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.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
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
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
Sunday, July 24, 2011
I Remember Their Names
I’ve been going over things in my head the last few days, trying to push stress aside and find something to write about this month. A lot of things have gone wrong and we’re in a tough place right now, so I went to some of my old writings. I wrote this back in 2009 when Chris’ flashbacks were out of control. I still remember the names.
...
I’ve spent some days thinking about this, and trying to form my thoughts into words. It was prompted by a stupid thread on a message board where people callously discussed who’s fault it was that a 93 year old man had frozen to death in his home after his power was shut off.
He has a name.
His name was Marvin Schur and he was a US Army Medic who earned the Purple Heart in World War II. His nickname was “Mutts” and he saw six years of battle while serving his country. My country.
Soldiers have names. And in the name is power. I learned the names of four soldiers who gave their lives for this country last night.
Out of respect for my husband, I will not state them, most specifically because he doesn’t remember their names. He has blocked them from his mind.
This flashback was a long one. Two and a half hours long. We went rounds. He fell to the ground, hit his head, and ran. He laid on the ground and ran like he was being chased, the back of his legs pounding the floor. It continued for so long I thought he would pass out from exhaustion, but he finally stopped and I got him talking. I went through my usual questions.
Where are you? Iraq.
Who are you? Sergeant C.
Who am I? He paused.
Who am I? That new medic. He said her name. And then he told me he’d been hit. He couldn’t feel his legs. It hurts. It burns.
Who am I? That new medic. He said her name. And then he told me he’d been hit. He couldn’t feel his legs. It hurts. It burns.
Where are my men? he asked.
I lied.
I told him over and over they were fine.
He rattled off three names and I lied. They’re on the chopper being evac-ed. They’re ok. Yes, they are alive.
And then, he asked about a specific soldier. By name. He tried to get to him. Tried to save him. He was just a kid. They blamed him. They all blamed him. And then he ran. He ran and ran.
I will never forget their names. They are ingrained in my mind.
Power in a name.
Those soldiers are people. And they have names.
Power.
I know their names.
Friday, June 24, 2011
A Defective Soldier
Once again, I have to thank my husband for writing a piece and allowing me to share it. I never know exactly what to say after I read them, but I know they need to shared.
Most people wouldn't understand the bond a soldier forms with his weapon. Remembering back I don't remember idealizing it as a bond. No, it was more of tool. An extension of myself if you will. An extension as necessary as an arm or leg. Without any of my limbs I couldn't have done the job I was sent there to do. For those of you who have never had the godforsaken pleasure to have served in a combat zone, and I hope you never will, the only constant you can depend on is that you never go anywhere without your weapon.
You patrol with your weapon. You eat with your weapon. You smoke with your weapon. You sleep with your weapon. You shit with your weapon. You... Well, you get the idea. And whenever you aren't doing any of those things and you're not engaging the enemy, you're ritualistically cleaning it, caring for it and keeping it safe. Once I got home and had to turn my weapon into the armory, I had no idea I'd never see it again.
I would have also never thought that someday my 2nd amendment rights would be taken away from me. An amendment to the very same Constitution that I swore under oath to support and defend. Well, that's exactly what happened once my rating from the VA came back and they had deemed me “incompetent”. The very government that I volunteered to fight for in preservation of freedom took away my Constitutional, 2nd Amendment rights for the rest of my natural life.
I agree that at times in the past and even now that my owning a firearm isn't exactly the best thing for society. But you know, just as in combat, I believe fear and common sense would keep me in check and prevent me from doing anything stupid. I mean yeah, I admit to outbursts and breaking things, but I guess I'm one of the lucky ones. I not one of the “turning his aggression on to others in violent fits of rage leaving behind death and destruction” kinda crazy Vets. I'm more the “Lovable, I'm gonna slice you into bits with my tongue and burn a few bridges that I'll never be able to rebuild, then stand here in the kitchen and break all of your shit” crazy vets.
I don't know if it was all my “do no harm” medical training but I'd rather see myself hurt or an object destroyed rather than to ever lay a hand on my wife or those close to me. Now, if you fuck with them it's a different story. I'll be going to jail in a cop car, running lights and siren, shackled up like Hannibal Lecter if that ever happens.
Now I'm gonna speak even more candidly here for a minute. Every time the people at the VA ask me “Are you having any thoughts of doing harm to yourself?” there's a little voice inside my head that answers back in an arrogant, teenage bully kind of way “Well Duh!!! What the fuck would you do about it if I did?” Of course, I always answer with “NO” on the record. I'd rather not be locked away again for 5 days, heavily medicated, playing checkers with myself and trying to put together a model car they gave me with no fucking glue. Yeah, no thanks!
OK, I have to admit that there have been times that the thought has crossed my mind. If for just one minute I didn't have to carry the weight of this torment around or have the intrusive thoughts. If for just a little while I got to take a deep breath and could relax without my mind replaying sounds and flashing images of things which can not be unseen. If this constant pain would go away and quit gnawing on me, them maybe I wouldn't have thoughts of making them end permanently.
I've learned, through the help of my wife, to cope with these thoughts. When I'm really down she has this uncanny knack of reading me. She clinches her fist, draws back her arm and punches her way through my depression and grabs me up by the scruff of the neck. I can't tell you how many times she has pulled me back to reality. But I can tell you this; because of her I now have a reason NOT to entertain those thoughts. I hold onto her so desperately. I have a death grip on her. I know that sometimes I can be a bit too much to handle but no matter what the circumstance, she still loves me unconditionally. I catch myself asking her all the time if she's happy, wondering how she has the strength to find any pleasure while dealing with the way I am. I've written it before, she saved my life. She always brushes it off like I'm joking when I tell her. But the truth is she did. If it were not for this selfless soul I would be dead.
But back to the topic at hand. I can remember those first few weeks home without my weapon. I've never felt more naked in my life. When I first got home I still had all my personal weapons. So, I carried all the time. Just as in Iraq, my weapon was right there with me in bed, in the car, on the can, etc. And even though you're carrying a side arm, you find yourself looking around you for things to fashion into weapons. It was really hard for me to walk around without my M4 at the ready. Sort like when you quit smoking but you still need to do something with your hands. I needed that larger weapon to carry.
You have a desperate need carry something you can use to defend yourself with at all times. I was like most of the other older fellas in my unit. A large percentage of us had concealed weapon carry permits filed with the local authorities. On regular occasions we would get together on the weekends and go send some rounds down range at the local gun club. We all had our own stash of weapons at home safely locked away with trigger locks and strong boxes or safes.
I'm gonna leave out the personal stuff that led the VA to give me the rating they did. You don't need to know any of the gories.
So, after personal setbacks, years of not being able to hold down a job, dealing with this shit and waiting for my rating to come back, they told me all my weapons needed to go away. Luckily for me I was so broke by then that I had already had to sell all of them. So, the shock of what had just happened didn't sink in at first. But, the more I thought about it, the more I thought “how dare they.” How dare they train me to fight and condition me to defend myself, train me to do a shitty job no one else wants to do and that no one back home will support, and when all is said and done and I've outlived my usefulness, strip me of my rights and discard me? I kind of know what a racehorse with a broken leg feels like.
Now, I know it goes deeper than that and I've come to terms with it. I know they are only looking out for my best interest and safety of me and my loved ones, but goddamn. It doesn't make it hurt any less. And it sure as hell doesn't do any wonders for the ego.
You know, if the VA wants to form a “support group” that actually does something other than cause more stress, all they would have to do is install an armory at their facilities. There would be no ammo necessary, just let us psychos get together once or twice a week, check out an inert firearm or two, clean and inspect them and shoot the shit.
So, yeah. I sit here before you a defective soldier. I am however still a soldier none the less even as defective as I am. I stand fast in the notion that it would be the very worst day of someone’s life if they ever broke into my home with or without a firearm. I have to.
Most people wouldn't understand the bond a soldier forms with his weapon. Remembering back I don't remember idealizing it as a bond. No, it was more of tool. An extension of myself if you will. An extension as necessary as an arm or leg. Without any of my limbs I couldn't have done the job I was sent there to do. For those of you who have never had the godforsaken pleasure to have served in a combat zone, and I hope you never will, the only constant you can depend on is that you never go anywhere without your weapon.
You patrol with your weapon. You eat with your weapon. You smoke with your weapon. You sleep with your weapon. You shit with your weapon. You... Well, you get the idea. And whenever you aren't doing any of those things and you're not engaging the enemy, you're ritualistically cleaning it, caring for it and keeping it safe. Once I got home and had to turn my weapon into the armory, I had no idea I'd never see it again.
I would have also never thought that someday my 2nd amendment rights would be taken away from me. An amendment to the very same Constitution that I swore under oath to support and defend. Well, that's exactly what happened once my rating from the VA came back and they had deemed me “incompetent”. The very government that I volunteered to fight for in preservation of freedom took away my Constitutional, 2nd Amendment rights for the rest of my natural life.
I agree that at times in the past and even now that my owning a firearm isn't exactly the best thing for society. But you know, just as in combat, I believe fear and common sense would keep me in check and prevent me from doing anything stupid. I mean yeah, I admit to outbursts and breaking things, but I guess I'm one of the lucky ones. I not one of the “turning his aggression on to others in violent fits of rage leaving behind death and destruction” kinda crazy Vets. I'm more the “Lovable, I'm gonna slice you into bits with my tongue and burn a few bridges that I'll never be able to rebuild, then stand here in the kitchen and break all of your shit” crazy vets.
I don't know if it was all my “do no harm” medical training but I'd rather see myself hurt or an object destroyed rather than to ever lay a hand on my wife or those close to me. Now, if you fuck with them it's a different story. I'll be going to jail in a cop car, running lights and siren, shackled up like Hannibal Lecter if that ever happens.
Now I'm gonna speak even more candidly here for a minute. Every time the people at the VA ask me “Are you having any thoughts of doing harm to yourself?” there's a little voice inside my head that answers back in an arrogant, teenage bully kind of way “Well Duh!!! What the fuck would you do about it if I did?” Of course, I always answer with “NO” on the record. I'd rather not be locked away again for 5 days, heavily medicated, playing checkers with myself and trying to put together a model car they gave me with no fucking glue. Yeah, no thanks!
OK, I have to admit that there have been times that the thought has crossed my mind. If for just one minute I didn't have to carry the weight of this torment around or have the intrusive thoughts. If for just a little while I got to take a deep breath and could relax without my mind replaying sounds and flashing images of things which can not be unseen. If this constant pain would go away and quit gnawing on me, them maybe I wouldn't have thoughts of making them end permanently.
I've learned, through the help of my wife, to cope with these thoughts. When I'm really down she has this uncanny knack of reading me. She clinches her fist, draws back her arm and punches her way through my depression and grabs me up by the scruff of the neck. I can't tell you how many times she has pulled me back to reality. But I can tell you this; because of her I now have a reason NOT to entertain those thoughts. I hold onto her so desperately. I have a death grip on her. I know that sometimes I can be a bit too much to handle but no matter what the circumstance, she still loves me unconditionally. I catch myself asking her all the time if she's happy, wondering how she has the strength to find any pleasure while dealing with the way I am. I've written it before, she saved my life. She always brushes it off like I'm joking when I tell her. But the truth is she did. If it were not for this selfless soul I would be dead.
But back to the topic at hand. I can remember those first few weeks home without my weapon. I've never felt more naked in my life. When I first got home I still had all my personal weapons. So, I carried all the time. Just as in Iraq, my weapon was right there with me in bed, in the car, on the can, etc. And even though you're carrying a side arm, you find yourself looking around you for things to fashion into weapons. It was really hard for me to walk around without my M4 at the ready. Sort like when you quit smoking but you still need to do something with your hands. I needed that larger weapon to carry.
You have a desperate need carry something you can use to defend yourself with at all times. I was like most of the other older fellas in my unit. A large percentage of us had concealed weapon carry permits filed with the local authorities. On regular occasions we would get together on the weekends and go send some rounds down range at the local gun club. We all had our own stash of weapons at home safely locked away with trigger locks and strong boxes or safes.
I'm gonna leave out the personal stuff that led the VA to give me the rating they did. You don't need to know any of the gories.
So, after personal setbacks, years of not being able to hold down a job, dealing with this shit and waiting for my rating to come back, they told me all my weapons needed to go away. Luckily for me I was so broke by then that I had already had to sell all of them. So, the shock of what had just happened didn't sink in at first. But, the more I thought about it, the more I thought “how dare they.” How dare they train me to fight and condition me to defend myself, train me to do a shitty job no one else wants to do and that no one back home will support, and when all is said and done and I've outlived my usefulness, strip me of my rights and discard me? I kind of know what a racehorse with a broken leg feels like.
Now, I know it goes deeper than that and I've come to terms with it. I know they are only looking out for my best interest and safety of me and my loved ones, but goddamn. It doesn't make it hurt any less. And it sure as hell doesn't do any wonders for the ego.
“We sure do thank you and yours for killing all of those bad guys and breaking their shit and all... But, you see, now we're terrified of you and would really like it if you would just go away. So, here’s some pills that may or may not kill you in your sleep and, oh by the way... If you so much as touch another firearm again, we'll put you away for good in Federal 'pound you in the ass' prison. Got it? Oh and we almost forgot the best part... You're no longer allowed to handle your own money anymore either. Good luck with that and thanks for playing Sergent. Bye-bye now! *wink*”The sting of the thing has kind of worn off but it still chaps my ass. And if you were to ask if I still feel naked without a weapon I'd say “you bet your sweet ass I do!” If you'd like to know what it feels like, hang your bare ass out the window of a car and have your buddy drive eighty miles an hour as close to a barbed wire fence as he can without scratching you. That's about how I feel everyday that I don't have my weapon at the ready. Do I still wake up every day and think I should reach for my weapon? Yes, I do, but when I look, it's never there. Let me tell you, that's a shitty way to greet the day.
You know, if the VA wants to form a “support group” that actually does something other than cause more stress, all they would have to do is install an armory at their facilities. There would be no ammo necessary, just let us psychos get together once or twice a week, check out an inert firearm or two, clean and inspect them and shoot the shit.
So, yeah. I sit here before you a defective soldier. I am however still a soldier none the less even as defective as I am. I stand fast in the notion that it would be the very worst day of someone’s life if they ever broke into my home with or without a firearm. I have to.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Madeline
Two years ago, on the day we moved into our house, Chris brought home a rolli-polly puppy and it’s been a struggle with this dog since then. I know, dogs are supposed to be great for vets suffering from PTSD. There are programs out there to provide trained dogs to veterans in need.
Here’s the mistake we made to keep anyone else from ending up in our boat.
A long time ago, before Chris went to Iraq, he had a beautiful boarder collie. He trained her to the point she actually put her own toys away. His patience with that dog paid off in the long run because she was amazing. Unfortunately, when he came home, the dog was gone - long drawn out story about a lousy divorce started while he was in the combat zone.
When Chris and I got together, I wanted to help him rebuild his life to what it was before PTSD. That was my mistake. We can’t go back in time and right all the wrongs and fix all the mistakes. We can only move forward to where we’re going and hope we make better choices and create happy times.
He desperately wanted a puppy. But I knew in my heart this was a bad idea. Puppies are difficult. They’re like having a small child in the house. They cause stress and mess no matter how hard you try to keep them contained. So against my better judgment I said yes and we got Madeline.
Madeline is a strong willed beautiful dog. She however is now spastic, desperate, and terrified at times of Chris. His volatile nature is something the cats couldn’t care less about, but the dog cannot cope with. I have tried to train her and she does listen to me, but with him she’s either all on or all off. Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not a dog person and he realizes now that he just doesn’t have the patience or the temperament to train a dog like he did back in the day.
She causes a terrible amount of stress in our life and though I do love her I regret getting her not only for the stress she causes, but for her as well. She somehow knows she’s dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde situation so she takes her chances with Chris as much as she can to get a positive response. Most days, things are fine. When she just doesn’t give up and keeps jumping all over him eventually he yells and she cowers. It’s become an exercise in trying to keep the dog away from Chris and still giving her the attention she needs.
It’s incredibly difficult and I think this could have been avoided had we at the very least gotten an older dog. So, this is sort of a warning to those who are trying to rebuild. If you want a dog, think long and hard, but if you have a loved one in the house who has PTSD, think longer. Make more plans. Consider everything - breed, size of your home, time you have, patience. Consider your loved one’s ability to cope with a young animal and consider your commitment to caring for the animal yourself.
We’ve made the conscious decision to keep Madeline. She is family and she is ours. We’re working through the issues and though there is still a stressful push pull we are making headway. Chris recognizes his erratic behavior, though not a problem for the cats, is hard on the dog which is hard on him in return. He’s taking a breath and not yelling at her as much. We’re teaching her hand signals so he doesn’t have control his tone as much and she’s starting understand jumping is not acceptable with anyone, but especially Chris.
It’s working but it has been a long road. Don’t make the same mistake we did.
Here’s the mistake we made to keep anyone else from ending up in our boat.
A long time ago, before Chris went to Iraq, he had a beautiful boarder collie. He trained her to the point she actually put her own toys away. His patience with that dog paid off in the long run because she was amazing. Unfortunately, when he came home, the dog was gone - long drawn out story about a lousy divorce started while he was in the combat zone.
When Chris and I got together, I wanted to help him rebuild his life to what it was before PTSD. That was my mistake. We can’t go back in time and right all the wrongs and fix all the mistakes. We can only move forward to where we’re going and hope we make better choices and create happy times.
He desperately wanted a puppy. But I knew in my heart this was a bad idea. Puppies are difficult. They’re like having a small child in the house. They cause stress and mess no matter how hard you try to keep them contained. So against my better judgment I said yes and we got Madeline.
Madeline is a strong willed beautiful dog. She however is now spastic, desperate, and terrified at times of Chris. His volatile nature is something the cats couldn’t care less about, but the dog cannot cope with. I have tried to train her and she does listen to me, but with him she’s either all on or all off. Unfortunately for all of us, I’m not a dog person and he realizes now that he just doesn’t have the patience or the temperament to train a dog like he did back in the day.
She causes a terrible amount of stress in our life and though I do love her I regret getting her not only for the stress she causes, but for her as well. She somehow knows she’s dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde situation so she takes her chances with Chris as much as she can to get a positive response. Most days, things are fine. When she just doesn’t give up and keeps jumping all over him eventually he yells and she cowers. It’s become an exercise in trying to keep the dog away from Chris and still giving her the attention she needs.
It’s incredibly difficult and I think this could have been avoided had we at the very least gotten an older dog. So, this is sort of a warning to those who are trying to rebuild. If you want a dog, think long and hard, but if you have a loved one in the house who has PTSD, think longer. Make more plans. Consider everything - breed, size of your home, time you have, patience. Consider your loved one’s ability to cope with a young animal and consider your commitment to caring for the animal yourself.
We’ve made the conscious decision to keep Madeline. She is family and she is ours. We’re working through the issues and though there is still a stressful push pull we are making headway. Chris recognizes his erratic behavior, though not a problem for the cats, is hard on the dog which is hard on him in return. He’s taking a breath and not yelling at her as much. We’re teaching her hand signals so he doesn’t have control his tone as much and she’s starting understand jumping is not acceptable with anyone, but especially Chris.
It’s working but it has been a long road. Don’t make the same mistake we did.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Dismantling Monsters
I have the plague. Okay, I don’t, but I feel like I do. It all started a week ago not more than a couple hours after the VA field inspector rang my doorbell. I know it’s coincidence but I also know stress can cause a simple cold to become full blown Zombie Flu. Okay, okay, not Zombie flu… but here’s where I’m going with this.
When the field inspector called I smiled to Chris and shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal. He was dealing with his father being in the hospital so I chose to not pass on any of my fears to him.
And fears I had.
But now, after all is said and done, I don’t know why. Basically, Chris and I have been waiting for the field inspector to come to change my status from fiduciary to spouse payee for over a year. This fiduciary thing has irritated me from day one because in my eyes this man has suffered the removal of rights, the loss of his career, and lived every day with the fear he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t need any more indignities. So I bucked and bucked and built this VA monster up in my mind.
By the time the morning rolled around my walls were securely up against a snaggle toothed demon there to judge me and my ability to take care of Chris – yes, I’ve had this secret fear they could take him, childish I know.
When the gentleman came in I was almost shaking. In fact, I had a hell of a time filling out the paperwork because my hands weren’t steady.
This monster sat at my table and I found out the strangest thing. This VA rep was here to make sure not only Chris was benefiting from his benefits but that I had shifted my way of thinking and that I was taking care of myself.
Me. He was concerned about me.
We spoke about aid and attendance, that I needed to place my own needs into the budget every month, and then he talked a while about the fact I hadn’t put in for health care.
I didn’t know I had health benefits. He was so genuinely concerned I was, I’m embarrassed to say, flabbergasted. This is the VA we’re talking about here. Seriously. That horrible place where veterans are shoved around and mistreated.
I realized I’d allowed stories I’ve read and angry people who didn’t get the service they wanted color my view. Yes, we had issues in the beginning, and yes it’s still a bloated organization that has had some major scandals, but the individuals, specifically the man who came to our house, give me hope that I was spending too much time with a broad brush painting the whole organization with my fear.
I still have the plague – a cold – and I believe I caused it to be worse than it should have been. Those of us who are taking care of veterans need to relax and not allow our stress to take over. Unknown fears are just that. Unknown. No need to build a monster.
And I have a special shout-out to Groupon. Thank you for joining Not Alone and helping us spread the word.
When the field inspector called I smiled to Chris and shrugged my shoulders like it was no big deal. He was dealing with his father being in the hospital so I chose to not pass on any of my fears to him.
And fears I had.
But now, after all is said and done, I don’t know why. Basically, Chris and I have been waiting for the field inspector to come to change my status from fiduciary to spouse payee for over a year. This fiduciary thing has irritated me from day one because in my eyes this man has suffered the removal of rights, the loss of his career, and lived every day with the fear he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t need any more indignities. So I bucked and bucked and built this VA monster up in my mind.
By the time the morning rolled around my walls were securely up against a snaggle toothed demon there to judge me and my ability to take care of Chris – yes, I’ve had this secret fear they could take him, childish I know.
When the gentleman came in I was almost shaking. In fact, I had a hell of a time filling out the paperwork because my hands weren’t steady.
This monster sat at my table and I found out the strangest thing. This VA rep was here to make sure not only Chris was benefiting from his benefits but that I had shifted my way of thinking and that I was taking care of myself.
Me. He was concerned about me.
We spoke about aid and attendance, that I needed to place my own needs into the budget every month, and then he talked a while about the fact I hadn’t put in for health care.
I didn’t know I had health benefits. He was so genuinely concerned I was, I’m embarrassed to say, flabbergasted. This is the VA we’re talking about here. Seriously. That horrible place where veterans are shoved around and mistreated.
I realized I’d allowed stories I’ve read and angry people who didn’t get the service they wanted color my view. Yes, we had issues in the beginning, and yes it’s still a bloated organization that has had some major scandals, but the individuals, specifically the man who came to our house, give me hope that I was spending too much time with a broad brush painting the whole organization with my fear.
I still have the plague – a cold – and I believe I caused it to be worse than it should have been. Those of us who are taking care of veterans need to relax and not allow our stress to take over. Unknown fears are just that. Unknown. No need to build a monster.
And I have a special shout-out to Groupon. Thank you for joining Not Alone and helping us spread the word.
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