socks can do amazing things...

It is thought that knitting first appeared somewhere in the Middle East.  In my house it appeared when my mom got sick.  We weren’t expecting terminal illness, no one ever does, but it happens.  Over the course of the nine weeks before her illness took her life, I learned every technique in knitting that I could.  I knit feverishly.  I filled two large bins with beautiful colors of wool in all different weights(this means the thickness of the yarn).  I even learned to spin and dye my own wool.  The only aspect I didn’t dive into was raising my own sheep, and that’s only because we don’t have the room. 

Luckily, even though I am left handed, there is no difference in knitting.  One always knits the same way other than which hand holds the working yarn.  My first project was a Christmas stocking.  I took on fancy stitches like cables and double knitting.  Watching videos online, I learned how to knit socks, sweaters, hats, mittens - you name it, I figured it out.  I knit presents, I knit selfish.  I learned to knit with the largest to the tiniest of needles and in the end, I gained a skill that has strengthened my coping skill-set.

This need to make things has served me well.  I was a potter for 18 years of my life.  I like to create.  It feeds my soul, but it also helps me deal with the ups and down of life with PTSD.  Hobbies can be a wonderful outlet when times are hard.  They occupy the mind so our days aren’t spent dwelling and rolling over all the horrible possibilities.  Through knitting I’ve taught myself to not worry about what I cannot change.  I can’t cure my husband’s PTSD, I couldn’t cure my mother's cancer.  I won’t be able to find a magic remedy on the internet.  I can educate myself, but I can’t fix everything.

I can however fix a stitch.  So in knitting, I give myself the ability to fix what I can.  Being able to fix something helps because many times I feel like I’m failing my husband in not finding that magic cure like I thought at the beginning I could.  I can however knit a pair of socks that fit like a dream and some days, that’s good enough.

deep breath...

I am having a bad day and I am allowed to say it.  This person is causing me stress, and that person is causing me stress, and I am allowed to call them out.  I am going to cry, and I am allowed to shed those tears without fear that I am causing anyone else distress.  I do not need to swallow them to save others.  Others need to realize I am not made of Teflon and everything does not slide off me without leaving a mark.  

So, I am going to take a moment to shut down everything everyone else needs from me and consider my own needs.

I am having a bad day, and it is okay to be human.

strength and pride...

I saw something today that spoke to me.  Generally, I regard Facebook’s over used feel-good posts with rolled eyes and a scoff.  I am the grump cat of my own friends list.  There are too many captioned pictures, fake letters, and repost-this-if-you-cares.  But today, I saw an image of a lion with the words “the worst part about being strong is that no one ever asks if you’re okay” and yes, whomever wrote it, used the correct you’re.

For a moment I contemplated that statement in regards to my own life.  Pride came to mind because yesterday I’d shared a cartoon on Not Alone’s Facebook page from a retired general.  It depicted a fireman drowning because of pride.  When I taught Krav Maga strength and pride ruled.  Nothing hurt.  Nothing touched me.  When the bell sounded it didn’t matter if I was fighting Wladimir Klitschko himself, I would win or die trying.

After a gun seminar, from left to right Jeff, me, Big Mike,
Thierry, Darren Levine(founder of KM in the United States), John, Damon.

Strength in spirit was what kept my 5’1” buck twenty frame going because size was never on my side.  My strength made people step back and assume no matter what I was okay.  It fueled rumors about my background.  I’ll never forget the day I heard two of my students discussing my years as a special forces soldier.  Interesting since I’d never served nor ever claimed to have that honor.  I still smile at the thought.

But pride took me to foolish places.  Pride caused the damage to my shoulder because I refused to admit I’d lost.  I could have tapped out but instead I let Big Mike twist it out of joint.  Pride caused me to continue to get up and fight after I was knocked out, on more than one occasion.  The damage to my brain is becoming more apparent on a daily basis.  Pride kept me quiet when things hurt, when they were wrong, when I’d fallen into a path of destruction.

Pride kept my husband quiet when he came home from Iraq and began struggling with nightmares, lost time, and depression.  Pride let him suffer. Pride let his life crumble farther than it should have.

Don’t get me wrong, pride can be a good thing.  It can be a driving force to amazing achievements.  But it can also be a set of blinders keeping us from seeing what is really happening.  And here is where we circle back to strength.  Strength can cause people to think you are untouchable, but being strong enough to reach out when the path is too much to walk alone is where the true test of will sets us apart.  Asking for help is not weakness; it is strength.  Being strong enough to know you must be part of a team to succeed is a core aspect of military training.  So why is it so hard, when our soldiers come home changed from war, for them to still recognize the value of being part of something larger than self?

We need to change our thinking about strength.  Strength is not synonymous with being alone.  One football player cannot match a team.  His strength is in numbers.  Never be afraid to reach out, because it is strength that moves the hand toward the solution and it is strength that says the words I cannot do this alone.  

what I need...

I always know when it’s coming.  He usually starts with being restless and uninterested in anything.  That’s how I know it’s coming. 

Depression.

For me, the depression has been one of the hardest symptoms of my husband’s PTSD.  I can take the anger.  He never directs it my way, or if he does it’s minimal and fades quickly into an apology.  I can take the sleepless nights and distance.  I can even take the flashbacks as scary as they are sometimes.  But the depression is exhausting especially when I’m not feeling up to being a caregiver. 

Today is that day.  I’m just not up to it.

And I’m tired.  My back is out; my head is pounding.  My youngest is sick as a dog and my oldest is about to experience one of those life events you remember always.  But depression rules the day.

When he came to me last night, I was cranky.  Lying there in bed, I couldn’t find compassion under the pain radiating down my leg.  I can’t always be there can I?  I need to be human.  I need whine.  I need to hurt.  I need to lean.

He’s crushed when he realizes I’ve made it through another difficult patch without him because he couldn’t see past the fog of his depression.  In bed with the covers pulled tight around his head, he’s not awake when I hobble in to check on him.  I know he won’t want to sleep away the day, so I wake him.  Again.  And again.

But I feel my jaw tighten.  I’m tired.  I love him, but I’m so tired.  I can’t let myself get to that ragged edge, the one he hangs at so much of the time, because if I’m there, we’ll both topple over.

Deep breath.  I have to make it to the gym more often than not so my back isn’t so easily swayed by an errant twist.  I have to remember my headaches aren’t permanent, take a damned aspirin, and stop being stubborn. My youngest just has a summer cold. It will pass.  And my oldest, well he’s now engaged and happily going about his life.  I didn’t miss a thing.  This is what I wanted; to be needed.  I was so unnecessary for such a long time, this is what I need, and after all every one of us should be so lucky to understand what we need.   

Mortars for the 4th...

I wrote this back in 2010 and though we've spent a few more 4th of July holidays together, the feelings still hold true.  It saddens me to no end that the holiday will never be the same for me and thousands of other loved ones and veterans, but I'll never give up hope that some piece of it can be regained somehow.

_

July 4th is coming. It's like a monster approaching my house, a giant Godzilla - only not as rubbery and fun.

When I was a child, the 4^th was an important day. Family and friends gathered in the neighborhood. We ate blackened hot dogs and drank ice-chilled generic sodas from the old metal Coleman cooler.  At the end of the usually-sweltering Kansas day, we watched an impressive display of shimmering fireworks while fireflies blinked and mosquitoes did what mosquitoes do, all in celebration of this great nation we call home. It’s a cherished memory from my childhood.

Now, the celebratory whistles and explosions are twisted into small arms fire and mortars. I’ve spent two Fourth of July's with Chris and it has been a sad realization that the very day celebrating everything he stood and fought for has become a source of pain and fear. It’s another item on the long list of things he’s misplaced to PTSD, and by association I’ve lost as well.  I say misplaced because I refuse to give up on the possibility it can all be regained in one form or another.

Chris’s reaction to the sounds surrounding the 4^th is hard for others to understand, most think it’s simply being ‘jumpy’. 

‘Yeah, loud noises bother me, too. I’m not going to let it ruin the day for me. Man up.’

Loud noises don’t just bother Chris. They make him fall to floor to take cover. Incoming.

We’ve got inbound.

Baghdad tower to Dog Pound, please acknowledge.

He’s there. He’s back in Iraq waiting for helicopters carrying the wounded or sending rounds down range. He’s forced back into a reality that he’s already lived and shouldn’t have to live over.

So, while America celebrates her birthday, please give thought to the men and women who are hunkered down in their homes, windows closed, pillows clutched around their ears, waiting for the party to end. Remember them and their gift of freedom to the rest of us.

Maybe this year, don’t light that illegal M-80 because old man Jacobs down the street is a Vietnam vet or because the Martin’s boy just got home from Afghanistan and he looks ‘different’ somehow.

This day should not be a day filled with dread, but for many people, many amazing and valiant people, it is.  Be aware not everyone wants to hear explosions to celebrate our freedom because some listened to them while fighting for it.

simple things...

A couple of weeks ago, Chris and I went to the movies together for the first time.  I know it sounds odd, but simple things aren’t so simple when your spouse has PTSD.  Movies are loud.  They’re crowded.  They offer multiple triggers in a darkened two-hour session that we just always avoided.

But it was his birthday and he’s my Star Trek geek.  So I made him bagels, fixed him breakfast in bed, and gave him his gift – two tickets to see Star Trek Into Darkness in 3D.  Luckily his birthday fell on a Wednesday weeks after the movie had premiered.  I chose a matinee and crossed my fingers. 

We arrived early because I’m obsessive about not being late.  Luckily, I’d chosen well.  The theater was empty and practically stayed that way when the movie started.  Without missing a beat, the first trailer was filled with explosions.  I have no idea what movie it was for because my eyes were locked on Chris.  He began his frantic breathing and clutched my hand.  From the beginning I told him that if he couldn’t do this we could leave.  It wouldn’t hurt my feelings at all.  But he stuck it out. 

I missed parts of movie because each time there was a sudden noise I looked to him to make sure he wasn’t “fading” into the unconscious state he sometimes falls into.  But, I also watched his face light up when the old theme from Star Trek played and Kirk recited their five-year mission.  I watched him realize we can do normal things.  I watch him for the first time tell PTSD to piss off because no matter what he wasn’t going to miss this movie.  We made it to the end of the movie without incident.

It’s amazing how many people don’t understand why going to the movies would be stressful for us, but I know there are just as many who know exactly what I’m talking about.  Simple things, they just aren’t so simple anymore.  But they’re still pleasures if we take the risk and try.  It’s too easy to get mired in PTSD and become house bound.  Living a semi normal life with this issue is work, but it’s worth it because we deserve it.  He’s already talking about the next movie he’d like to see.  It’s a small victory, but it’s a victory all the same.  We have to move forward to keep from spending all our time looking back.  Stay oscar mike.  Always moving forward, always looking for the bright spots, the simple pleasures. 

poison...

The past couple of weeks have been epic in the sense that not an ounce more stress could have been crammed in, and no, this has nothing to do with taxes.  Our taxes were a rather pleasant experience by comparison.  I’m not even sure where to begin, or if I should write about this at all.  Feelings might get hurt, however at this point I’m at an impasse. Feelings are going to get hurt regardless of my actions.

So here goes…

We have a stressor in our lives right now.  It’s a loved one, a close family member, who has disregarded my husband’s PTSD since he came home changed from Iraq almost 9 years ago.  This person is selfish and ridiculous in many ways that I can overlook, but some things are inexcusable.  I have spent every day since I met Chris minimizing anything that exacerbates his PTSD.  We have carefully crafted a beautiful sedate life that he can feel safe in, and I cannot overlook this person’s intrusion into his haven any longer.

I won’t go into past hurts, they don’t matter in the grand scheme of things and they are a separate issue in my eyes.  To begin, my husband’s medical issues are many.  Extreme stress causes him to have what are called pseudo-seizures.  They are not epileptic in nature, but are physical manifestations of emotional distress.  Usually he seizes for around 20 minutes; this leaves him horribly sore the next day.  He eventually loses consciousness and also loses varying amounts of time.  He’s suffered from them for a couple of years, but we’ve minimized their occurrence quite successfully until now.

For the past several months, this family member has brought their life problems, problems of their own building, to our house, our haven.  Chris hid his distress from me for long time, and he hid it well until Easter.  Since that day, he’s had two major episodes that have come very close to me calling for an ambulance.  Just last night he admitted to me that suicide has been on his mind since this person came back into his life. 

So what do I do?  Immediate family members are hard to remove from your life especially when they’ve burned every bridge and you’re all they have left.  I have talked and explained until I am blue in the face about my husband’s needs but I have hesitated to get mean.  I fear however time is growing short and my inner fighter is starting to surface again.  I will not allow anyone to ruin what we’ve built.  But how do you tell someone that they’re poison?  That their presence is the finger that squeezes the trigger?  How do I tell this person whom I do care about, that they’re not welcome in my home anymore unless they can come over and not covet everything we’ve built in an attempt to create guilt, not cry and whine over unimportant non-issues in an attempt to bask in sympathy, not talk about how depressed or how horrible and sad their life is when it is no different than anyone else’s reality, and not expect him to solve all their self-made problems when they’ve not spent a single moment trying to help or understand his condition and what he’s been through?

How? 

To be continued when I find a solution. Wish me luck.