I’ve always believed people have three faces. Who they think they are, who people think they are, and who they really are. It takes a great deal of trust to let someone strip away the first two faces to find the real core of a person. It also requires a person to let down their defenses and be open to knowing themselves, scars and all.
From the day I met Chris I strove to really know him. He has a depth I was drawn to, but I’ve always been drawn to deep water regardless of the rip current. I think listening and knowing him is the key to helping him regain himself and find freedom from PTSD.
We’ve discussed his experiences in Iraq many times, but I approached him a short while ago about asking him some questions and writing a series of pieces about his time in theater. While I was writing a fictional novel based on PTSD and him, we discussed Iraq thoroughly, but this was different. This was asking for him to open himself up to strangers. I felt it would offer a little insight to those searching for it. I wanted to paint a personal picture about his life in combat, but more I wanted to show what a civilian – me – draws out as important details.
I told him we would do it interview style and stop when he needed to. I also told him we could end the series whenever he wanted. Chris agreed reluctantly and I am infinitely honored he would trust me to share his story.
This is the first interview. It’s rough, but it’s real.
Did you have that puffy chest I’ve seen on so many of the other guys who haven’t been there yet?
Yeah, I had that. Of course. I was going to use my training.
When did it sink in?
As it got closer to me leaving it got realer and realer. But when the door shut on that plane, that’s when the possibility of this being a one-way trip hit me. That was a sinking f—king feeling.
I bet it was. So that plane took you to Iraq?
No, no, we went to Kuwait first. We lived in tent city for a while ramping up to go. It felt almost like when we were in training. Decent food, movie tent. They tried to make it comfortable. In the sh-t you had to do that for yourself.
They took us to the airport on a big air-conditioned bus with a TV playing a local station. Soap opera.
Chris imitates the language and makes a dramatic gesture. I’m glad I don’t watch soaps. He’d probably laugh quite a bit if I did.
They offloaded us onto a C1-30. That was a scary f—king flight. My first combat landing into combat.
He smiles wide and begins to tell me a story I’ve heard several times.
Across from me was a Marine and next to me was Army Airborne. It’s not like in the movies when you see these guys sitting on a C1-30 talking like normal. No you have to lean in and yell. The Army guy, I didn’t catch his name, I wasn’t going to see him again anyway, said he’d flown on a C1-30 hundred times but this was the first time he’d landed. He’d always jumped out. This was all while the Marine across from us was booting into his Kevlar.
Problem with that is one - your Kevlar is round, so it splashes everywhere and two - we were landing in the combat zone and he needed that helmet on his head when we offloaded.
Chris has described to me many times what a combat landing is so I didn’t feel the need to have him describe it again. My time is short during these discussions so I glossed over some things in an attempt to get further.
My description may not be exact but a combat landing begins with the plane descending aggressively, think stomach in throat quick, where it then begins evasive maneuvers which consist of series of S turns with the tips of the wings pointing almost to the ground with each bank. The plane groans and screams as it comes in at a 90 degree bank. Once the plane is on the ground they are offloaded onto another bus, this one is not air-conditioned and does not have a TV.
[I often read these articles to Chris if he’s ready to hear them and he many times clarifies details with additions]
This hot f-king kerosene smell hits you as soon as the door falls which is seconds after that b—tch is on the ground and you better being grabbing your sh-t because she’s going to be back off the ground popping flares before they start lobbing crap.
So when did the puff come out of your chest?
First time rounds came flying over my head. Soon as we hit the ground we were in the shit. No easing in. Get off the plane, get the f—k off the plane - Camp Victory was lighting something up…
Chris imitates the artillery in a way that I can’t get across in this medium. He has very specific ways to describe every big gun, from mark 19s to howitzers, and every other weapon used over there from mortars to small arms. He imitates them well, which speaks of how ingrained those noises are in his head.
From here I stopped asking questions and Chris talked about how the insurgents created ways to kill his men. Always ‘his’ men.
At first they had the big guns, but eventually all they had were mortars and RPGs. They could carry them around easily and hide, f-king [derogatory term]. There were thermite RPGs and what they do is burn into a tank then send the explosives inside.
[They] would take them apart, remove the thermite, and fill them with anything they could. Washers, nails, rocks… when they shot those things off they would rain destruction down on anything made of meat.
Chris got up at this point and looked in the fridge. He stood for a few moments pretending he wanted something to eat.
I can’t do this. I can’t talk about this anymore.
We had to stop at this point. I never push Chris past where he’s comfortable talking. Though I’ve heard these stories many times before, I felt it was important that someone else hear them. He’ll be distressed for the next few hours, but it’s worth it for him to talk about his time in Iraq. He needs to get the stories out of his head so they don’t hold so much sway in his life.
Chris was an Air Force combat medic and he served in Iraq from 2003 to 2004 at Camp Sather and at BIAP.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Enable Happiness
“Every day, you walk a tightrope suspended between two skyscrapers with no net. And there I am, on your shoulders. Somehow you keep your balance. You walk that wire and adjust every time I lean to one side or the other.
“And when you do lose your balance, we hang onto that wire and we hang on to each other. You never let go and you find a way to get back up there.
“You maintain balance against unbelievable odds.”
We built a front patio and it has become a replacement to our patio at the old apartment. It is where we talk. Tonight, Chris and I were talking about a piece I wanted to write about being an enabler. I’ve been struggling with what I wanted to say for about three weeks. So I asked him and he offered me the above analogy. His voice cracked when he described himself as being carried.
“There are two kinds of enablers - enablers who let someone get away with destructive behavior, and those who enable others to live. You enabled me to live, because let’s face facts: if you hadn’t found me, I’d be either of two places – dead or standing on a street corner homeless.”
When Chris and I met, he was in a pretty low place. He drank excessively, stayed home constantly, and slept never. So when I was asked why I allow him to drink or hide or sleep well into the afternoon some days, basically why I would be an enabler, my only answer was, "Walk in my shoes."
He drinks and he smokes. This is his choice. It was also his choice to curtail both. He says because of the environment I created he made that choice. See, I wouldn’t have asked him to stop drinking. On the flip side, I wouldn’t have lived with him spending every day drunk.
However, I understand on some days, when things get to be too much and he doesn’t want to take one of those pills that knocks him unconscious, he needs a drink. I am not enabling him to abuse himself, I am giving him a place where he can be safe enough to make the choice himself.
That place, he explained, a place where he is not judged, where he is safe, where he is not defending himself against anything or anyone, is a place where he feels the ability to make clear choices. He dismissed that I might possibly be an enabler.
“What behavior do you allow that is destructive?”
I don’t believe that what I do is ‘allow’ anything. He is a grown man. He has choices and it’s up to him to make them good or bad. One thing however, on the subject of physical abuse, whether or not it’s accidental during a flashback - this I would not allow. But Chris has never once made any sort of move causing me to believe he would take that direction.
He does, however, have bouts of anger. Sometimes, they go too far and he breaks things. I tolerate a certain amount, but in the end we both end up laughing. My focus then is about defusing the situation. Last year, he broke the vacuum cleaner during an argument. In the end I told him he needed to break his own toys and not his playmate’s. We laughed, cried, and made up. The other day, he kicked my printer because it was out of ink. I still get that funny feeling I get when I’m about to laugh over the whole scene. It was and still is comical and it was easily defused even though at the moment I was red hot mad over how ridiculous he was acting.
I tolerate, but I do not enable his anger. In the end, I give him a place where he can make choices. We’re lucky because we’re at that point. I know many couples are not.
“You are the most selfless person I have ever met. That’s the key. You don’t think about your own emotions, you think about me. About how if you indulge your anger it will create a situation where I can’t control mine.”
I don’t agree that I’m selfless. I want him to get better because I need him. I need him in my life and I don’t want to be alone. As the solar lights came on lighting our newly built patio he said the clear thought I couldn’t get out of my pen.
“You give me a place where I can live almost normally. You make me happy.”
Short and sweet - enable happiness.
“And when you do lose your balance, we hang onto that wire and we hang on to each other. You never let go and you find a way to get back up there.
“You maintain balance against unbelievable odds.”
We built a front patio and it has become a replacement to our patio at the old apartment. It is where we talk. Tonight, Chris and I were talking about a piece I wanted to write about being an enabler. I’ve been struggling with what I wanted to say for about three weeks. So I asked him and he offered me the above analogy. His voice cracked when he described himself as being carried.
“There are two kinds of enablers - enablers who let someone get away with destructive behavior, and those who enable others to live. You enabled me to live, because let’s face facts: if you hadn’t found me, I’d be either of two places – dead or standing on a street corner homeless.”
When Chris and I met, he was in a pretty low place. He drank excessively, stayed home constantly, and slept never. So when I was asked why I allow him to drink or hide or sleep well into the afternoon some days, basically why I would be an enabler, my only answer was, "Walk in my shoes."
He drinks and he smokes. This is his choice. It was also his choice to curtail both. He says because of the environment I created he made that choice. See, I wouldn’t have asked him to stop drinking. On the flip side, I wouldn’t have lived with him spending every day drunk.
However, I understand on some days, when things get to be too much and he doesn’t want to take one of those pills that knocks him unconscious, he needs a drink. I am not enabling him to abuse himself, I am giving him a place where he can be safe enough to make the choice himself.
That place, he explained, a place where he is not judged, where he is safe, where he is not defending himself against anything or anyone, is a place where he feels the ability to make clear choices. He dismissed that I might possibly be an enabler.
“What behavior do you allow that is destructive?”
I don’t believe that what I do is ‘allow’ anything. He is a grown man. He has choices and it’s up to him to make them good or bad. One thing however, on the subject of physical abuse, whether or not it’s accidental during a flashback - this I would not allow. But Chris has never once made any sort of move causing me to believe he would take that direction.
He does, however, have bouts of anger. Sometimes, they go too far and he breaks things. I tolerate a certain amount, but in the end we both end up laughing. My focus then is about defusing the situation. Last year, he broke the vacuum cleaner during an argument. In the end I told him he needed to break his own toys and not his playmate’s. We laughed, cried, and made up. The other day, he kicked my printer because it was out of ink. I still get that funny feeling I get when I’m about to laugh over the whole scene. It was and still is comical and it was easily defused even though at the moment I was red hot mad over how ridiculous he was acting.
I tolerate, but I do not enable his anger. In the end, I give him a place where he can make choices. We’re lucky because we’re at that point. I know many couples are not.
“You are the most selfless person I have ever met. That’s the key. You don’t think about your own emotions, you think about me. About how if you indulge your anger it will create a situation where I can’t control mine.”
I don’t agree that I’m selfless. I want him to get better because I need him. I need him in my life and I don’t want to be alone. As the solar lights came on lighting our newly built patio he said the clear thought I couldn’t get out of my pen.
“You give me a place where I can live almost normally. You make me happy.”
Short and sweet - enable happiness.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Laughing at Pandas
Listening to Chris laugh with his daughter out in the garage after these past weeks makes me smile. His ability to still find humor is amazing. We talk so often about death and the things that happened in Iraq that his laughter is precious. I draw it in whenever I can and keep it close.
My mind wanders. He once told me they ask for their mothers.
He wanted to know why dying men do that but I didn’t have an answer for him. I don’t know why mothers are so important at the moment of a soldier’s death. Maybe the mind seeks comfort when it knows the body is failing. Mothers kiss scraped knees and solve all the world’s problems with only a word when we’re children. Maybe this is why.
And my attention shifts back to today. They’re out in the garage laughing about pandas and how evolution has been cruel to these giant ill-tempered slow-moving raccoons. It’s good to hear because of the other things I’ve heard. He owns resilience. The military gave it to him.
He once talked about a man who died in his arms in the field. There was nothing he could do. This man begged to be saved. He had a daughter that needed him. But there was nothing. The soldier was too injured, too far gone.
"I felt him die," Chris said. His body went limp, and then his eyes went vacant. No flash, no heavenly light. Just nothing. Alive then dead.
Chris knows details because he was, and still is at heart, a combat medic. The pupils go big when a person dies. They get like black marbles covering almost the entire iris. Though I know it is simply the muscles of the body releasing their last electrical impulses, it must be odd to see. I hope to never witness it.
The man that day died. That little girl never got to see her father again. But there are many daughters and sons whose fathers did come home because of combat medics, because of Chris. They came home different maybe, but they came home.
Maybe this is why he can still laugh. Even though he agonizes over those he lost, maybe the ones he saved give him the strength. However he does it, I am happy to laugh with him because some months, these days are too few.
My mind wanders. He once told me they ask for their mothers.
He wanted to know why dying men do that but I didn’t have an answer for him. I don’t know why mothers are so important at the moment of a soldier’s death. Maybe the mind seeks comfort when it knows the body is failing. Mothers kiss scraped knees and solve all the world’s problems with only a word when we’re children. Maybe this is why.
And my attention shifts back to today. They’re out in the garage laughing about pandas and how evolution has been cruel to these giant ill-tempered slow-moving raccoons. It’s good to hear because of the other things I’ve heard. He owns resilience. The military gave it to him.
He once talked about a man who died in his arms in the field. There was nothing he could do. This man begged to be saved. He had a daughter that needed him. But there was nothing. The soldier was too injured, too far gone.
"I felt him die," Chris said. His body went limp, and then his eyes went vacant. No flash, no heavenly light. Just nothing. Alive then dead.
Chris knows details because he was, and still is at heart, a combat medic. The pupils go big when a person dies. They get like black marbles covering almost the entire iris. Though I know it is simply the muscles of the body releasing their last electrical impulses, it must be odd to see. I hope to never witness it.
The man that day died. That little girl never got to see her father again. But there are many daughters and sons whose fathers did come home because of combat medics, because of Chris. They came home different maybe, but they came home.
Maybe this is why he can still laugh. Even though he agonizes over those he lost, maybe the ones he saved give him the strength. However he does it, I am happy to laugh with him because some months, these days are too few.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
PTSD is Not Contagious, Promise
Living with a mental illness makes friends hard to come by, and even harder to keep. People tend to fade in and out of our lives because of the myriad of irritants and awkward moments friendship with us brings. On our end, friendship opens Chris up to loss so he many times bucks against allowing anyone close to him. It is a special person who weathers the storm.
We rarely go out when solid ‘plans’ are involved since things can shift at the drop of a boot or backfire of a car. This past weekend, however, we braved the highway and visited friends for an afternoon of drinking and eating. It was the highlight of July for us.
One of the discussions that came up was the definition of a friend. I’ll leave out the details as everyone might not find the humor. Between laughing and eating, the discussion hashed out one basic requirement of a friend.
When you call, I will come.
Friendship with a PTSD sufferer has a slightly longer list. When he disassociates, you’ll pause and then go on as though nothing has happened. When we have to cancel plans, you say it’s fine and you will really mean it even though we've cancelled four times before. You’ll look past and understand there will always be the possibility of a flashback or outburst of emotion. You won’t be embarrassed and apologies though offered will remain unnecessary.
Unwanted isolation can be the end result of PTSD when the circle of friends shrinks away. Many services are offered to help make sure family knows and can cope with the residual trauma of war, but everyone needs the tools because sometimes a friend is all these guys have left.
We rarely go out when solid ‘plans’ are involved since things can shift at the drop of a boot or backfire of a car. This past weekend, however, we braved the highway and visited friends for an afternoon of drinking and eating. It was the highlight of July for us.
One of the discussions that came up was the definition of a friend. I’ll leave out the details as everyone might not find the humor. Between laughing and eating, the discussion hashed out one basic requirement of a friend.
When you call, I will come.
Friendship with a PTSD sufferer has a slightly longer list. When he disassociates, you’ll pause and then go on as though nothing has happened. When we have to cancel plans, you say it’s fine and you will really mean it even though we've cancelled four times before. You’ll look past and understand there will always be the possibility of a flashback or outburst of emotion. You won’t be embarrassed and apologies though offered will remain unnecessary.
Unwanted isolation can be the end result of PTSD when the circle of friends shrinks away. Many services are offered to help make sure family knows and can cope with the residual trauma of war, but everyone needs the tools because sometimes a friend is all these guys have left.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Meet Chris' Symptoms
Several months after Chris and I became friends, he confided in me that the doctors said he had PTSD. At the time, he fell way short of accepting the diagnosis and still clung to the belief that it was not he that had changed, but the world around him.
I took a different approach by setting out to learn every possible thing I could about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Website after website, book after book, I gleaned the internet and stores for any and all information. I read lists upon lists of symptoms, personal stories, and possible treatments.
With Chris still living across the country, the only real experience I had was desperate emails and strange phone calls in the middle of the night. When he finally made his way out to my neck of woods I got my first true taste of PTSD.
And it was an eye-opener.
This is my real-life list of symptoms I’ve personally experienced since Chris came into my life.
Nightmares – Chris has nightmares on a nightly basis. During these nightmares he may talk, get up, sleepwalk, jump out of bed to take cover, check me for wounds, mourn my death, scream, cry, protect me from incoming, or run while laying on his back. I didn’t sleep an entire night for almost a year and a half. During that time, I learned how to comfort him without waking him up. He and I are sleeping more nights but the nightmares are still constant.
Flashbacks – This one was and still is the most frightening aspect of PTSD. During his flashbacks, Chris is in Iraq. I have watched him put on his gear and load his weapon. He has pulled me into his flashback thinking I’ve somehow ended up in theater with him. Nightmares and flashbacks sometimes melt into each other, but a flashback seems marked by his responsiveness to me. During flashbacks, he may be unable to tell me what the year is, where he is, or who I am.
Disassociation – This goes hand in hand with flashbacks, but it’s less noticeable. Basically, Chris will go catatonic. If I don’t notice, he can stay like that for a long while. Outwardly, he’s still and staring off, but inside, he’s in Iraq. I had to learn to watch closely for these periods because they leave Chris feeling as if he’s been back in the war zone for months. Many times he’s ‘woken’ and behaved as if we were having a tearful reunion after a long deployment. I didn’t know Chris before he went to Iraq, so this is not a memory. It is very real to him, including him breaking into a sweat even when it’s cold because he feels the desert heat.
Unreasonable Anger/Waves of Emotions – I say unreasonable because anger is natural. When it’s over nothing or minor things, it’s a symptom. Chris is irritable and easily agitated. He angers over little things. In certain instances he recognizes it as soon as his ‘fog’ clears. When he catches himself, he’s ashamed over his inability to control his emotions. Sadness also rushes over him for no reason, as does fear.
Extreme Sensitivity to Sound – This one is standard. Loud noises startle him unlike anyone I’ve ever known. They can also launch him head first right back into the sand. I have learned any time there is a sudden or loud noise, I have to go to him to help him calm down or he may fall in to a flashback.
Pseudoseizures – This one was never on any list and I was a year in before I witnessed the first of three occasions where Chris suffered what looked like seizures. Upon research I found the name. Pseudoseizures are connected to PTSD, after a little digging, and create what looks like an epileptic seizure. Chris’s first time was after a severe nightmare. He didn’t wake completely before his body curled. His hands drew up to his chest and his body shook. When it was seemingly done and Chris was fully awake, he was paralyzed from the waist down. It took around twenty minutes for his legs to regain feeling.
Stroke like symptoms – On two separate occasions after a flashback, Chris has spent almost 24 hours unable to speak normally. Through out the day, his ability trickled back. It started with him being able to make noises, but not form words. Then, he could form words but he stuttered and struggled for the right words. Eventually over the course of the day he was able to speak just as he had the day before.
Unexplained body aches – Over the past year Chris has developed body aches. They steadily increased until now Chris is always in pain. Some days it’s enough to keep him in bed. It’s an all over pain that the doctors have not been able to explain. He had blood tests, EEGs, MRIs, but still nothing. We deal, and I keep him moving. We’ve taking up hiking recently in a very secluded nature preserve where the silence and the exercise are having a positive effect. Again, after research and the advice of a friend, I’ve found the fibromyalgia may be linked to stress disorders such as his.
This is my list. There are other symptoms, standard ones, and I’m sure there are others with different symptoms. The key is know your enemy and know it well. Using a site such as Not Alone and her forums allows us to gather and share information making this disorder much easier to live with. So please, if you have information share it, and if you need information ask for it. The forums are easy to find and I promise to try my best to read and respond to everything I can. We all need our own voice but during the darkest days we need to hear the voices of others walking the road with us.
I took a different approach by setting out to learn every possible thing I could about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Website after website, book after book, I gleaned the internet and stores for any and all information. I read lists upon lists of symptoms, personal stories, and possible treatments.
With Chris still living across the country, the only real experience I had was desperate emails and strange phone calls in the middle of the night. When he finally made his way out to my neck of woods I got my first true taste of PTSD.
And it was an eye-opener.
This is my real-life list of symptoms I’ve personally experienced since Chris came into my life.
Nightmares – Chris has nightmares on a nightly basis. During these nightmares he may talk, get up, sleepwalk, jump out of bed to take cover, check me for wounds, mourn my death, scream, cry, protect me from incoming, or run while laying on his back. I didn’t sleep an entire night for almost a year and a half. During that time, I learned how to comfort him without waking him up. He and I are sleeping more nights but the nightmares are still constant.
Flashbacks – This one was and still is the most frightening aspect of PTSD. During his flashbacks, Chris is in Iraq. I have watched him put on his gear and load his weapon. He has pulled me into his flashback thinking I’ve somehow ended up in theater with him. Nightmares and flashbacks sometimes melt into each other, but a flashback seems marked by his responsiveness to me. During flashbacks, he may be unable to tell me what the year is, where he is, or who I am.
Disassociation – This goes hand in hand with flashbacks, but it’s less noticeable. Basically, Chris will go catatonic. If I don’t notice, he can stay like that for a long while. Outwardly, he’s still and staring off, but inside, he’s in Iraq. I had to learn to watch closely for these periods because they leave Chris feeling as if he’s been back in the war zone for months. Many times he’s ‘woken’ and behaved as if we were having a tearful reunion after a long deployment. I didn’t know Chris before he went to Iraq, so this is not a memory. It is very real to him, including him breaking into a sweat even when it’s cold because he feels the desert heat.
Unreasonable Anger/Waves of Emotions – I say unreasonable because anger is natural. When it’s over nothing or minor things, it’s a symptom. Chris is irritable and easily agitated. He angers over little things. In certain instances he recognizes it as soon as his ‘fog’ clears. When he catches himself, he’s ashamed over his inability to control his emotions. Sadness also rushes over him for no reason, as does fear.
Extreme Sensitivity to Sound – This one is standard. Loud noises startle him unlike anyone I’ve ever known. They can also launch him head first right back into the sand. I have learned any time there is a sudden or loud noise, I have to go to him to help him calm down or he may fall in to a flashback.
Pseudoseizures – This one was never on any list and I was a year in before I witnessed the first of three occasions where Chris suffered what looked like seizures. Upon research I found the name. Pseudoseizures are connected to PTSD, after a little digging, and create what looks like an epileptic seizure. Chris’s first time was after a severe nightmare. He didn’t wake completely before his body curled. His hands drew up to his chest and his body shook. When it was seemingly done and Chris was fully awake, he was paralyzed from the waist down. It took around twenty minutes for his legs to regain feeling.
Stroke like symptoms – On two separate occasions after a flashback, Chris has spent almost 24 hours unable to speak normally. Through out the day, his ability trickled back. It started with him being able to make noises, but not form words. Then, he could form words but he stuttered and struggled for the right words. Eventually over the course of the day he was able to speak just as he had the day before.
Unexplained body aches – Over the past year Chris has developed body aches. They steadily increased until now Chris is always in pain. Some days it’s enough to keep him in bed. It’s an all over pain that the doctors have not been able to explain. He had blood tests, EEGs, MRIs, but still nothing. We deal, and I keep him moving. We’ve taking up hiking recently in a very secluded nature preserve where the silence and the exercise are having a positive effect. Again, after research and the advice of a friend, I’ve found the fibromyalgia may be linked to stress disorders such as his.
This is my list. There are other symptoms, standard ones, and I’m sure there are others with different symptoms. The key is know your enemy and know it well. Using a site such as Not Alone and her forums allows us to gather and share information making this disorder much easier to live with. So please, if you have information share it, and if you need information ask for it. The forums are easy to find and I promise to try my best to read and respond to everything I can. We all need our own voice but during the darkest days we need to hear the voices of others walking the road with us.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Hanging Up My Gloves
I’m going to talk about myself for a minute here and it’s going to be all over the place. A few years ago I broke the top two vertebra in my neck and suffered my seventh and hopefully final concussion during a self-defense demonstration at work. That incident ended my career as a Krav Maga instructor. It also left me damaged. Among other things, I’ve lived with a constant headache for four years.
Up until that night, I had little problem focusing on my writing. In fact, I had so many stories busting out of my brain, I couldn’t keep up with them. I’d write for hours until the day was used up. Now I feel like a piece of paper crumpled up too many times. No matter how many times I smooth it, there will never be a clean surface to work with.
Chronic traumatic encephalopathy is a pretty big possibility for me. Scary name isn’t it?
“Dementia pugilistica (DP), also called chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), chronic boxer’s encephalopathy, traumatic boxer’s encephalopathy, boxer’s dementia, and punch-drunk syndrome (‘punchy’), is a neurological disorder which may affect career boxers, wrestlers, mixed martial artists, and football players who receive multiple dazing blows to the head. Dementia pugilistica, the severe form of chronic traumatic brain injury, commonly manifests as declining mental and physical abilities such as dementia and parkinsonism.”
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the future. It’s filled with images of Chris and I senile on the front porch hucking pinecones at the neighbor’s kids. I’m worried. Worried about losing my sanity. But worse, I’m worried about losing my ability to care for Chris.
Yesterday, I started an argument with him for no real good reason. I’m finding myself angry and antagonistic more times than I’d like to admit. We stood in a park, because I’d turned the car around – yes I was driving once again, dang it, I hate to drive on the highway – trying to talk it out. I wanted to go home. He wanted to go to the shipyards. I wanted him to admit we’d gotten out of the house too late to avoid traffic. He wanted me to admit I’d never mentioned what time we needed to leave. I wanted him to be normal for once and he wanted me to stop being like him.
We made up, went to the shipyards, and all is well, but this morning we talked about a term I’ve been seeing thrown around lately. Secondary PTSD. There aren’t many reports, and it is not recognized as a real issue in the medical community. I don’t personally think I’ve changed since we got together, but he had a whole list of things he says I do now that I never did before - including not wanting to leave the house or be in crowds. I’m jumpy, I can’t stand noise, and my temper is as short as I am. He says I’ve become a mirror of his symptoms.
I used to have an outlet for stress. As cold and calculating in the ring as I was, I fought and my stress melted. But having been told by doctors I’m lucky to be as high functioning as I am, I know I can’t trade blows anymore - which is why I think I’ve shifted gears a little. It’s not so much that I don’t want to leave the house, I just don’t want to deal with what it might bring. I’m angry because I can’t do what I love ever again. I don’t like crowds because I doubt my ability to defend myself since the injuries. I’m jumpy because I’m trying to predict every possible stressor.
He tells me, and anyone who will listen, that I saved his life, that I’m the only reason he has to live. My point? Rambling as it may seem, my point is we all have our cross to bear. We cannot stuff our own feelings or our own problems to solely focus on our loved one. As much as I strive to support Chris, I must also give myself permission to lean on him. My leaning on him forces him to dig deep, look past what he’s got going on to focus on another. I have to give him permission to hold me up and as a result let him know I trust that he can.
Up until that night, I had little problem focusing on my writing. In fact, I had so many stories busting out of my brain, I couldn’t keep up with them. I’d write for hours until the day was used up. Now I feel like a piece of paper crumpled up too many times. No matter how many times I smooth it, there will never be a clean surface to work with.
Chronic traumatic encephalopathy is a pretty big possibility for me. Scary name isn’t it?
“Dementia pugilistica (DP), also called chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), chronic boxer’s encephalopathy, traumatic boxer’s encephalopathy, boxer’s dementia, and punch-drunk syndrome (‘punchy’), is a neurological disorder which may affect career boxers, wrestlers, mixed martial artists, and football players who receive multiple dazing blows to the head. Dementia pugilistica, the severe form of chronic traumatic brain injury, commonly manifests as declining mental and physical abilities such as dementia and parkinsonism.”
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the future. It’s filled with images of Chris and I senile on the front porch hucking pinecones at the neighbor’s kids. I’m worried. Worried about losing my sanity. But worse, I’m worried about losing my ability to care for Chris.
Yesterday, I started an argument with him for no real good reason. I’m finding myself angry and antagonistic more times than I’d like to admit. We stood in a park, because I’d turned the car around – yes I was driving once again, dang it, I hate to drive on the highway – trying to talk it out. I wanted to go home. He wanted to go to the shipyards. I wanted him to admit we’d gotten out of the house too late to avoid traffic. He wanted me to admit I’d never mentioned what time we needed to leave. I wanted him to be normal for once and he wanted me to stop being like him.
We made up, went to the shipyards, and all is well, but this morning we talked about a term I’ve been seeing thrown around lately. Secondary PTSD. There aren’t many reports, and it is not recognized as a real issue in the medical community. I don’t personally think I’ve changed since we got together, but he had a whole list of things he says I do now that I never did before - including not wanting to leave the house or be in crowds. I’m jumpy, I can’t stand noise, and my temper is as short as I am. He says I’ve become a mirror of his symptoms.
I used to have an outlet for stress. As cold and calculating in the ring as I was, I fought and my stress melted. But having been told by doctors I’m lucky to be as high functioning as I am, I know I can’t trade blows anymore - which is why I think I’ve shifted gears a little. It’s not so much that I don’t want to leave the house, I just don’t want to deal with what it might bring. I’m angry because I can’t do what I love ever again. I don’t like crowds because I doubt my ability to defend myself since the injuries. I’m jumpy because I’m trying to predict every possible stressor.
He tells me, and anyone who will listen, that I saved his life, that I’m the only reason he has to live. My point? Rambling as it may seem, my point is we all have our cross to bear. We cannot stuff our own feelings or our own problems to solely focus on our loved one. As much as I strive to support Chris, I must also give myself permission to lean on him. My leaning on him forces him to dig deep, look past what he’s got going on to focus on another. I have to give him permission to hold me up and as a result let him know I trust that he can.
Monday, June 28, 2010
4th of July Mortars
July 4th is coming. It's like a monster approaching my house, a giant Godzilla - only not as rubbery and fun.
When I was a child, the 4th was an important day. Family and friends gathered in the neighborhood. We ate blackened hot dogs and drank ice-chilled generic sodas from the old metal Coleman cooler. At the end of the usually-sweltering Kansas day, we watched an impressive display of shimmering fireworks while fireflies blinked and mosquitoes did what mosquitoes do, all in celebration of this great nation we call home. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood.
Now, the celebratory whistles and explosions are twisted into small arms fire and mortars. I’ve spent two Fourth of July's with Chris and it has been a sad realization that the very day celebrating everything he stood and fought for has become a source of pain and fear. It’s another item on the long list of things he’s misplaced to PTSD, and by association I’ve lost as well. I say misplaced because I refuse to give up on the possibility it can all be regained in one form or another.
Chris’s reaction to the sounds surrounding the 4th is hard for others to understand, most think it’s simply being ‘jumpy’.
‘Yeah, loud noises bother me, too. I’m not going to let it ruin the day for me. Man up.’
Loud noises don’t just bother Chris. They make him fall to floor to take cover. Incoming.
We’ve got inbound.
Baghdad tower to Dog Pound, please acknowledge.
He’s there. He’s back in Iraq waiting for helicopters carrying the wounded or sending rounds down range. He’s forced back into a reality that he’s already lived and shouldn’t have to live over.
So, while America celebrates her birthday, please give thought to the men and women who are hunkered down in their homes, windows closed, pillows clutched around their ears, waiting for the party to end. Remember them and their gift of freedom to the rest of us.
Maybe this year, don’t light that illegal M-80 because old man Jacobs down the street is a Vietnam vet or because the Martin’s boy just got home from Afghanistan and he looks ‘different’ somehow.
This day should not be a day filled with dread, but for many people, many amazing and valiant people, it is. Be aware not everyone wants to hear explosions to celebrate our freedom because some listened to them while fighting for it.
When I was a child, the 4th was an important day. Family and friends gathered in the neighborhood. We ate blackened hot dogs and drank ice-chilled generic sodas from the old metal Coleman cooler. At the end of the usually-sweltering Kansas day, we watched an impressive display of shimmering fireworks while fireflies blinked and mosquitoes did what mosquitoes do, all in celebration of this great nation we call home. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood.
Now, the celebratory whistles and explosions are twisted into small arms fire and mortars. I’ve spent two Fourth of July's with Chris and it has been a sad realization that the very day celebrating everything he stood and fought for has become a source of pain and fear. It’s another item on the long list of things he’s misplaced to PTSD, and by association I’ve lost as well. I say misplaced because I refuse to give up on the possibility it can all be regained in one form or another.
Chris’s reaction to the sounds surrounding the 4th is hard for others to understand, most think it’s simply being ‘jumpy’.
‘Yeah, loud noises bother me, too. I’m not going to let it ruin the day for me. Man up.’
Loud noises don’t just bother Chris. They make him fall to floor to take cover. Incoming.
We’ve got inbound.
Baghdad tower to Dog Pound, please acknowledge.
He’s there. He’s back in Iraq waiting for helicopters carrying the wounded or sending rounds down range. He’s forced back into a reality that he’s already lived and shouldn’t have to live over.
So, while America celebrates her birthday, please give thought to the men and women who are hunkered down in their homes, windows closed, pillows clutched around their ears, waiting for the party to end. Remember them and their gift of freedom to the rest of us.
Maybe this year, don’t light that illegal M-80 because old man Jacobs down the street is a Vietnam vet or because the Martin’s boy just got home from Afghanistan and he looks ‘different’ somehow.
This day should not be a day filled with dread, but for many people, many amazing and valiant people, it is. Be aware not everyone wants to hear explosions to celebrate our freedom because some listened to them while fighting for it.
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