what might come may never come...

Sometimes he doesn't see me. When I say that I don't mean he can't see me, I mean he doesn't know who I am. It happens most often after a longer flashback.  It’s not fun.

He told me once about how he lost a couple of years and found himself at the house he'd shared with his ex-wife before they’d divorced. She was wide-eyed about him walking in unexpected. I imagine for her it was distressing but for him even more so. For a moment the woman he'd loved didn't know him; didn’t want him there; didn’t love him back. I've felt that. I've looked into his eyes more than a few times and found myself a stranger.

He shrinks from my touch when it happens and regards me with suspicion. It's frightening for the simple reason that the possibility exists that he might stay that way, that our years together could be wiped clean in the blink of a flashback. What do I do then? Other than convince him he's got to see a doctor, I'm not sure what course I would take. This fear leads me to want to carry our marriage license; leads me to want him to wear a medic alert bracelet with my phone number; makes me want to never let him leave the house alone ever again. But I can't do these things. I need a normal life as much as he does. I need to be able to smile as he goes out and not be paralyzed with worry. And that's what I do. I smile and I put the possibility out of my mind though upon his return I can feel the invisible truck drive off my chest.

I know I’ve written about this before but each time it happens it’s like the first.  As strange as it sounds I’ve grown accustom to his seizures, his flashbacks, his bouts of anger.  But this, this not knowing me, not loving me, I can’t get used to it.  I don’t want to get used to it.  I’ve accepted he’ll have certain symptoms for the rest of his life.  I’m okay with that.  I signed up knowing about them.  Hell, I signed up knowing about this.  He’d spent time before we were married struggling to find me in his memories.  And I’ll muddle through, but I don’t want to get used to it.

So what do we do when the person we love has something we can’t get used to but have to accept.  Do we ignore?  Do we get upset?  Or do we push it aside after the initial sting?  What is the healthiest option?

I suspect my best path is to keep the bridge in sight but to not worry about it until I am forced to cross.  Being prepared is always more desirable than letting things blindside you.  But sometimes you can’t be prepared no matter how much worry and thought you put into possibilities.  So, in light of that, I’ll continue to write and put thought into what may come, but I’m going to try and keep that truck parked elsewhere.  After all, worry is a waste of time.

Chris' Field Guide to the VA

Yeah, you guessed it and yes, I know there are lots of guides out there for veterans on how to deal with healthcare through the VA.  Even the VA itself puts out a guide.  But, I’m talking about down and dirty day to day dealings in making the most of your healthcare from the VA.

There’s too much complaining, and yes I realize a percentage is warranted.  But it was when I stopped complaining, stopped looking for what they were doing wrong, and started looking for ways to make the whole process easier for my husband that I started to find the VA more helpful than it had ever been.  This is based purely on my experiences over the past several years…

My first bit of information is relax.  This is not a fast process, and it’s not without its major irritants.  When I first started taking care of my husband’s healthcare, I went in guns drawn and hackles up.  I’d scoured the web for information and had started obsessing over watchdog sites and complainers.  Yes, there are things wrong, but I’ve learned that people are quick to complain publicly but not so quick to sing praises.  I’ve since smoothed my hackles and holstered my weapons.  There is one goal in all this.  That goal is to make my husband the healthiest he can be.  His doctors want the same. 

Speaking of doctors, your hands are not bound. You may request a new doctor if you don’t mesh with the primary care doctor you’ve been assigned.  It may take time.  Things are not fast in the VA.  Your hands may not be tied but those who work there are bound by red tape that does muck up the works a bit.  But don’t suffer through seeing a doctor you just don’t like.  We requested a new doctor and had one the next appointment.

Speaking of appointments, keep them and keep up with them.  Unlike in the private sector if you’re out for two years, you’ll have to start over.  They drop you from the system and you’ll be assigned a new doctor at the closest possible VA.  We are lucky in our area, we have two hospitals and a clinic between a half hour to an hour away.  My husband is often times difficult to keep on track with his healthcare.  He doesn’t like leaving the house, so he was dropped from the more convenient clinic down by the ocean.  That’s our fault.  His doctor was assigned a new veteran in his place, and that soldier needed care that my husband was not utilizing.  It would have been so easy to get angry over this -and I did for a moment -, to convince myself that it was unfair, but who’s fault really?  Ours.

If you can’t make an appointment, call.  We’ve gotten in earlier due to cancelations.  When needed, but not a life threatening emergency, getting in a week or two earlier might make all the difference in the world to a brother or sister.  Be at your appointments or cancel them.

Speaking of making appointments, I go back to my original bit of advice.  Relax.  You’re calling a call center.  It’s going to take at the very least a half hour.  Sit yourself down with a piece of paper, a cup of coffee or wine depending, and expect to be on hold for a while.  If you’ve got a speaker phone, use it.  You can do other things while waiting to get through.  When you do, be kind.  The person on the other end of the phone is likely a veteran, and regardless they’re just doing their job.

I’m going to stop here and talk only to the veterans.  If just cannot do this, if you cannot deal with the process, ask for help.  You were never alone on the battlefield.  Why would you insist on being alone on the home front?  Ask a loved one, ask a trusted friend.  Ask for help so you can get the help you need.  There’s no such thing as a weak warrior.

Rocks and Hard Places

I have become an unpleasant person to be around.  Don’t get me wrong, I laugh a lot, but I do it to cover up the fact I can’t, or worse, won’t concentrate during socializing among peers and friends.  This bothers me, especially now that I’m painfully aware of it.

There is such a thing as caregiver’s fatigue, compassion fatigue, or what has been coined lately as secondary PTSD.  They’re wide terms that basically point to a lengthy list of symptoms including insomnia, anger, and depression.  I don’t think any of those are what I have going however.  No mine feels all too voluntary.

Last week my husband and I attended a convention in Las Vegas for a freelance job of mine.  Normally I work exclusively from home, but this one week we go SEMA.  It’s hard on my husband.  Crowds are a bitch.  But it’s a car show and my husband is the biggest petrol-head I have ever known.  This show is closed to only industry and I’m lucky enough to have an in.  It’s something car guys dream about going to every year.  Hell, they’ll go to Vegas just to stand outside it and see the cars on display in the lots around the convention center.  So, I go and my husband takes a deep breath, fights his anxiety, and like holding his breath through a smoke filled room, he endures what must be horrible just to be a part of something he’s wanted to see since he was a young man.

I love this man, but I’m unpleasant.  I really noticed it these past few days.  I cannot enjoy anything that might leave us in a place where Chris will be caught up in an episode.  My chest is tight when I notice crowds gathering.  I jump at any noise then look to him make sure he’s okay.

As we walked through the Venetian, which is an amazing hotel, I caught a glimpse of my expression in one of the many mirrored surfaces.  I wore a scowl, those two lines between my eyebrows drawn so tight they touched.  I saw the old woman I’d become because I’ve tried so hard to grab all of his sorrow and anxiety and swallow it myself.  My breathing is shallow and I’m aging myself with worry.  I’m so afraid something will happen away from home.  So afraid people will see and he’ll be embarrassed.

I’ve become one of those people friends are concerned about at first but then avoid.  I cry a lot but I’ve also noticed an overall numbing.  I feel heavy, clouded, and I hurt all over.  I don’t think I have caregiver’s fatigue, I can sleep just fine.  I’m not having panic attacks.  I don’t resent my husband and I still have this deep down need to protect him from anything that might be a trigger.  I’m not sure what’s going on, but I hesitate to tell my husband because I don’t want to upset him.

I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place.  And it seems to be getting harder.

No Sleep 'Til

Another guest post from my husband...


I haven't been sleeping lately.  I've been up all night, every night for days now.  I'll get a few hours sleep here and there but it's hardly what you'd call "good" sleep.  I think it's getting to me a little bit.  More so than it has in a while, my trigger is set to "hair" and my mood shifts more than semi-truck going uphill.

I've been stewing over stupid things as well as having to deal with an unwarranted sense of guilt over things that are not under my control. I've also been getting paranoid and anxious.

I decided I should try to lay down tonight and sleep. Mind you, I've had all of about 9 hours sleep in the last four nights. So, I lay there, my mind kicks into overdrive and immediately I began to get all worked up over some bullshit going on with my kid.

Oh well...  What's another night without sleep right?  I got up and got dressed and headed out to the kitchen.  I grabbed a Mountain Dew and went out to the garage with my iPad to smoke a cigarette and surf the net.

I turn on the TV only to find about a thousand channels with nothing worth watching.  Pissed, I threw the remote onto the workbench as I glanced down at my iPad and caught a glimpse of my Facebook page.

The red mist descended upon me, my jaw line sharpened quickly and I felt my chest heave outward.  I felt the tension in my internal trigger of the hammer moving back slightly, getting ready to click forward and fire.    

I was just about to melt down "nuclear style" on Facebook about all the political bullshit that is flowing over the page like diarrhea, mucking up my feed, soaking in and stinking up the place. I had written out a nice long rant that fingered everyone involved labeling them as retarded when it hit me.

Earlier, the wife and I had a conversation about school. We had both agreed, "if the whole class is failing, it's usually the teacher -BUT- if you're the only one in class getting F's, it's you".

Amidst all of the irrational, "kill all humans", "scream over nothing", "cry like a pansy", "get pissed and throw something" notions, a rational voice chimed in repeating the conversation the wife and I just had.

I damned near got light headed. The finger came off the trigger without sending that round down range.

"Oh God... It's me"

I got a flash of heat across my face and a deep burning sensation of self loathing and embarrassment over the way I've been acting up to know. I set here for a good ten minutes before it started letting up.

What followed this discovery was this calm rationalization. The likes of which was more refreshing than the ocean breeze blowing across your face.

For that moment of discovery, that rational voice was the normal "before I had PTSD" me. In that instance, I was thinking like the old me. There, for a moment I was centered, squared away and even keeled. As I narrated the "school" conversation in my head my voice was temperate and calm.

I then realized, In between all of the problems, issues, damage and general lunacy, The old me is still in there. Oh sure, most of the time he's trapped inside with a raving fucking lunatic, not even being able to scream but, once in a while he shines through.

You know, it's funny. A long time ago, I told the doctor that I was afraid that I was crazy.  He said, "People who are truly crazy don't care if they're crazy or not".

This explanation always comes to the surface when I have these calm, self correcting epiphanies. But tonight, it was just what exactly what I needed to hear.

Maybe, since this time I identified that I was about to act out in anger, I'm not crazy. It makes me feel like I haven't fully lost my grip. It feels like there's hope yet.

I'm going to bed.

Hanging Threads

It's been a hard go lately and as it always seems, my husband writes...

Sometimes I try to step back and take a look at myself. Even though I'm oblivious most of the time, I see that my symptoms ebb and flow like the tide. In retrospect, I start to see patterns but they are everything but predictable.

How freakin' awesome would it be if these waves were predictable? I'd just plan to go "hermit it up" in the woods with a shotgun, living in a house made from an old school bus until it subsided and I was once again somewhat normal. Eating only what I hunted and would fully utilize and get out of my system this urge to kill in a way that wouldn't find me rotting in a state (maximum security) hospital.

Since I can't predict it, I'll just lock myself up here, take my meds like a good little vet and disassociate myself from society.  I only do this for their protection, not mine.

I spent my life obeying the law in order to avoid winding up in prison, only to create my very own and sentence myself to a life term. Granted, the house is much nicer than an old school bus or prison cell, but when you stand in the driveway and look down the block at the edge of and where your universe ends, it can be very isolating to say the least.

I'm having a rough go at it right now.  I can't fucking sleep and when I do, I can't wake up.  My internal clock has a spring hanging out of it and a cracked face.  Right now, I can not go a day without medicating and hiding. I'm angry, I sad, I'm jumpy and tense. I'm damned near chain smoking and want a drink so fuckin' bad I can taste it.  Oh, and by the way, Im taking a stomach med that gives me crushing headaches when I drink alcohol, which sucks because right now nothing and I mean NOTHING is helping.

There have been VERY few times, namely none, that I've ever actually wanted to check into the psych ward at the VA.  Well, I feel like I should.  I feel my grip slipping.  Something new is happening.  I can live with the people I see in my periphery that aren't there.  I can live with the nightmares.  Hell, I've even found a way to somewhat deal with the sounds that aren't really there.  But now I'm losing my short term memory.

I can't remember anything anymore. I walk into a room and wonder what the hell I came in there for.  That is, except for the bathroom. Thank God that hasn't started to fail me yet. But, I digress.

I get easily confused now. I'm having trouble concentrating.  I can't remember what I had for dinner sometimes.  I can't remember if I took my medication.  I can't remember what I was doing halfway though doing it and have found myself, wrench in hand, looking dazed at a pile of parts. I'll light a fresh cigarette only to find one burning, setting in the ashtray.

It came on all at once.  Granted, the stomach med label says it can cause some of these symptoms but,  I was feeling this way before I was taking it.  I just don't feel right.  I feel lost.  I feel behind.

As if I'm not anxious enough already, what if I forget something important and burn down the house or kill someone?
Case in point;  I was working in the shop today and found out that I had apparently left the valve open on a small torch I use once in a while.  All the gas in the cylinder had escaped.  Now, I have a gas fired water heater right here in the garage which means a constantly lit pilot light.  I could have blown up or at the very least burned down the garage and the house.

Today, for the second time in my entire life, I locked my keys in my truck.  Not only that, I left the ignition on.  Luckily, I put the damned thing in park and thankfully, I wasn't locked out long enough to drain the battery but damn...  What the fuck is happening to me?

I find myself losing large quantities of time.  Huge blocks of my day are missing.  I'll look up at the clock and have lost three hours.  I'm also having more frequent dissociative episodes.  My wife came home from town and caught me in one of these lockouts and was able to snap me out of it.  And, I again found myself missing hours.

These are just a few of the more drastic examples of the dozen or so issues I have every day.  It's not easy for a man to admit when he's scared.  Right now, I'm scared.  I would rather have live rounds whizzing over my head than this.

And, on top of all of this, right now I'm feeling very "hair trigger" psychotic.  I want to break things and hurt people. I'm itching for a scrap and get that "I'm invincible, split second, red visioned rage". And deep down it's not a question as to "if" I'm gonna go off and hurt someone, it's "when".

More often than not in the past, I held my life with less than high regard and wanted it to end.  I even tried making it happen once.  Then, I found the woman who would become my wife.  She saved me from the brink and gave me a reason to live.

Granted, I gave up hope of ever getting better from this but with my new wife at my side, caring for me, giving me a purpose and a reason to live, I lost the urge to end my life.

I found it easier to deal with because of her support. I kind of settled into the understanding that I was fucked up, and there for a while, I was coming to terms with that. With real purpose to my life and the want and need to live I am frightened and beginning to feel an almost certain impending doom. Now that I want to live, how long do i have?  I know from experience that once a patient with advancing illnesses develop dementia, it's only a matter of time...

Now, instead of worrying about "living" with PTSD, I'm afraid that it's the thing that is going to end up killing me.

Be a Moving Target

His depression is back.  I know I’ve touched on this before, I’m not blind to it.  Waves.  Our life is filled with waves.  Looking back over these past few years writing about my husband’s PTSD, I see patterns, like waves.  Some waves, when we sit on the beach, are lovely to have.  Others, like his insomnia, not so much.  It’s good to be able to trace it back because I can always reason that “this too shall pass” is real.  These times pass and good times are always present.

Unfortunately there have been some worsening symptoms.  He’s always lost time, little bits falling away, but it’s getting worse.  He knows when it happens now and struggles to find the time, the memories.  If I’m not paying attention or I don’t check on him regularly he can lose an afternoon or morning, or worse stand blank eyed and catatonic for hours and end up losing days.  I don’t know what’s going on.  I do know that we talked to his doctor, but unfortunately there are so many symptoms she can’t treat them all at once.  If she tries he’ll end up not seeking treatment at all.  I’ve watched the appointment cards roll in causing him to approach saturation point.  Appointments have to be cancelled.  Choosing what is most important is stressful. I feel like one of those circus performers with the plates on sticks.  I have all these spinning plates all balanced, but I know I can’t keep all of them going, so I have choose which one to drop.  Each is delicate and will shatter.  I second-guess every choice I make.  What if it was the wrong one to cancel?

This week I cancelled a counseling session.  I know he needs to go, but he has so many dental appointments to deal with something that cannot wait and a couple of others for the loss of strength in his arm, which also cannot wait.  I feel like I can’t win. But, I push forward and balance my plates.  Sometimes I feel them slipping, but I persevere. I let one go, sacrificing it, then I move on. Regardless of whether my choices are right or wrong, I have to continue to make them.  It’s important to move.  Forward or back, each is a learning experience and with that I grow in my ability to help him manage this monster.

Keep moving people.  Moving targets are harder to hit. 

Stones In His Heart

For the last few days we’ve been working on getting my youngest son’s ROTC uniform squared away.  At his high school the program is Air Force.  This made my husband, his step-father, very happy.  They’ve always been very close but this has been a major bonding experience. Folding sleeves and blousing pants, my boy is, as Chris would say, “shit hot”.

I love the attitude my freshman is coming home with from his Master Sergeant.  He’s always been a good student, but he’s taking more and more pride in what he does.  I’m happy and I’m happy Chris can grab back this little piece of military since he so desperately misses the life.

We needed some extras to finish off my son’s uniform so yesterday we headed over the Army Navy store for a few bits and bobs.  This morning we discussed the trip because I noticed something odd.  We go to the Army Navy store quite a bit and every time he points out a certain patch.  It’s a unit patch from the guys he patrolled with in Iraq.  At the time he was in the Air Force, but the Army was lacking enough medics to go around.  He volunteered to fill a spot.  These are the guys he was “in the shit” with.  He stood in front of the patches yesterday and touched his unit’s.  Glancing over to me, he flashed a tentative smile and told me that was his guys.

This is a standard thing.  We do it each time we go there.  This morning however he told me he hates that patch.  It brings no good memories.  I’d always wondered why he never picked one up to have.  Now I know.  But now I’m left wondering.  I know quite a few of the stories, stories I’d rather no know.  He’s always said he can’t tell me all of them and I’m okay with that, but the stories I do know are so painful I can’t imagine anything worse.  Apparently though, there are stories he can’t voice because they are worse. 

We’re starting counseling again next week.  It’s been two years since he left the vet center angry and unable to continue fighting his way to healing.  Hopefully someday he’ll be able to look at that patch and have it not be a stone in his heart.  Someday maybe.