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.
Monday, March 26, 2012
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.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Angry Words
My husband wrote a letter a few weeks ago, and though I wanted to share it, I wanted to punctuate parts of it with my own thoughts because I watched him as he read it to me with anger and sorrow roiling beneath his surface.
“I saw something today that caused the end of what I considered a friendship. OK, truth be told, more of an acquaintance but one of my Army brethren. A brother in arms. One of the few who were unfortunate enough to have witnessed some of the things I have. Someone I trusted and, given a certain set of circumstances, would have risked my own life for just as I would any of the men and women I was blessed and honored to serve with.
It also took me back to the hatred for the hazing "profiles" got when they were off duty for injuries. I guess when you are infantry and break, you're less of a man than the ones still capable. I have a unique perspective because of my medical background. I was never given the opportunity to choose who I treated. If they were broke up and busted or not, they were seen and all treated equally. Now, if after the fact it was found out they were malingering they were dealt with on both ends but they were ALL innocent and considered sick or injured until proven otherwise.”
He was so angry when he read this to me, I wasn’t quite sure where the letter was going. I’d seen the post on facebook as well. I’d also been stunned because we’d spent time with this man. He was a friend, a friend who knew Chris has PTSD.
“I remember when I was at Ft. Sill finding a rewritten version of the Soldier's Creed that made fun of those who were sick or injured. It made me wonder what kind of insecure piss ant would take time away from his duties to pen a version of the warrior's ethos just to make himself look better in the face of his peers. From an NCO's stand point, I know this ass had WAY better things he could be doing with his time and I thought of the many things I could help him find to do if he didn't.
It also makes me wonder how many of these idiots laughed out loud, huddled in a group with their buddies reading this piece of literary shit later to have a limb blown off down range somewhere. I bet becoming the very thing they hated and belittled before never crossed their mind as they sought pity for their new found disfigurement.
The thing I saw today was a poster depicting a "PTSD Support Group" boasting a picture of Mel Gibson sporting that stupid beaver puppet. Both had retarded looks on their faces. And this poster was posted up on facebook by an Infantry group and commented on by my once trusted and so called friend.
Yeah, I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't legitimately injured. I'm so sorry I had to be less of a soldier than you obviously were and only lost my fucking mind from seeing one too many kids blown up or bagging and tagging too many young men who'll never get the chance to set there and laugh at me. Yeah, you're a real American hero aren't you? You paid a real price and deserve so much more than us head cases.”
There was a much angrier passage at the end of this paragraph, one I chose to remove due to the language. Understand the pain shines through the angry words. So many times Chris has said it would be easier if he were missing a limb or covered in burns or just dead. At least then people would believe he was changed by war. But he’s visibly unscathed to those who don’t live with him or stand by his side every day when the things he’s seen come back to remind him where he’s been.
“Maybe I'm being a little too hard on you though. Because I know exactly what’s going to happen to you. Something much worse than any of the things I've said or wished upon you. If you don't already, you're gonna start seeing things that aren't there. You're going to quit sleeping and start hurting the ones that love you. Oh, at first it'll just be harsh words but there'll come a day when your pretty little girlfriend says something off color in response to you because you're being an asshole and you'll blacken her pretty blue eye. You'll isolate yourself and ALL of your friends will be done with the way you're acting and all will vanish. You'll be in and out of jail and be remanded to the VA for treatment. If you're lucky you'll crave the taste of your side arm and paint the walls with your brains long before the alcohol and drugs eat away at you and you die alone in the street. Yeah... That'll be REAL funny wont it?”
Here is my response to this soldier.
I won’t post your name, but I considered you my friend as well. I saw a man who’d been injured in war and understood where my husband had been. I never expected to see you laughing at him behind his back.
But someday, it will touch you. You’ll pick up the phone to find a crying mother or wife. She’ll tell you your buddy, your brother who wore the same insignia, the same numbers, is dead by his own hand.
She’ll tell you he’d been diagnosed with PTSD. That he didn’t want anyone to know. That he was so ashamed. She’ll cry. She’ll ask you why it happened, why no one helped, why no one saw. And you’ll be devastated he’s gone while wondering the same. Then you’ll remember. You laughed. Along side him, you laughed at those who “have PTSD”. He’d laughed too, but it wasn’t the same.
Someday, it will touch you, and when it does I’ll welcome your questions and help you through the grief because though you’ve forsaken your fallen brothers, I will not leave you behind the way you leave them behind.
“I saw something today that caused the end of what I considered a friendship. OK, truth be told, more of an acquaintance but one of my Army brethren. A brother in arms. One of the few who were unfortunate enough to have witnessed some of the things I have. Someone I trusted and, given a certain set of circumstances, would have risked my own life for just as I would any of the men and women I was blessed and honored to serve with.
It also took me back to the hatred for the hazing "profiles" got when they were off duty for injuries. I guess when you are infantry and break, you're less of a man than the ones still capable. I have a unique perspective because of my medical background. I was never given the opportunity to choose who I treated. If they were broke up and busted or not, they were seen and all treated equally. Now, if after the fact it was found out they were malingering they were dealt with on both ends but they were ALL innocent and considered sick or injured until proven otherwise.”
He was so angry when he read this to me, I wasn’t quite sure where the letter was going. I’d seen the post on facebook as well. I’d also been stunned because we’d spent time with this man. He was a friend, a friend who knew Chris has PTSD.
“I remember when I was at Ft. Sill finding a rewritten version of the Soldier's Creed that made fun of those who were sick or injured. It made me wonder what kind of insecure piss ant would take time away from his duties to pen a version of the warrior's ethos just to make himself look better in the face of his peers. From an NCO's stand point, I know this ass had WAY better things he could be doing with his time and I thought of the many things I could help him find to do if he didn't.
It also makes me wonder how many of these idiots laughed out loud, huddled in a group with their buddies reading this piece of literary shit later to have a limb blown off down range somewhere. I bet becoming the very thing they hated and belittled before never crossed their mind as they sought pity for their new found disfigurement.
The thing I saw today was a poster depicting a "PTSD Support Group" boasting a picture of Mel Gibson sporting that stupid beaver puppet. Both had retarded looks on their faces. And this poster was posted up on facebook by an Infantry group and commented on by my once trusted and so called friend.
Yeah, I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't legitimately injured. I'm so sorry I had to be less of a soldier than you obviously were and only lost my fucking mind from seeing one too many kids blown up or bagging and tagging too many young men who'll never get the chance to set there and laugh at me. Yeah, you're a real American hero aren't you? You paid a real price and deserve so much more than us head cases.”
There was a much angrier passage at the end of this paragraph, one I chose to remove due to the language. Understand the pain shines through the angry words. So many times Chris has said it would be easier if he were missing a limb or covered in burns or just dead. At least then people would believe he was changed by war. But he’s visibly unscathed to those who don’t live with him or stand by his side every day when the things he’s seen come back to remind him where he’s been.
“Maybe I'm being a little too hard on you though. Because I know exactly what’s going to happen to you. Something much worse than any of the things I've said or wished upon you. If you don't already, you're gonna start seeing things that aren't there. You're going to quit sleeping and start hurting the ones that love you. Oh, at first it'll just be harsh words but there'll come a day when your pretty little girlfriend says something off color in response to you because you're being an asshole and you'll blacken her pretty blue eye. You'll isolate yourself and ALL of your friends will be done with the way you're acting and all will vanish. You'll be in and out of jail and be remanded to the VA for treatment. If you're lucky you'll crave the taste of your side arm and paint the walls with your brains long before the alcohol and drugs eat away at you and you die alone in the street. Yeah... That'll be REAL funny wont it?”
Here is my response to this soldier.
I won’t post your name, but I considered you my friend as well. I saw a man who’d been injured in war and understood where my husband had been. I never expected to see you laughing at him behind his back.
But someday, it will touch you. You’ll pick up the phone to find a crying mother or wife. She’ll tell you your buddy, your brother who wore the same insignia, the same numbers, is dead by his own hand.
She’ll tell you he’d been diagnosed with PTSD. That he didn’t want anyone to know. That he was so ashamed. She’ll cry. She’ll ask you why it happened, why no one helped, why no one saw. And you’ll be devastated he’s gone while wondering the same. Then you’ll remember. You laughed. Along side him, you laughed at those who “have PTSD”. He’d laughed too, but it wasn’t the same.
Someday, it will touch you, and when it does I’ll welcome your questions and help you through the grief because though you’ve forsaken your fallen brothers, I will not leave you behind the way you leave them behind.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Come at me, 2012!
New Years is on the way and in this house resolutions are a little different. Yes, I’d like to lose a couple of pounds and get back in shape and finish all the projects I’ve started and and and… but let’s face facts those all fall way behind what many of us dealing with PTSD and the aftermath of war, whether it be our own or a loved one’s, will resolve to do this year.
Here’s my short list.
This year I will breathe and watch him leave the house alone without turning blue with worry. I will not make the face that says please wait for me so I can come and make sure you come home alright.
I will speak up and not swallow my emotions for fear they will tip off a bad day because every time I swallow them, he knows anyway. I will approach gently like a breeze in the night, but I’ll say what needs to be said as I have learned I’m not doing either of us favors by being a silent martyr.
I will, once again, try to get him back to the doctor for help because I am not a doctor and I am not a therapist. As much as I know about PTSD, there is three fold more that I don’t know. We will seek help and we will do it together.
I will not punish myself for getting mad at him. He’s a pain sometimes and I’m allowed to feel that way. He makes me crazy sometimes because he’s human.
I will try to stop thinking about being alone in this house sooner than I should. Though I know this thing, this monster, can shorten his life worrying does nothing. We must be active in making sure we are living as healthy as we can and forget all the rest that we cannot control. Life comes with no guarantees.
I will also try to stop worrying about him taking his life when I have to leave the house without him. Bad days are normal and they don’t mean he’s standing on the edge. I will watch and be aware, but I will not give myself an ulcer by entertaining my own dark fears.
And lastly, I will try to make this year better than the last but I will understand I cannot make his life stress free. No one gets that luxury. He will have lousy days, sleepless nights, and anxiety. I will shed some tears and get mad over things that aren’t really that important. We will have ups and downs, but the coming year will bring us a lion’s share of happiness because we made it through this year, scathed and tired, alive and together. We are happy and hanging on.
I wish you all a new year filled with accomplishments, big or small. And I hope for all to be able to see these steps and not fall into despair when things seem bleak. We scale a flight of stairs the same be there a hundred or a thousand. One step, one moment, one move forward. Happy New Year.
Here’s my short list.
This year I will breathe and watch him leave the house alone without turning blue with worry. I will not make the face that says please wait for me so I can come and make sure you come home alright.
I will speak up and not swallow my emotions for fear they will tip off a bad day because every time I swallow them, he knows anyway. I will approach gently like a breeze in the night, but I’ll say what needs to be said as I have learned I’m not doing either of us favors by being a silent martyr.
I will, once again, try to get him back to the doctor for help because I am not a doctor and I am not a therapist. As much as I know about PTSD, there is three fold more that I don’t know. We will seek help and we will do it together.
I will not punish myself for getting mad at him. He’s a pain sometimes and I’m allowed to feel that way. He makes me crazy sometimes because he’s human.
I will try to stop thinking about being alone in this house sooner than I should. Though I know this thing, this monster, can shorten his life worrying does nothing. We must be active in making sure we are living as healthy as we can and forget all the rest that we cannot control. Life comes with no guarantees.
I will also try to stop worrying about him taking his life when I have to leave the house without him. Bad days are normal and they don’t mean he’s standing on the edge. I will watch and be aware, but I will not give myself an ulcer by entertaining my own dark fears.
And lastly, I will try to make this year better than the last but I will understand I cannot make his life stress free. No one gets that luxury. He will have lousy days, sleepless nights, and anxiety. I will shed some tears and get mad over things that aren’t really that important. We will have ups and downs, but the coming year will bring us a lion’s share of happiness because we made it through this year, scathed and tired, alive and together. We are happy and hanging on.
I wish you all a new year filled with accomplishments, big or small. And I hope for all to be able to see these steps and not fall into despair when things seem bleak. We scale a flight of stairs the same be there a hundred or a thousand. One step, one moment, one move forward. Happy New Year.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Oh No, Not the Holidays
The holidays are difficult. Living up to the expectations and obligations is a challenge no matter who you are. Gifts, parties, family, traffic, holiday shopping, planning, etc, it’s a weight even the most organized and healthy of individual finds hard to cope with.
Imagine having just come home from the war and being expected to jump right back into the hustle and bustle of a soldier’s civilian side of life. I know what you’re thinking. They’ve been in a battle zone, a Christmas party with friends and family should be nothing for them.
Have you ever heard the pop of a Champaign cork? They may register it as the pop of a weapon and take cover in front of a crowd of shocked onlookers. I’ve seen it happen and I’ve seen the absolute look of embarrassed bewilderment on his face when he realizes where he is and what he’s done.
“Aside from the fact we don’t want to be around anyone because we associate bad things happening when we’re around,” my husband said after I read him the previous paragraphs. Then he shrugged. He hates the holidays. They bring stress to an already stressed man.
There are a lot of soldiers coming home right now. They’re looking forward to something they’ve been away from for a long time and many families have built expectations that everything will be perfect and fall right back into place. It won’t be perfect. Things will go wrong and how loved ones react will make a world of difference to their returning warrior.
When he or she comes through that door remember to ease in to exposure to crowds and noise. Don’t think for a second that everything will necessarily be the same as it was before, even if you’ve already danced this deployment dance several times.
Good luck to all in having a stress free and happy holiday. And remember, people who are important will choose to understand if your plans cannot include them and people who won’t understand just aren’t important.
Imagine having just come home from the war and being expected to jump right back into the hustle and bustle of a soldier’s civilian side of life. I know what you’re thinking. They’ve been in a battle zone, a Christmas party with friends and family should be nothing for them.
Have you ever heard the pop of a Champaign cork? They may register it as the pop of a weapon and take cover in front of a crowd of shocked onlookers. I’ve seen it happen and I’ve seen the absolute look of embarrassed bewilderment on his face when he realizes where he is and what he’s done.
“Aside from the fact we don’t want to be around anyone because we associate bad things happening when we’re around,” my husband said after I read him the previous paragraphs. Then he shrugged. He hates the holidays. They bring stress to an already stressed man.
There are a lot of soldiers coming home right now. They’re looking forward to something they’ve been away from for a long time and many families have built expectations that everything will be perfect and fall right back into place. It won’t be perfect. Things will go wrong and how loved ones react will make a world of difference to their returning warrior.
When he or she comes through that door remember to ease in to exposure to crowds and noise. Don’t think for a second that everything will necessarily be the same as it was before, even if you’ve already danced this deployment dance several times.
Good luck to all in having a stress free and happy holiday. And remember, people who are important will choose to understand if your plans cannot include them and people who won’t understand just aren’t important.
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