra bedroom that I use as a writing room, but I hate being tucked away. I’m constantly getting up to look out front or in the living room to see what’s going on. Add to this two very noisy cats who seem to know when I’m coming and stop whatever it is they’re doing. Some day I will catch them in the act.
The plan, which worked beautifully, was to add a set of French doors and two interior windows in the corner of this bedroom. This opened the room, but allowed me quiet simply by closing to the door. I can see the front door, the fireplace, and those pesky cats. It was quite an undertaking considering my husband and I do all the work ourselves. Though the day was physically draining, Chris still didn’t sleep that night when we started opening the wall. The next night however, he slept. Odd as it was, I didn’t think much about it until we came upon more puzzles with the construction.
Rewiring was a challenge. Not because he didn’t know how, he just had to spend a couple of hours working out the best possible way to run the wires around the new opening. He spent a lot of time writing on the inside of the wall where we’d left the opposite drywall so we had less repair. It was mentally taxing.
And there in lies the pattern I’ve found. Yes, physical work will cause him fatigue, but it doesn’t seem to help him sleep. He’s been exercising regularly for the last two months with no results to his sleeping – he does look great though and is happier. However, mental challenges, problems he must work out over the course of a day seem to leave him drained enough to sleep most of the night.
I’ve been watching and I’m thinking I may be on to something here. I hadn’t thought much of it but over the time he was building cabinets in the garage he spent a good deal of time figuring out how to use the boards with the least waste. Mental puzzle. He slept and woke up the next day fairly well.
This may just be a coincidence and I may be reaching for straws. Sometimes we see patterns when they really are not there. He still mostly can’t sleep and is still impossible to get up in the morning, but maybe this is a little step forward. Something to build on. I hope so.
I think I’ll get him an Algebra text. Quadratic equations should put him right to sleep.
Over the past few weeks we’ve done some renovations to the house. We had an extra bedroom that I use as a writing room, but I hate being tucked away. I’m constantly getting up to look out front or in the living room to see what’s going on. Add to this two very noisy cats who seem to know when I’m coming and stop whatever it is they’re doing. Some day I will catch them in the act.
The plan, which worked beautifully, was to add a set of French doors and two interior windows in the corner of this bedroom. This opened the room, but allowed me quiet simply by closing to the door. I can see the front door, the fireplace, and those pesky cats. It was quite an undertaking considering my husband and I do all the work ourselves. Though the day was physically draining, Chris still didn’t sleep that night when we started opening the wall. The next night however, he slept. Odd as it was, I didn’t think much about it until we came upon more puzzles with the construction.
Rewiring was a challenge. Not because he didn’t know how, he just had to spend a couple of hours working out the best possible way to run the wires around the new opening. He spent a lot of time writing on the inside of the wall where we’d left the opposite drywall so we had less repair. It was mentally taxing.
And there in lies the pattern I’ve found. Yes, physical work will cause him fatigue, but it doesn’t seem to help him sleep. He’s been exercising regularly for the last two months with no results to his sleeping – he does look great though and is happier. However, mental challenges, problems he must work out over the course of a day seem to leave him drained enough to sleep most of the night.
I’ve been watching and I’m thinking I may be on to something here. I hadn’t thought much of it but over the time he was building cabinets in the garage he spent a good deal of time figuring out how to use the boards with the least waste. Mental puzzle. He slept and woke up the next day fairly well.
This may just be a coincidence and I may be reaching for straws. Sometimes we see patterns when they really are not there. He still mostly can’t sleep and is still impossible to get up in the morning, but maybe this is a little step forward. Something to build on. I hope so.
I think I’ll get him an Algebra text. Quadratic equations should put him right to sleep.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Anger
I've always encouraged Chris to write about his PTSD. I think it helps to get things on paper to possibly examine the thoughts later or simply to get them out of his head. This time I think he just wrote about what was going on. He saw no purpose to piece, but I feel differently. Possibly disjointed, I felt this piece needed to be seen because he's not the only one feeling this way and I'd like others to know they aren't either.
I don't look at myself as special nor do I seek any pity for having PTSD. If I'm acting like a douchebag, I expect people to call me out on it. My wife does an outstanding job of this, handling my douchebaggery in such a way that it (9 times out of 10) defuses the situation. I couldn't imagine life without her and I truly wish all who are afflicted with this were as lucky as I am to have someone in their life like I have found. Sometimes I envision her setting naked on a keg of gunpowder blowing out the matches I'm constantly striking. She willingly puts herself in harm’s way just being with me. To me, she deserves the same credit and level of respect as those who roam the battlefield wielding their weapon. She ranks right up there with all of those who I served with. Hell, she actually far exceeds them due to her willingness to put up with all my other bullshit.
But goddamn it I get angry. And often. I get so angry I can actually feel a weird pressure on my face from the bridge of my nose to the tip of my chin as if my body is preparing for a fight. These sensations are usually followed by an episode and then large blocks missing time. Of course, I never initially remember any of these things and have to rely on my wife filling me in on the events I have no knowledge or memory of. Later, the memories come back to me in broken and order-less fashion. I guess there is a breaker box in my brain that kicks off when there is a spike in the circuit.
This is the main reason I stay home and don't venture out by myself much. I've created a safe little environment here, albeit a personal prison, where I am assured that I'm not going to wake up in a gutter or a jail cell somewhere. I have spent days, weeks, and even months at a time not going anywhere but the mailbox. This is really for the best, trust me. The head-shrinkers at the VA don't believe me when I say I've had no trouble or run-ins with law enforcement. But, it's true, not counting the 8 police officers it took to load me into an ambulance from my house one evening to go to the hospital for a nice shot of happy juice to calm me and coax me out of a flashback. And then they are all like "it's not healthy to lock yourself away" when I tell them how I deal with it. If I "Howard Hughes" it here at the house, I stand little chance of creating collateral damage all over town.
Granted, that wouldn't and hasn't stopped me from going off the deep end and taking things out on my loved ones here in the house. Luckily, as of yet it hasn't resulted in injuries, jail time and be all around relationship ending. But, the beautiful thing about my tiny little wife is the fact that she spent a lot of years training, military style, how to kill people and break their shit. Yeah, I'm pretty sure she could defend herself from any of my psychotic advances up to the point where she would have to remove herself to safety. Couple that with her unwavering understanding of my condition and that I'm not in control, the fact that I keep no weapons in the house and that we have a contingency plan tends to give me a sense of "warm and fuzzy" deep down.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not spending a life sentence here inside my stronghold. No, I do go out from time to time. I go out alone but only if I'm making short trips to the grocery store or the hardware store... that sort of thing. I go out with my wife other places. My wife acts as a buffer. I don't know exactly what it is but more likely than not, it's the fact that when she is with me I acknowledge her presence and feel a need to keep her safe. With this in mind I guess instinctually, I alter my behavior in a way to ensure nothing bad happens. All the while she is constantly running interference for me, keeping me safe as well. Hell, if I knew all the answers I wouldn't still have PTSD.
Having said that, I'm not afraid to go out of the house for my own safety. In fact, I have no regard for what happens to me given any unfortunate circumstances which may befall upon me. No, I live in fear of hurting or killing someone else. And even though the memories are sporadic, I know from the fleeting memories of experiences and the accounts of others just how volatile and dangerous I can be. I go blind. And you know how someone says they "see red"? Well, I have peered through a red veil. While looking at the world through crimson eyes, my senses are heightened to the point where as even with red tunnel vision, I see every detail of those would be targets and my brain goes into "kill" mode. All the while, all pain response and fear of self is deadened. Like a Norse soldier bearing Odin's curse of the Berserker, the blind fury that rests within, once tapped can only be spent like a battery and not switched off.
The other day I was setting at a traffic light coming home from Lowe's after picking up some hardware for a small project. At the light in front of me was a small BMW convertible. Being already tense from putting up with the over all retarded-ness of the masses who frequent Lowe's, I was in no mood to put up with someone who has forgotten where the skinny peddle is once the light changed. I was in the wife's Jeep and apparently its soft top wasn't enough to contain my rage. He heard me. And, I vaguely remember screaming then seeing this car blast away from the light after his extended pause on green.
I'm sure it wasn't intentional but stupidity rarely is. In hindsight, I know he was probably just distracted but in the moment, he hesitated and in my realm of thinking at the time, when you hesitate, you die. This really isn't a good example but it's the most recent one I can come up with right now. And the only one I'm willing to share. Other examples are more colorful and I would prefer not to write them down and I'm sure you'd find little joy in reading them as you set there with your mouth gaped open wondering just what kind of monster I am. Let’s just say that I'm the reason certain people have moved from my neighborhood due to their stupidity and my unwillingness to tolerate even the slightest level of bullshit.
I don't look at myself as special nor do I seek any pity for having PTSD. If I'm acting like a douchebag, I expect people to call me out on it. My wife does an outstanding job of this, handling my douchebaggery in such a way that it (9 times out of 10) defuses the situation. I couldn't imagine life without her and I truly wish all who are afflicted with this were as lucky as I am to have someone in their life like I have found. Sometimes I envision her setting naked on a keg of gunpowder blowing out the matches I'm constantly striking. She willingly puts herself in harm’s way just being with me. To me, she deserves the same credit and level of respect as those who roam the battlefield wielding their weapon. She ranks right up there with all of those who I served with. Hell, she actually far exceeds them due to her willingness to put up with all my other bullshit.
But goddamn it I get angry. And often. I get so angry I can actually feel a weird pressure on my face from the bridge of my nose to the tip of my chin as if my body is preparing for a fight. These sensations are usually followed by an episode and then large blocks missing time. Of course, I never initially remember any of these things and have to rely on my wife filling me in on the events I have no knowledge or memory of. Later, the memories come back to me in broken and order-less fashion. I guess there is a breaker box in my brain that kicks off when there is a spike in the circuit.
This is the main reason I stay home and don't venture out by myself much. I've created a safe little environment here, albeit a personal prison, where I am assured that I'm not going to wake up in a gutter or a jail cell somewhere. I have spent days, weeks, and even months at a time not going anywhere but the mailbox. This is really for the best, trust me. The head-shrinkers at the VA don't believe me when I say I've had no trouble or run-ins with law enforcement. But, it's true, not counting the 8 police officers it took to load me into an ambulance from my house one evening to go to the hospital for a nice shot of happy juice to calm me and coax me out of a flashback. And then they are all like "it's not healthy to lock yourself away" when I tell them how I deal with it. If I "Howard Hughes" it here at the house, I stand little chance of creating collateral damage all over town.
Granted, that wouldn't and hasn't stopped me from going off the deep end and taking things out on my loved ones here in the house. Luckily, as of yet it hasn't resulted in injuries, jail time and be all around relationship ending. But, the beautiful thing about my tiny little wife is the fact that she spent a lot of years training, military style, how to kill people and break their shit. Yeah, I'm pretty sure she could defend herself from any of my psychotic advances up to the point where she would have to remove herself to safety. Couple that with her unwavering understanding of my condition and that I'm not in control, the fact that I keep no weapons in the house and that we have a contingency plan tends to give me a sense of "warm and fuzzy" deep down.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not spending a life sentence here inside my stronghold. No, I do go out from time to time. I go out alone but only if I'm making short trips to the grocery store or the hardware store... that sort of thing. I go out with my wife other places. My wife acts as a buffer. I don't know exactly what it is but more likely than not, it's the fact that when she is with me I acknowledge her presence and feel a need to keep her safe. With this in mind I guess instinctually, I alter my behavior in a way to ensure nothing bad happens. All the while she is constantly running interference for me, keeping me safe as well. Hell, if I knew all the answers I wouldn't still have PTSD.
Having said that, I'm not afraid to go out of the house for my own safety. In fact, I have no regard for what happens to me given any unfortunate circumstances which may befall upon me. No, I live in fear of hurting or killing someone else. And even though the memories are sporadic, I know from the fleeting memories of experiences and the accounts of others just how volatile and dangerous I can be. I go blind. And you know how someone says they "see red"? Well, I have peered through a red veil. While looking at the world through crimson eyes, my senses are heightened to the point where as even with red tunnel vision, I see every detail of those would be targets and my brain goes into "kill" mode. All the while, all pain response and fear of self is deadened. Like a Norse soldier bearing Odin's curse of the Berserker, the blind fury that rests within, once tapped can only be spent like a battery and not switched off.
The other day I was setting at a traffic light coming home from Lowe's after picking up some hardware for a small project. At the light in front of me was a small BMW convertible. Being already tense from putting up with the over all retarded-ness of the masses who frequent Lowe's, I was in no mood to put up with someone who has forgotten where the skinny peddle is once the light changed. I was in the wife's Jeep and apparently its soft top wasn't enough to contain my rage. He heard me. And, I vaguely remember screaming then seeing this car blast away from the light after his extended pause on green.
I'm sure it wasn't intentional but stupidity rarely is. In hindsight, I know he was probably just distracted but in the moment, he hesitated and in my realm of thinking at the time, when you hesitate, you die. This really isn't a good example but it's the most recent one I can come up with right now. And the only one I'm willing to share. Other examples are more colorful and I would prefer not to write them down and I'm sure you'd find little joy in reading them as you set there with your mouth gaped open wondering just what kind of monster I am. Let’s just say that I'm the reason certain people have moved from my neighborhood due to their stupidity and my unwillingness to tolerate even the slightest level of bullshit.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Sometimes, He Forgets
We were standing in line at Lowes buying a couple of little things. Chris had convinced me he could alter a planter so I could have a hanging plant in my office without it being one of those ugly orange plastic containers. With all the stuff piled waiting to be scanned, Chris went still and his eyes, for lack of a better way to explain it, focused away.
I’m used to this, he does it not too often, but often enough. Lately it’s become more frequent and though he usually loses an hour or a day or two the memories always came back eventually. They haven’t lately. He’s losing time, little bit of life, and it’s not coming back. I find this distressing especially after reading of a veteran who lost a year and never regained those memories.
What do I do if he loses a large portion of time? Reminding him of the good things isn’t so bad, but what of the sorrow these past months? I don’t want to have to remind him of these things and watch him mourn all over again.
I’m becoming increasingly worried that he’ll have an incident when I’m not with him. What if he forgets we’re not in the apartment anymore? He’s recently started wearing his dog tags again. Maybe it’s an unconscious precaution, but it makes me feel more secure about him leaving the house alone. He has something on him other than his wallet that identifies him.
Years ago, before we met, Chris lost time and forgot he and his ex had gotten divorced. He went ‘home’ to a very surprised woman. What do we do to make sure these guys are safe but enjoy the freedom of an adult life? I can’t be with him twenty-four seven though we are together close to that. So what do I do?
This is such a huge part of what I worry about every time he runs to the store, I can barely do anything but hold onto the phone and watch for his big white truck to come down the street. Hell, I’ve stood at the end of the driveway while he was gone so I could see all the way to the corner.
It’s quite a sick carnival those of us who deal with PTSD live in. Every time I think we’ve conquered the one mountain in our way, we find another one behind it. I’m getting so frustrated, so I have to re-center and find a way to put my old rose colored glasses back on. And for God’s sake, no more diesel wafting through the air.
I’m used to this, he does it not too often, but often enough. Lately it’s become more frequent and though he usually loses an hour or a day or two the memories always came back eventually. They haven’t lately. He’s losing time, little bit of life, and it’s not coming back. I find this distressing especially after reading of a veteran who lost a year and never regained those memories.
What do I do if he loses a large portion of time? Reminding him of the good things isn’t so bad, but what of the sorrow these past months? I don’t want to have to remind him of these things and watch him mourn all over again.
I’m becoming increasingly worried that he’ll have an incident when I’m not with him. What if he forgets we’re not in the apartment anymore? He’s recently started wearing his dog tags again. Maybe it’s an unconscious precaution, but it makes me feel more secure about him leaving the house alone. He has something on him other than his wallet that identifies him.
Years ago, before we met, Chris lost time and forgot he and his ex had gotten divorced. He went ‘home’ to a very surprised woman. What do we do to make sure these guys are safe but enjoy the freedom of an adult life? I can’t be with him twenty-four seven though we are together close to that. So what do I do?
This is such a huge part of what I worry about every time he runs to the store, I can barely do anything but hold onto the phone and watch for his big white truck to come down the street. Hell, I’ve stood at the end of the driveway while he was gone so I could see all the way to the corner.
It’s quite a sick carnival those of us who deal with PTSD live in. Every time I think we’ve conquered the one mountain in our way, we find another one behind it. I’m getting so frustrated, so I have to re-center and find a way to put my old rose colored glasses back on. And for God’s sake, no more diesel wafting through the air.
Monday, January 30, 2012
12 Long Days
Twelve days ago, I got news a dear friend has a brain tumor. She’s a very private woman and doesn’t want anyone to know, but this is how I cope. I write. So let’s call her Mary. When the first call came it was simply thought Mary had had a stroke. When the doctor found the tumor we hoped it wasn’t what we thought. A little over a year ago another dear friend of mine was taken into emergency surgery for a tumor in her brain. Hers was large, but benign. Mary’s is not.
Mary has a primary type 4 malignancy in her brain. It has spidered out across healthy tissue and is in essence untreatable. I am, and will be, at a loss for elegant words. Mary has been my dearest friend more years than I care to count. She has been there through all my triumphs and all my tragedies and through it all she held my hand and helped me to survive.
I waited as patiently as I could to be able to talk to Mary. I needed to hear her voice and say all those things I’d neglected these last years. I needed my friend to know whatever she needed from me, I would be there. But when I spoke to her she was different. She doesn’t want to see me and was very matter of fact about it. I was crushed. I cried for myself and for Mary.
And now I finally understand. All the women who wrote to me looking for help because their husbands were different after they came home from war, I now understand. See, I met my husband after he was changed by what he saw in Iraq so I couldn’t fathom wanting for a different person than I had. I’ve only ever known this man. But I want the old Mary back. It’s not fair that she has to be different. Isn’t enough that she’s going to die no matter what they do? I want the woman who was my friend, my confidant, the person I could go to no matter what I’d done or said and she would still love me.
Part of Mary died when cancer took away part of her brain. Part of my husband died when he was in Iraq, but I never knew that part. As grief stricken that I am for Mary, I now feel luckier than most can imagine in regards to my husband. And now, I understand.
Mary has a primary type 4 malignancy in her brain. It has spidered out across healthy tissue and is in essence untreatable. I am, and will be, at a loss for elegant words. Mary has been my dearest friend more years than I care to count. She has been there through all my triumphs and all my tragedies and through it all she held my hand and helped me to survive.
I waited as patiently as I could to be able to talk to Mary. I needed to hear her voice and say all those things I’d neglected these last years. I needed my friend to know whatever she needed from me, I would be there. But when I spoke to her she was different. She doesn’t want to see me and was very matter of fact about it. I was crushed. I cried for myself and for Mary.
And now I finally understand. All the women who wrote to me looking for help because their husbands were different after they came home from war, I now understand. See, I met my husband after he was changed by what he saw in Iraq so I couldn’t fathom wanting for a different person than I had. I’ve only ever known this man. But I want the old Mary back. It’s not fair that she has to be different. Isn’t enough that she’s going to die no matter what they do? I want the woman who was my friend, my confidant, the person I could go to no matter what I’d done or said and she would still love me.
Part of Mary died when cancer took away part of her brain. Part of my husband died when he was in Iraq, but I never knew that part. As grief stricken that I am for Mary, I now feel luckier than most can imagine in regards to my husband. And now, I understand.
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