Boundaries.....or Why I'm a Bitch

I've talked in other posts about how being a caregiver is isolating. There are reasons for this, people. Many, many reasons. My life (oy vey, right?), my life is a series of balancing acts and carefully constructed formulas that make up this elaborate structure of string and duct tape. And on this string and duct tape is me, walking a tightrope. Of string. And duct tape. Did you catch that part? I'm making a point here. Some days, that tightrope stretches into endless miles. Rickety, rickety miles. 

Now, let me take a brief interlude from my obviously fascinating story of string and duct tape to make another point. Life with my husband can be challenging. Life with me can be challenging. I am, in no way, burdened by him or his disabilities. In fact, our lives are pretty fucking awesome, aside from my string and duct tape balancing act. I am not a martyr for being a caregiver to him, I'm just....well....being a partner. Like you do. I have many feels for this man and he feels back. I kind of love the jerk. His disabilities can make navigating life different and sometimes, challenging, but it doesn't mean we have a bad life. I suppose this is a subject for another post, though, right? 

Okay, away from all the feels. Gross. Go take a shower now, you're covered in sticky feelings. 

Back? Alright.

So. String and duct tape. We construct our lives to make things as easy as possible for us, for our kids, and for well, everyone, really. I don't start my day with a plan, I just make this shit up as I go. One of the constructs of our lives lies in our interaction with other people. Here's where it gets really tricky, guys. People are well, people and they have feels and thoughts, too. Novel idea. I'm a right genius. HOWEVER, some (okay, a lot) of these feels and ideas don't always mesh with our feels and ideas. That's not always people's fault. Some of it is this insular kind of attitude that we've had to adopt for self-preservation. 

Along the way, I've come to the conclusion that I only have so many pieces of me that I can distribute to the general population. The biggest part of me is reserved for family only. Sorry. Anyway, that piece is pretty damn big. Like Australia and Ron Jeremy big. When we talk about math, which I hate, that doesn't leave much left. So, then, I need a piece for school, because I am trying to better myself, or something. I need a piece for my dogs, because really, they are family, but a smaller part of family. I, probably, need a piece in there for myself. Not always a high priority, but I try. See how the pieces are dwindling? Not much left. 

So, let's talk about family. Family is my husband, my kids, and the group of folks that aren't blood-related, but might as well be. There are people who are blood related, who will never fold into this equation and who will never have a piece of me, well, us. 

That's where boundaries come in. See that segue-way? I'm clever, right? My boundaries are marked by bright yellow caution tape, folks. Now, in the past, they were like a weak sharpie. Like one of those that's sat in the sun all day? That kind. I sucked at making those fuckers and, as a natural result, I burnt out. In a flaming, glittering, spectacular way. I overextended my pieces. You can only recycle them so many times, doncha know. I gave. A lot. And my boundaries faded more and more, as crappy sharpie does when it's walked on. My pieces? They shattered. I had nothing to give to my family, my friends or myself. So, after I cried, wailed, and pounded my fists on the pavement in a glorious tantrum, I broke out the caution tape. 

I tucked my trust way the fuck up inside of me. Much like when a porn star loses a butt plug, that shit doesn't come out without surgical intervention. Now, I approach with small steps. My pieces stay in the places they're designated until I'm ready to call one in and hand it out and when it comes to the welfare of my family? I'm a bitch. It's okay. You can say it. I'm okay with it. I hold tightly to the very little control I have in our lives and I don't give it up. 

You see, I had to come to terms with the fact that I can't control when my husband gets sick and I can't fix it, either. His disabilities are life limiting and they're progressive. What this means for the future, I don't really know. I know that I'll, very likely, outlive him. I know that his mobility issues will worsen and he'll probably need a wheelchair, at some point. I know that his brain injury will get worse and he, and I, will lose more and more pieces of his personality and his memories. I can't control all of that. I can control how we live now. I can choose to be happy and to soak up all the time I can, now. Part of being happy? Is not trying to make people fit in our lives that don't. 

So. Am I a bitch? Yes. I am. I'm extremely difficult to get to know and to have as a friend. I drop out of people's lives and pop back in, randomly. Mostly because there are just times when I need to unplug and to focus singularly on my family and me. I don't trust very easily. Which, sucks for a lot of people who love me. I'm sorry, but know that I'll get there. Someday. 

My boundaries, man. They're an asshole. 

The Night we Almost Lost Each Other...... *Triggers*

Well, I haven't written anything in.....forever. Tonight, though, I feel compelled to put some things into words and to explain a difficult time in mine and my husband's life. Be warned, my friends, it's gritty and there are triggers ahead.

You see, I always refer to PTSD as a monkey on your back. A mischievous damn monkey that pokes its head up at the most inconvenient times. I think it's more than that, though. I think it's more like an albatross. PTSD comes into your life and it completely rearranges it. It forces you to a new normal, which is the catch phrase that we all throw around, but really what is normal?

My husband and I have an amazing relationship. We've fought hard for this amazing relationship. Through everything, we never lost sight of the love we have for each other or the dedication that we have to maintaining our relationship. BUT, it's not always been easy. In fact, I'd say that's a gross understatement. We've both fought our demons. We both keep fighting them.

There was a time, about three years ago now, when those demons just about won. Our relationship was shit. We were barely talking. We would pass each other in the hall and do our best not to touch each other with a barely murmured "excuse me". We were strangers existing in our own, fucked up worlds. We were both still in there, though and desperately wanting to connect, without the will or the skills to do it. We were tired. Everything felt like too much and we both tried to shoulder it alone.

This all came to a head one night. A night that I don't think either one of us will forget anytime soon. It started with a dog. A dog that hurt one of my kids. It was a scratch and it was deep and it was enough to trigger my husband in a big way. He was angry and he yelled at me. Instead of backing down, I yelled back. I'm just that kind of person. It escalated in a big way. In that moment, we had both lost control of everything and who we were. We were in each other's faces, yelling every hurtful thing we could think of. We flung that mud deep and wide. We tore each other apart.

Let me explain something here, I'm not a wilting flower and I have never, not once, ever experienced a moment of fear with my husband. He has always respected my boundaries and stayed in control. That night was different.

That night, I looked into his eyes and saw distance. I saw clouds of Iraqi dust, I saw days of living in terror, I saw a broken warrior. He reacted and punched a wall next to my head. The closest he has ever come to striking me, and then stormed out of the house. I sat in the house after he left. In the dark. I remembered that look. I knew that I was losing him.

In that moment, I had to make a decision. You see, I know him. I knew that he was hating himself. I knew that he wasn't there with us. I knew that he was back in those dusty moments. Dirt on his boots, sand in his eyes, and vigilance in his heart. I knew that if I let him go, in that moment, I would lose him forever. He would take his life.

Whew, okay, this isn't easy to write or to relive. Hang in there with me, though, there is good to all of this.

I was at that point where I had to decide what to do. Were my kids and I safe in the house with him? Should I take us to a shelter? I called the Veteran's Crisis line, I lined my ducks in a row, I got the resources I needed together for me and my kids, and then I decided to deal with him.

If anything, this moment showed to me, more than ever, that things needed to change. WE needed to change. Instead of letting our demons run the show, we needed to grab them by the balls and run the damn show.

I called him.

His voice was full of doubt. It was clogged with tears. I could hear the self-recrimination. He still wasn't in control.

This, aside from his physical health issues, has been the closest I've ever been to losing him.

We couldn't let that damn monkey win.

He came home. We talked. We cried. We made decisions.

That night. That night was the restart of the rest of our lives.

We both took positive steps towards healing. We recommitted ourselves to our relationship and to our love. It sounds cheesy and trite, I know. There really is no other way to explain it. We had been beaten and brought to our lowest, though and we were ready to find the other side.

The proceeding years were challenging. We both had to find new ways to reconnect. We also had to find ways to maneuver around the triggers in our life. We started talking, instead of yelling. We started touching, instead of avoiding. We began again.

Now, not everything is all rainbows and unicorns. But, it's a hell of a lot easier when we're facing this together, instead of apart. We are more than husband and wife. He's my best friend (shut up), my partner in crime, my lover, and my life.

Instead of losing him forever, I found him and good God, I'm keeping him.