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.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Sunday, February 22, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
We're all in this shit together
We're in this together, man. In life, yes, but I speak to a less broad audience. Caregivers of people with living with PTSD. Veterans, more specifically.
I sat in on a telephone conference today that centered on caregivers and their needs. It was called the "Forgotten Me". Now. I'm not going to criticize the fact that those who put on this conference were trying to accomplish something good. BUT. It sucked. It focused on breathing exercises and how to identify when you're stressed. Bitch, please. One universal fact of being a caregiver is stress. It just is. That's why caregiver burnout is a real and sometimes, damaging thing. While I can see the appeal is stopping to take a deep breath, breathing exercises are not going to heal my stress or eliminate my worry. I suffer from "doitall syndrome". By that I mean I take it all on and I have this wild and arrogant view that I can DO IT ALL without any help. I mean, I'm superwoman after all, right? Haha.
I can't do it all and when it falls apart is when I inevitably lose my shit. At least I'm consistent.
Okay, so back on topic. During this conference there was a portion at the end where the individuals participating could talk and give feedback. As you can imagine, it was a lot of "well, I was SO impressed with the breathing techniques" and the like. However. There was one voice that was more vocal than the others. She spoke about being alone. It happens. I've talked about it. A lot. She also spoke about not having support. Again. VERY common. But, towards the end of the session, she came in swinging. She blasted post-9/11 veterans and caregivers. She went on and on about the WWII veterans and their lack of support and the Vietnam veterans.
Now. She had a point.
There is a divide between the older sect of veterans and the new. There just is. There shouldn't be. Veterans are Veterans. Brothers in arms.
The system has failed our veterans in more ways than one. PTSD and TBIs are just now being fully examined. It's not a new occurrence, although the prevalence is higher than in the past. I can see where the bitterness comes from. It should be directed towards the right people, though. Other veterans and caregivers are not the problem. We should be here to hold each other up and to commiserate together. The system is the problem. It's been broken for a long time.
The good new is, we can work to fix it. There are advocates working to do that, right now. There are organizations working to right the wrongs. There are individuals who are there. There are people who care and dare I say, love. We can work together. Like I said, we're in this shit together.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Partners and Family: The unheard voices
The other night, I read an article from CNN about the high suicide rates among family and partners of veterans with PTSD. A lot in the article spoke to my experiences. Now, here's the thing, the experiences that me and my family have had are NOT a reflection on my husband, as a person. I think it's easy to fall into blaming mode and look at the negatives, but, for me, I refuse to go down this road. My husband's fight with PTSD is not his alone and it does affect our family, BUT, we are a stronger family because of it.
However, I know that this is not a universal truth. Families are torn apart by PTSD and lives are lost. The statistics say that 22 veterans a day commit suicide because of PTSD and we are just now examining the numbers related to family member deaths. So far, they are astronomical. When PTSD enters our lives, it takes it over. It changes our loved ones into a different person and it makes them say or do things that they would never have done before.
When you read my writings, you'll notice that I refer to PTSD as a separate entity. For me, I've chosen to see it this way. My husband does not embody his PTSD, he lives with it. PTSD does not define him and it does not define my family. It has forced us to "a new normal", but in other ways, it has forced us closer. Communication has become the central of our existence. "Do you need to talk?" is an often heard question in our house.
But, I digress. Back to my original topic. We, as family of those dealing with PTSD are not super heroes. I get commended a lot for how I support my husband, but it's not worth of praise, in my opinion. I am just a partner. I am supporting him the best way I know how and I often fail. We, as family, are also not martyrs. We have our own thoughts, our own feelings and our own imperfections. It's easy to make PTSD the central focus of your lives when it enters a home. It's easy to ignore your own needs and your own feelings in the interest of healing. BUT, and this is important: PTSD never goes away. There is no cure. There is managing and there is time, but there is no absolute solution.
This truth makes it ever so much more important that, as support, your needs are met. You cannot do everything and you cannot fix everything. All you can do is minimize the damage. It is entirely acceptable to step back and say "I can't do this". It is entirely acceptable to say "I need a break" and it is entirely acceptable to NOT accept responsibility for everything.
Believe me, I have to remind myself of these things daily. I love my husband with everything that I have. I love him as he was and as he is. PTSD is not the central theme in our house. Love is. We are not perfect. No one is. I'm not coming to this post from a place of "haha, I'm doing this so much better than you", because, well, I'm not. I have struggled with intrusive thoughts and I am being treated for depression.
The good thing is, it gets better. YOU are important. YOU are worthy and YOU need to care for YOU before anyone else. There are resources. There is help. There are others. Sometimes your best resource is the person who has been there and understands your challenges. Step up. Speak out and demand to be heard. You deserve it.
However, I know that this is not a universal truth. Families are torn apart by PTSD and lives are lost. The statistics say that 22 veterans a day commit suicide because of PTSD and we are just now examining the numbers related to family member deaths. So far, they are astronomical. When PTSD enters our lives, it takes it over. It changes our loved ones into a different person and it makes them say or do things that they would never have done before.
When you read my writings, you'll notice that I refer to PTSD as a separate entity. For me, I've chosen to see it this way. My husband does not embody his PTSD, he lives with it. PTSD does not define him and it does not define my family. It has forced us to "a new normal", but in other ways, it has forced us closer. Communication has become the central of our existence. "Do you need to talk?" is an often heard question in our house.
But, I digress. Back to my original topic. We, as family of those dealing with PTSD are not super heroes. I get commended a lot for how I support my husband, but it's not worth of praise, in my opinion. I am just a partner. I am supporting him the best way I know how and I often fail. We, as family, are also not martyrs. We have our own thoughts, our own feelings and our own imperfections. It's easy to make PTSD the central focus of your lives when it enters a home. It's easy to ignore your own needs and your own feelings in the interest of healing. BUT, and this is important: PTSD never goes away. There is no cure. There is managing and there is time, but there is no absolute solution.
This truth makes it ever so much more important that, as support, your needs are met. You cannot do everything and you cannot fix everything. All you can do is minimize the damage. It is entirely acceptable to step back and say "I can't do this". It is entirely acceptable to say "I need a break" and it is entirely acceptable to NOT accept responsibility for everything.
Believe me, I have to remind myself of these things daily. I love my husband with everything that I have. I love him as he was and as he is. PTSD is not the central theme in our house. Love is. We are not perfect. No one is. I'm not coming to this post from a place of "haha, I'm doing this so much better than you", because, well, I'm not. I have struggled with intrusive thoughts and I am being treated for depression.
The good thing is, it gets better. YOU are important. YOU are worthy and YOU need to care for YOU before anyone else. There are resources. There is help. There are others. Sometimes your best resource is the person who has been there and understands your challenges. Step up. Speak out and demand to be heard. You deserve it.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Disillusionment
Tonight's post is brought to you by the letter "D". For disappointment. And for disillusionment.
Let me explain.
My husband....yep, him again..... was part of one of the most vaunted establishments in our country. The United States military.
Here is where I'm going to pause and warn you all that this is going to be bitter and it's going to be sad and it will probably offend someone. I'm okay with all of this, though. Bitterness, sadness and being offensive all falls under the heading of "allowable" emotions when dealing with what life has thrown our way. So. Sorry, those of you I offend, but this is real life and real life is messy and offensive.
Back to what I was saying. The United States military. You hear those words and for so many people, it brings to mind honor and courage and well..... commitment. Heard that before? For me, it brings bitterness and anger.
I'll tell you why.
Because, to the military, my husband and his brothers were and continue to be, disposable. They took a strong, young man who had so much promise and wrung every bit of usefulness out of him that they could. Which, I get it. That's the way it works. BUT. The kicker? They used him, wrung him out and then abdicated all responsibility that they had towards him.
Disappointment.
In this process, we start questioning more and more what that damn honor that comes from serving looks like and well, it's not what it was presented to be. My husband, literally, risked his life for this honor and ideal. He sacrificed years of his life, because, let's face it, disability takes it's toll on a body and he has yet to gain this status. At least in the eyes of our government. He is my hero and my children's hero and he will always be. He fought a war that well.... he shouldn't of.
Disillusionment.
This, folks, this is the dirty secret of war. This is the elephant in the room of veterans. It hovers, man.
It's rarely discussed. There are reasons for this, of course. How can you embrace the fact that you wasted your life for someone else's dirty games? How long can you sit and contemplate this before you break?
So, it stays rarely talked about, but it's always there. I walk into the VA hospitals and Vet centers and I see the defeat in our fallen warriors eyes. I see it everyday sitting next to me.
You should be ashamed, America.
Let me explain.
My husband....yep, him again..... was part of one of the most vaunted establishments in our country. The United States military.
Here is where I'm going to pause and warn you all that this is going to be bitter and it's going to be sad and it will probably offend someone. I'm okay with all of this, though. Bitterness, sadness and being offensive all falls under the heading of "allowable" emotions when dealing with what life has thrown our way. So. Sorry, those of you I offend, but this is real life and real life is messy and offensive.
Back to what I was saying. The United States military. You hear those words and for so many people, it brings to mind honor and courage and well..... commitment. Heard that before? For me, it brings bitterness and anger.
I'll tell you why.
Because, to the military, my husband and his brothers were and continue to be, disposable. They took a strong, young man who had so much promise and wrung every bit of usefulness out of him that they could. Which, I get it. That's the way it works. BUT. The kicker? They used him, wrung him out and then abdicated all responsibility that they had towards him.
Disappointment.
In this process, we start questioning more and more what that damn honor that comes from serving looks like and well, it's not what it was presented to be. My husband, literally, risked his life for this honor and ideal. He sacrificed years of his life, because, let's face it, disability takes it's toll on a body and he has yet to gain this status. At least in the eyes of our government. He is my hero and my children's hero and he will always be. He fought a war that well.... he shouldn't of.
Disillusionment.
This, folks, this is the dirty secret of war. This is the elephant in the room of veterans. It hovers, man.
It's rarely discussed. There are reasons for this, of course. How can you embrace the fact that you wasted your life for someone else's dirty games? How long can you sit and contemplate this before you break?
So, it stays rarely talked about, but it's always there. I walk into the VA hospitals and Vet centers and I see the defeat in our fallen warriors eyes. I see it everyday sitting next to me.
You should be ashamed, America.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Love in the face of war
Well, I blog a lot about our struggles, because, well, we struggle. Mental illness is not all it's cracked up to be, folks. Even with all the struggles, though, there is so much good.
I tend to focus on the negatives. It's a personality flaw of mine, I suppose. I do it to protect myself, but in protecting myself, I sabotage myself. It's a vicious circle, I know. So, today, instead of nurturing the negatives, I thought I'd look on the brighter side of life.
My husband and I are about to celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary. Which, is, incredible. We've been through a lot, my friends, and that is oversimplifying in the extreme. We've, literally, been through a war and we keep fighting that war every day. Even though we have been drug through hell and back, our marriage has been strong and steady. It's been the one constant in my life for these past 11 years.
My husband has been my rock and my inspiration and he's been my world. He's encouraged me, in so many ways, to be who I really am and not who other people want me to be. And through it all, through the very dark times and through the war, he's showed me love. Lots and lots of love. I can't say that I would be the person I am today without him.
All of this seems trite and cliche. It seems like a sentimental rant, I get it. What I need for people to understand, though, is that even through all of my husband's problems and through his internal war, he can still step outside of himself enough to show me what I mean to him.
So, I mean, 11 years. It's an accomplishment. It's a huge milestone. And every day, every hour, every second of those 11 years has been precious to me.
I tend to focus on the negatives. It's a personality flaw of mine, I suppose. I do it to protect myself, but in protecting myself, I sabotage myself. It's a vicious circle, I know. So, today, instead of nurturing the negatives, I thought I'd look on the brighter side of life.
My husband and I are about to celebrate our 11th wedding anniversary. Which, is, incredible. We've been through a lot, my friends, and that is oversimplifying in the extreme. We've, literally, been through a war and we keep fighting that war every day. Even though we have been drug through hell and back, our marriage has been strong and steady. It's been the one constant in my life for these past 11 years.
My husband has been my rock and my inspiration and he's been my world. He's encouraged me, in so many ways, to be who I really am and not who other people want me to be. And through it all, through the very dark times and through the war, he's showed me love. Lots and lots of love. I can't say that I would be the person I am today without him.
All of this seems trite and cliche. It seems like a sentimental rant, I get it. What I need for people to understand, though, is that even through all of my husband's problems and through his internal war, he can still step outside of himself enough to show me what I mean to him.
So, I mean, 11 years. It's an accomplishment. It's a huge milestone. And every day, every hour, every second of those 11 years has been precious to me.
Monday, March 25, 2013
One day at a time.....
How does that saying go..... the best laid plans of mice and men?
I can relate. It seems like, in PTSD land (which, believe me, is not as fun as it may seem), things never go the way that you want or the way that you plan. Things can be going so great, so well one week and the next, it's just not. It may seem melodramatic, but it's the way that it goes. "One day at a time" is the motto du jour. We cling to the motto. It's silly, but that one phrase brings comfort. It's like throwing a warmed blanket over a chilled body. We have a bad day, a bad week, a fucked up month and we look at each other and one of us utters "one day at a time" and it's like we just released our breath that we didn't realize that we'd been holding. Our lungs fill back up with fresh air and we move on.
Some days, though....... some days, no matter how much we seek that comfort and fresh air, it's just out of reach. We can feel it brushing our fingertips in a maddening tease, but it stays there, taunting us. That one day remains elusive.
So, we get back on the roller coaster and we ride that bucking bitch called PTSD and we grit our teeth and we do what we have to do to get our "one day at a time" clarity.
That's what fighting for a relationship in the middle of PTSD is like.
Monday, March 18, 2013
A little direction
If I could ask anything from this whole experience? journey? whatever you want to call what we're going through, it'd be for a manual. An instruction sheet on how to handle things. I'm not just talking about things like, triggers, although, let's face it, that would be nice. I want a manual that details exactly how I should react to outbursts, how to soothe a rage, how to make things easier. I want a detailed, outlined, full proof direction for my life.
I started this blog with the intention of helping other people in the same place that I'm in. Which, I know, is a lofty goal, but as time goes on, I find myself using it more and more as a sounding board for my own travails and obviously, for the obstacles that my husband faces.
You see, when you're sent home with that imposing PTSD diagnosis, no one explains to you what comes next. No one says, here, let me tell you what comes with that diagnosis. They don't tell you about the mood swings, they don't say anything about the anger and they sure as hell don't tell you about the fear. They don't tell you how to comfort your husband when he's struggling with facing his dark thoughts.
I wish they did.
They sure as hell don't tell you how to rebuild a broken person. I want a diagram for that. I want to know which piece goes where. Right now, I feel like I'm playing a giant game of Operation and I'm losing. That annoying buzzer and vibrations that sound after you touch the sides? Yeah, that's my soundtrack.
There are always the good times. I'll never deny that. And love. My life is full of love. My husband is a strong, capable person and his diagnosis will never define him.
For me, though, I want to be a better partner. I want to have a clear direction. Instead of muddling my way through murky waters. I wish there was a manual.
I started this blog with the intention of helping other people in the same place that I'm in. Which, I know, is a lofty goal, but as time goes on, I find myself using it more and more as a sounding board for my own travails and obviously, for the obstacles that my husband faces.
You see, when you're sent home with that imposing PTSD diagnosis, no one explains to you what comes next. No one says, here, let me tell you what comes with that diagnosis. They don't tell you about the mood swings, they don't say anything about the anger and they sure as hell don't tell you about the fear. They don't tell you how to comfort your husband when he's struggling with facing his dark thoughts.
I wish they did.
They sure as hell don't tell you how to rebuild a broken person. I want a diagram for that. I want to know which piece goes where. Right now, I feel like I'm playing a giant game of Operation and I'm losing. That annoying buzzer and vibrations that sound after you touch the sides? Yeah, that's my soundtrack.
There are always the good times. I'll never deny that. And love. My life is full of love. My husband is a strong, capable person and his diagnosis will never define him.
For me, though, I want to be a better partner. I want to have a clear direction. Instead of muddling my way through murky waters. I wish there was a manual.
Monday, December 17, 2012
PTSD does not equal weak
Last night, on Facebook of course, because all the good fights happen there, a family member of ours said some very hurtful and untrue things. This family member chose to equate someone who lives with PTSD to someone who is unable or unwilling to deal with the world and they then went on to say that life happens and "just don't focus on the negative". Now. I'm sure that those of you who have PTSD or live with someone who has PTSD has heard this drivel before. I'm here to say, it's pure unadulterated bullshit. It's not just bullshit, it's bullshit with a capital B-.
My husband, who is the center of my world, has PTSD and not just PTSD, but combat-related PTSD. He has flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety, depression and many other psychological issues. However, he is also physically disabled, as well. I could list all of his physical manifestations, but I think the psychological gives you a pretty good idea of what he deals with just on that end, on a daily basis. I look at that list and I think about all he has to deal with just to wake up in the morning and face the day and I think to myself, how the hell does he do it? Well, folks, inner strength is how he does it. He has an insane will to live and an insane will to overcome this beast of burden that shadows over our everyday lives. He doesn't always win the fight, though. There are some days when all he can do is sit on the couch and stare at the tv and that's okay. The universal truth is that no one wins everyday. We can only do our best.
His best is 100 times harder to meet than an average person's best. His PTSD also presents memory issues and an inability to decipher what is real and what is not. I'm sure you can see how this can lead to a whole hell of a lot of frustration. But, you know what? He does all he can do to keep that frustration from turning on us, his family. He fights every day to do things that normally people think very little about. A trip to the grocery store is fraught with all kinds of challenges. If the store is crowded, then his anxiety is amplified, because crowds and PTSD do not mix. If the store does not have exactly what we need at the time, then his frustration is amplified and not just because of the inconvenience, but because small annoyances are amplified with PTSD. If the kids are misbehaving while we shop, then his tension level is higher, because what seems like normal misbehaving kid behavior becomes an even bigger issue with PTSD.
So, no, having PTSD does not mean that a person is unable or unwilling to face the world. It means that the person who has PTSD has to fight that much harder to be a part of a world that doesn't make sense to them. PTSD alienates and it makes the person who has it have to adjust to fit in. PTSD does not equal weak. Living with PTSD means strength.
My husband, who is the center of my world, has PTSD and not just PTSD, but combat-related PTSD. He has flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety, depression and many other psychological issues. However, he is also physically disabled, as well. I could list all of his physical manifestations, but I think the psychological gives you a pretty good idea of what he deals with just on that end, on a daily basis. I look at that list and I think about all he has to deal with just to wake up in the morning and face the day and I think to myself, how the hell does he do it? Well, folks, inner strength is how he does it. He has an insane will to live and an insane will to overcome this beast of burden that shadows over our everyday lives. He doesn't always win the fight, though. There are some days when all he can do is sit on the couch and stare at the tv and that's okay. The universal truth is that no one wins everyday. We can only do our best.
His best is 100 times harder to meet than an average person's best. His PTSD also presents memory issues and an inability to decipher what is real and what is not. I'm sure you can see how this can lead to a whole hell of a lot of frustration. But, you know what? He does all he can do to keep that frustration from turning on us, his family. He fights every day to do things that normally people think very little about. A trip to the grocery store is fraught with all kinds of challenges. If the store is crowded, then his anxiety is amplified, because crowds and PTSD do not mix. If the store does not have exactly what we need at the time, then his frustration is amplified and not just because of the inconvenience, but because small annoyances are amplified with PTSD. If the kids are misbehaving while we shop, then his tension level is higher, because what seems like normal misbehaving kid behavior becomes an even bigger issue with PTSD.
So, no, having PTSD does not mean that a person is unable or unwilling to face the world. It means that the person who has PTSD has to fight that much harder to be a part of a world that doesn't make sense to them. PTSD alienates and it makes the person who has it have to adjust to fit in. PTSD does not equal weak. Living with PTSD means strength.
Monday, April 16, 2012
PTSD Stigma
stig·ma/ˈstigmÉ™/
Noun:
A mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance, quality, or person: "the stigma of mental disorder".
Stigma. It's an interesting word, really, when you think about it. I find it interesting that the definition of stigma uses mental disorder to clarify the meaning. I've talked a bit about our experiences with family members and their reactions to my husband's PTSD, but I haven't really given clear examples of certain behaviors. I talk in a lot of angry, vague statements, which, leaves a lot of the truth out of the equation. So, here's my example of the stigma that we've experienced.
It was oh, two and half years or so ago now, my husband had just started treatment for PTSD and we had both just started to recognize the uphill battle we were in for. This, right here, was the turning point in our marriage, really. Up until this point, we had only spoken about PTSD as an abstract or a maybe. I mean, we both knew that my husband had PTSD, but we weren't actually acknowledging it or really knew anything about it. So, he had gone to a psychologist and was prescribed anti-depressants and he decided to take him. That, right there, was a HUGE step for him and I was so proud of him for taking that step.
So, he tells his parents about the anti-depressants and about his diagnosis and how hard he was struggling. The response? It was overwhelming condescension that he even dare think about taking anti-depressants, let alone really take them. I'm sure you can imagine how this made him feel, right? BUT, he took them anyway and he kept plugging away,trying to fight his demons. I can remember, at one point, his dad coming up to me to talk to me about his diagnosis and he made some vague reference to those pills, like it was something dirty, something perverted. I can remember his mother and her look of disgust every time he tried to bring up how hard he was struggling and how the psychologists felt that some of his issues were related to his childhood. Which, fuck, don't ever bring that up to them! His childhood was roses and kittens according to them and they "were the best parents they could be". Pfffttt. But, I digress.
Those anti-depressants eventually sent my sweet, struggling husband to the ER with one of those "rare, but serious side effects". The ones that are never supposed to happen? It did. I called the ambulance to come and take him to the hospital, the paramedics were in my house working on him and my kids were scared to death. I called his family to tell them and you what the response was? Well, it's just a panic attack, but the way that it was spoken, well, all I can do is shake my head with confusion and sadness. I'll never forget that night. It was one of the hardest nights of this whole experience.
After my husband came home and talked to his parents, they chose, instead of making sure he was alright and making sure that he would continue to be alright, they chose to harp on him about the medication. They chose to berate him and to tell him "I told you so", instead of loving him and assuring themselves and him, that he would be okay.
He internalized that, of course, who wouldn't? He felt like he had done something wrong in trying to help himself feel better. What kind of fucked up way to treat your son is that? BUT, it also showed, to me, at least, how widespread this stigma is.
My husband suffers from a mental disorder. It will never go away. It cannot be cured. I keep saying and I will continue to say; we face a new reality, every day. His PTSD is similar to any other long-term illness, it has changed the way that we live, forever. IT IS NOT HIS FAULT. He did not ask for this, he does not enjoy it, and really, it's not easy for any of us. We face it, though. He faces it.
He's currently in treatment and on new meds and is working towards making his life better. WITH MEDS. With the dirty, perverted pills.
I am trying to be as upfront as possible about the going ons in our lives and about the experiences we go through. I am trying to break this stigma by not treating it as a dirty secret, because it's not. People will loudly proclaim that they have cancer, or that they have some other illness and then proudly announce that they are fighters and they are survivors. And they are, make no mistake, but my husband isn't less of a survivor or less of a fighter. He shouldn't have to hide his head in shame because he's suffering from a mental disorder.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Suicide and PTSD
Tonight, on a support page for veteran's and spouses dealing with PTSD, I witnessed a member being pushed to the edge. I saw a deliberate and thoughtless attack on an individual who was vulnerable and very clearly struggling. The person was repeatedly told that their actions were triggering to the member and that the member was not in a place where they could handle the attacker's actions. They did not care. They kept pushing. The member attempted suicide. He was life lighted to the hospital and his condition is unknown at this time. I am sad and I am angry and I am thoughtful. I am perplexed. I do not understand how a person can have so little regard for a fellow human being. I do not understand how someone could be so cold-hearted.
This experience brings out an ugly truth; PTSD often causes people to act in ways that they wouldn't normally do. For some people, suicide becomes an option. We have faced this in our lives and it is one of my biggest fears. My husband is so brave and so strong and PTSD takes a toll. Life takes it's toll. My husband is everything to me and losing him is my greatest fear. Losing him to PTSD or losing him to his other disabilities are real possibilities.
It's been a struggle in our lives to identify and to stay aware of PTSD triggers. One of the biggest ones, that we've found, is religion. More to the point, other people pushing their religious propaganda on us. In our family, I have seen events similar to what happened to that veteran tonight. I have seen people push their own agendas and their own ideas without regard for how it would affect my husband or my family. The best thing that we have ever done is to shut those people out of our lives and I will never regret it. My husband's health and my family's interests outweigh any other selfish agenda.
I wish there was a way that I could wrap all of the veterans with PTSD in a protective shell and keep the evils of the world away. I wish there was a way that I could reach into their brains and fix the connections that are broken, but I can't. I want to reach out and let them know that they are not alone and they don't have to deal with their darkness alone. I walk through the darkness with my vet, at his side, where I belong and that's where I will always stay.
If you or anyone you love is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please reach out:
The National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
1-800-273-TALK (8255)
The Veteran's Crisis Line:
1-800-273-8255
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Anger
Anger.
n.
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.
Monday, October 24, 2011
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:
*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.
- Feeling numb:
- 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.
*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.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
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