Anger

Anger.
n.

A strong feeling of displeasure or hostility.

It's a word that carries a lot of weight. It's a word that brings a lot of images to mind. It's a strong emotion, sometimes overbearing. When dealing with PTSD, anger is a constant. There's anger at eachother, for small slights, for big slights, for imaginary slights. There is anger at the kids, for the same types of actions. Then, there's irrational anger. Anger directed at the disorder, anger just directed anywhere, to whomever or whatever is in your way at the time.

For me, I'm a fixer. I like to make things right and I like to help other people. My anger, a lot of the times, is directed at the disorder, in general. I feel like it's a seperate entity in our lives. I've referred to it as a monkey on our shoulders. One that hangs just in that area in between your shoulder blades, where you have a hard time seeing it. It pops it's head up every now and again and commits some sort of unexplainable act that just makes you shake your head and weep with frustration. The problem with PTSD is I can't fix it. I can't be in control. I can't reach that fucking monkey and tear it off. I want to, believe me I want to. I want to reach into my husband's brain and fix the connections that are broken. I can't. It leaves me helpless. There's nothing I hate more than feeling helpless.

That is one of the hardest parts of this journey, for me, anyway. Not being able to just make it better. Treatment of PTSD takes time, it never goes away. Ever. It just becomes more manageable. Triggers are identified and the Veteran or other suffering from the PTSD learns to avoid them or learns coping mechanisms for handling triggering situations. But, it never goes away. There is no magical cure.

I'm learning more and more to let go and to see the situation for what it is at that moment. An upset over how the toilet paper goes on the roll can be so much more than just that toilet paper at just that moment. It can be a flashback to boot camp and the instruction on just how to put that toilet paper the right way. It can be feelings of discomfort and not feeling like things are the way they should be. It can be a loss of control over self and over emotions. The one with PTSD is a victim of that monkey and it's poor behavior and the one with PTSD is the one who has lost all control, at that moment, over their minds, their words, their actions.

Fuck that monkey and it's mind bending ways.

Isolation

One of the hardest parts of PTSD, in our experience, is how isolating it is. Some of the symptoms of the condition, according to the VA's website are:

1. Feeling numb:

You may find it hard to express your feelings. This is another way to avoid memories.

• You may not have positive or loving feelings toward other people and may stay away from relationships.
• You may not be interested in activities you used to enjoy.
• You may not be able to remember parts of the traumatic event or not be able to talk about them.

And some of the problems are:

*Drinking or drug problems.

* Feelings of hopelessness, shame, or despair.

*Employment problems.


*Relationships problems including divorce and violence.


*Physical symptoms.


http://www.ptsd.va.gov/public/pages/what-is-ptsd.asp


In my husband's case, his PTSD never manifested itself in drinking or drugs, but the other problems (excluding violence) yeah, you bet. It was.... confusing. I had no idea why he was acting the way that he did and I had no one I could talk to about it. And I'll tell you why. It's very, very easy to demonize the person suffering from PTSD, because of the outburts, because of the anger, because of the withdrawal and because of the deep seated issues that they deal with that aren't visible. What's hard to do is to understand them. Family members and by that I mean extended family who are not around on a daily basis, often fail to understand or even try to understand the situation.


For us, this means that well.... we don't talk to my husband's family that often, if at all. As for my family, they try. They mean well, but they don't get it. They don't see what we live with and they don't see the struggles that we fight. The struggles that my husband fights and he fights hard. The emotional detachment makes it seem like he doesn't care about what is said about him or how people treat him, but it's not the case, at all. This lack of understanding, this lack of caring makes it so hard to connect to someone, to share your lives with them. There is only so hard you can push for understanding. There is a limit and with my husband's family, that limit has been reached. Over and over again and now it's just too much.


As for friendships, and as I write this, I'm scoffing to myself, they just don't happen. There is a shame and a stigma associated with PTSD. With all depressive/mental disorders, really. In a friendship, with a person who hasn't experienced PTSD, there are just things that you can't talk about. Those things are well, your life. It's hard to have a friendship with someone who just doesn't get it. In the brief friendships that I have had, there has been a lot of miscommunication and a lot of misconceptions. It just doesn't work. The best support that I have found is in people who have lived through similar experiences. Well, and internet friends. I lurve my internet friends.


I guess my point in all of this is isolation is one of those rare but serious side effects that people don't disclose to you with you or your partner's diagnosis. Educating my family or friends on PTSD is tiring and at the end of the day, I have energy for my husband, my kids and occasionally me.

PTSD and Safety

While perusing facebook today, I came across a post on a support page for Veterans and their families with PTSD. A woman was asking for advice about what to do with a violent husband. For me, the answer was simple; leave. Get out, get safe and THEN confront the problems. For other posters, the solution ran the gamut from leaving just while her spouse was violent and then return to work on the issues to "remember your marriage vows and DON'T leave", to "well, if you're not going to be supportive of your husband, just get a divorce". I find issue with all three of these ideas. As a wife to a veteran who suffers from PTSD, the very first thing that should come is safety and security. I have three kids with my Veteran. Three small, vulnerable kids. It is my responsibility, as a mother, to make sure those kids are safe physically and mentally. Living in fear for themselves or their mother is not safe.


On the flipside of this decision is my husband. Who suffers from a horrible, horrible disorder. It's not his fault, but his actions are also his own. He is not violent or I would obviously not be here. However, if he ever was, I'd have to make a horrible, horrible decision to end our almost ten years together. It wouldn't be an easy decision and I wouldn't make it lightly. I know that the second the kids and I walked out that door, his world would come falling down around him. I know this. I know that the very likely and horrible outcome would be suicide. We've discussed this. It's always there. Always. However, at that point, my responsibility for his mental health would end. It is a horrible thing to say and a horrible thing to feel, but it's the reality of the situation.


I see this advice given to spouses/partners of PTSD Veterans all the time. I think it's damaging and I think it's dangerous. For everyone involved. When my husband falls into a down, he hates the way he acts. He hates the way he feels. If he hit me, he would hate himself more. Thus, fueling his down further and putting the whole family in a cycle of destruction. In these situations, there is just not an easy answer or a magic solution. Unfortunately.


In the case of PTSD vs. an abuser who does not suffer from PTSD, there is a reason for the abuse. NOT an excuse, never an excuse. There is a cause, though and the cause needs to be contained before the violence. I see so many stories of abuse or even of murder/suicide in the combat PTSD community. It breaks my heart. The system is broken. Clearly broken. The care being provided to our warriors is lacking and it's lacking in essential, fundamental areas. It is failing the people who sacrificed the most. Including the families.

A not so brief introduction

Well, where to start? Our lives are well.... complicated. And simple. All at once. Let me explain.....


My husband and I met a long time ago (well, long to us) when we were both in high school. We had a brief friendship. It wasn't anything significant, really at the time. He graduated in 2000 and we lost touch, unfortunately and I never really thought of him again until 2002. It was my senior year and I was set on going into the Marine Corps. We had weekly meetings with the recruiter and on one of these meetings, I saw a familiar face in the parking lot. He had just gotten out of bootcamp and there was an instant connection between us. We started dating and very, very quickly, we became engaged. We were married in April and I graduated in June. I decided not to join the Marine Corps and cancelled my contract.


Things in the beginning were great, just as every marriage starts. We were young, we were in love and we didn't care. We decided to start a family right away and I quickly became pregnant with our daughter. My husband was so excited to have a daughter first. He would sit and talk to my belly and poke at her to see her move. Our life was idyllic.


During this time, he had to be away for short periods of time here and there for training exercises. Which sucked, of course, and in the back of my mind I always knew what the training was leading up to. He was a warrior. He signed up to fight. I knew that. I just didn't acknowledge it.


We knew that the Iraqi war was iminent. We knew that there was a strong chance that he would be sent. We knew. We just didn't plan.


When I was seven months pregnant, my husband was sent to combat. The night before he left, we laid in bed together, just holding each other and we cried. The possibilities of what he would face was in both of our minds. The danger that was waiting hung over our heads. His best friend drove him and I up the hill to his batallion the next morning and we said goodbye. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I didn't have anything left to cry. We got into the car and we drove away. We came home to a safe apartment and my husband was sent to hell.


He was gone four months. Four very long months. Our daughter was born on March 20. The day that the Marines crossed into Iraq. I lay in the hospital bed, struggling to bring her into the world, watching the news between contractions hoping to hear any news, hoping maybe, just maybe the cameras would flash on his face. It was a difficult delivery and she was born with the cord around her neck. She wasn't very responsive and the dr's had to give her oxygen and rub her, but she came around and that first cry should have brought me joy, but all I felt was sorrow. There in that hospital room, I began our family. Alone.


She was a fussy baby from the start and all I could think about was how much she must have missed her daddy's voice. On her second day of life, she developed a high fever. It turned out that she was severely dehydrated. My milk was late in coming in and she wasn't latching correctly. They took her down to the special care nursery and I locked myself in the bathroom in the waiting room and I sobbed. We were going to lose her and she hadn't even met her daddy. She was on IV fluids and antibiotics and she recovered. She was six days old when we left the hospital.


My husband came home two months later. He looked different. He smelled different. He was different. It wasn't as noticeable at first. His reactions were odd. He had trouble sleeping. But, nothing significant right away. As time went on, I noticed more and more that he wasn't the same. He didn't want to hold our daughter. He was afraid of hurting her. His temper was shorter. If I brushed up against him while he slept, he jumped. Sometimes, he jumped straight out of bed. He stopped bringing me flowers. Which was something that he had done every day before he left.


He wasn't diagnosed with PTSD until 2010. It took seven years to get that diagnosis. We had known for a long time that we were dealing with PTSD, but to hear a dr. confirm it, well, it validated our thoughts and it brought to light the lifelong struggle that is ahead of us.


So, there's the beginning of our lives, in a nutshell, minus two other kids, many moves and a flock of chickens.