Today June 1st sparks the beginning of PTSD awareness month, and today I'm rocking my teal t-shirt in solidarity for PTSD awareness. I feel like this would be a great time to address a common question that I get in my Facebook inbox whenever I link my blog. And that question is:
Why do you call your Blog 'Worth Fighting For'?
Well, simply put, because life with PTSD can sometimes seem like a constant fight. Those of us close to PTSD fight every day against a system that seems uncaring. We fight against a society that doesn't understand. We fight amongst ourselves because of inequality of VA care between the different veteran eras. We fight for our rights, for awareness, for fairness. But 'fighting' doesn't always mean violence!
I get extremely annoyed when people assume that simply because my husband lives with PTSD that our home is somehow unsafe or a proverbial pressure cooker by nature. The only person liable to explode violently when approached with well intended "advice" on my safety and the safety of my daughters is me. I never, ever react well to that kind of intervention. So, I fight the stereotypes that follow PTSD, one well-meaning person at a time. And today, I'd like to challenge you to do something for PTSD Awareness Month.
If you live with PTSD, as a sufferer or as a loved one, share your story. It's never easy, to attempt to explain what you go through, but knowing you're not alone can help. Sharing your story helps others who struggle, those don't understand, those who are misinformed. It helps obliterate stereotypes and stigma, and create understanding and compassion. I'm fond of the quote "there is not a person in the world you would not love, if you have read their story". I find this especially true when dealing with PTSD.
If you don't live with PTSD, take this month as a challenge to educate yourself. There is an overwhelming amount of information at your fingertips, and just a little education goes a long way in furthering general understanding and acceptance of PTSD . Learn what to say to those with PTSD, and what not to say. Realize that asking probing questions about military service or combat action isn't appropriate, and can trigger flashbacks. Asking how someone's feeling that day probably won't. It's fine to tell a person with PTSD that you're there for them, it isn't fine to say that you understand what they're going through.
Realize that for those unfamiliar with PTSD, it's not uncommon to avoid being around or feel uneasy being near someone with PTSD. It's also vital to remember that combat wounded veterans with PTSD are, first and foremost, still human. They still need friends and family. Encouragement. Compassion. Support. Don't be shy of freely giving those things, you never know when kind words are needed.
In essence, to answer the many times over asked question, I named my blog 'Worth Fighting For,' because I believe my Squee, my combat PTSD veteran, is worth fighting for, in any way I can, every single day. We fight for his rights, for his care, for his health, and we will continue to fight, because he already fought for us.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Dreaming of Home
Recently, it came to our attention that there are programs that award mortgage free homes to Post 9/11 Disabled Veterans, and we went scanning through pages of homes online. We found one an hour away from our hometown, with enough room for our family of five. I fell in love with the kitchen, from only four pictures, and have been gently approaching the idea in my mind of what color I would paint it, a nice happy yellow or a pretty, light blue, maybe? I don't dare plan too far, for fear of getting my hopes (and Squee's) too high, because to have them dashed now would be a setback we can ill afford. So, it's only a thought, a prayer running through my mind at different moments of the day, "If this is the home for us, let us get this opportunity. If it isn't, bless the family that receives it." But then, I had a dream about it.
I was in the kitchen, and Siren was singing along to a radio playing, helping me load the dishwasher. In the background, I could hear Squee and Banshee and Echo in the living room, searching for just the right Disney movie before bedtime. I could smell the remnants of garlic lime chicken, one of the family favorites, and it all seemed so perfectly real that I felt a bit disappointed when I woke up. That was a few weeks ago.
Not long after my dream, we received a phone call from the organization we had applied through for a home, Military Warriors Support Foundation. Based on our application, Squee's service record and his combat awarded Purple Heart, we move into our new home in October, coincidentally five days after my birthday and one day after Siren's. Realistically we wouldn't have been financially able to own our own home, at least not within the decade, but this program keeps payments at a minimum and helps with financial management and counseling. We've been too excited to even share the news aside from with family, it was shocking to be honest and of course we're always afraid of that dreaded downside or a last minute mistake that would cost us this opportunity. But I can't contain myself much longer. The daily prayer has changed from "if this is what is right for us" to "thank you for this opportunity". Dreaming of a home has now become planning our future, and I'm so excited to see what lies in store for us!
I was in the kitchen, and Siren was singing along to a radio playing, helping me load the dishwasher. In the background, I could hear Squee and Banshee and Echo in the living room, searching for just the right Disney movie before bedtime. I could smell the remnants of garlic lime chicken, one of the family favorites, and it all seemed so perfectly real that I felt a bit disappointed when I woke up. That was a few weeks ago.
Not long after my dream, we received a phone call from the organization we had applied through for a home, Military Warriors Support Foundation. Based on our application, Squee's service record and his combat awarded Purple Heart, we move into our new home in October, coincidentally five days after my birthday and one day after Siren's. Realistically we wouldn't have been financially able to own our own home, at least not within the decade, but this program keeps payments at a minimum and helps with financial management and counseling. We've been too excited to even share the news aside from with family, it was shocking to be honest and of course we're always afraid of that dreaded downside or a last minute mistake that would cost us this opportunity. But I can't contain myself much longer. The daily prayer has changed from "if this is what is right for us" to "thank you for this opportunity". Dreaming of a home has now become planning our future, and I'm so excited to see what lies in store for us!
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Seven Things I've Learned to Love About My Squee
Today isn't just Memorial Day at our house. Today is a special day for Squee and I, the seventh anniversary of the day we walked down the aisle and said "I do".
Somedays, it doesn't seem like we've been together this long. Others, I can't remember what it was like 'before' we were together. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, my life began anew when I met Squee. Some say that their wedding day begins a new chapter in their lives, but for us, it feels like a whole new book. And in seven years, I've been able to do quite a bit of research on this particular novel, and trying to boil down all lessons I've learned with Squee into a handful of ideas hasn't been an easy task, but I feel like I learned them chronologically and each helped our relationship grow.
First of all, Squee has always, always believed in me. When we first met, I was starting my first semester of classes at the local community college, and had all kinds of crazy, half-put together plans and stitched up dreams. He thoroughly believed I could do any of them, that I would do any of them, and he has never doubted me. That sort of unyielding faith in me, in my judgement and my abilities, was something completely unfamiliar to me. Never in my life had I experienced something so humbling, and what's more so, is that after seven years he still has that self- same faith in me, and has taught me how to have that same faith in him.
Secondly, my Squee is probably the most caring person I've ever met. He doesn't always get the chance to show it, being the man of the house, but this is the man who made me custom shoes for Christmas. Pink Converse Jack Purcell oxfords with custom design tongue and the word "Woman" on the sides, a gift so sweet it had me close to tears. I know for a fact that no one else on the planet would have thought to make me shoes for Christmas, but my Squee did, because he knows how much they would mean to me. They reminded me that I was his Woman, his something special, and I felt blessed when I wore them. Today, they are my 'special occasion' shoes, just because they came from my sweet and loving Squee.
Squee's parenting capabilities are awesome, something I had always suspected but got to witness firsthand when our oldest was born. With three girls, one would think he'd be chomping at the bit for a boy, or at least hoping for a tomboy. But no, he accepts his daughters as they are, for who they are, albeit they're all very young. Siren is adamant that she is one day going to be a firefighter. Squee is her inspiration, to put it into four year old logic: "daddy was a Marine, Marines are heroes, Firefighters are heroes too, I want to be a firefighter since we already have a Marine." (For the record, she also likes the idea of being a superhero but doesn't want to wear a cape.) He's proud of them, he loves them, and has no compunction with telling them as much as possible. From the first moment he held our Siren, I knew he would far outshine anyone's expectations of him as a daddy, especially his own. I don't know if he realizes he's a great dad, even when other people tell him, but there's a reason that "dada" has been each girls' first word.
There is next to nothing this man won't endure for his kids. I saw that one first hand on my epic meltdown at Epcot (reference to previous blog entry, Secondary PTSD, Strength and 'She'). I fell apart while he held it together for our daughter, because she needed him to be strong. For a few days, he endured crowds, noise, stress, and a veritable melting pot of all of his nightmares rolled into one, so we could take the opportunity we'd been given to take our Siren, who was an only child as of this vacation, to the Disney parks in Florida. While we were with family, the brother and family my Squee doesn't get to see because they live across the country and who were our amazing sponsors for our trip, and Squee's mom, dad and grandma, his stress level was constantly through the roof. He kept himself fairly composed with medication, but he was still operating at a high level of anxiety the whole time we were away from home. I feel like his willingness to undergo that kind of stress just so she had a normal childhood experience just goes to show his selflessness.
Squee is so incredibly, unbelievably strong. He has seen things that not even he could understand, lived through moments that could have been his last, and yet he is expected to push those moments aside and focus instead on the now. It's an almost impossible thing to ask of anyone, and yet he does it anyway. On days when even trying drains him physically and mentally, he tries anyway. It's not within my Squee to simply quit. But he isn't just strong, he inspires me to strength. I'll never forget the day in the kitchen not so long ago while I had a nuclear meltdown. I was caring for a screaming newborn baby Echo, Banshee was hanging off my hip, and Siren had just gone bananas with goldfish crackers at the kitchen table. This had been our pattern for the last twelve hours while Squee busted his behind at work, and now supper was going to be late no matter what I did. I felt the walls closing in, tunnel vision made my head hurt, and I was ready to just cry. Squee scooped Banshee off me and into her playpen. Then he took my face in his hands and said someone thing to me that changed how I see myself. Squeeze told me that I was stronger than I knew, that he saw it from the start and it was one of the reasons he married me. He knew how much I needed to hear that, and each day I try, even on the harder days, to be strong because he sees it even when I can't.
We have always been Squee's first priority. Whether at work or out with friends to relieve some stress, he never fails to check in on me and the girls, just to make sure we're okay. He takes his role of protector and provider seriously, and although I know how hard it's been for him in light of recent events and attacks within the US, he doesn't demand or insist that we stay home. He fights down the fear and dread that PTSD brings along on every outing, regardless of whether or not he is with us or at home. I feel the fear too, when we go out, and the anxiety that makes my skin crawl, but it's no match for the leg-twitching, heart racing, floor pacing torment he goes through. But we take our kids to the park, we go grocery shopping, we make an effort to get out and have fun with our family, because we are his first priority. If we weren't, he wouldn't be seeking help now. Squee told his therapist as much, one of the reasons I think she likes his attitude. He said he wants to be different for his daughters, and he is working his way towards being as active as his boundaries will allow. Somedays, when PTSD gets the best of us, it will mean we're limited to what we can do. Other days, when he is victorious and feeling good, it will mean new adventures for our girls, and for me, and the chance to see him laugh and smile and know he's truly happy, because he always ensures that his family is happy.
I did not know what love meant until I met Squee. I had thought, for a long time, that I understood love as an odd mix of emotion, notions, songs, and even Biblical references to what love should be. And then, I met Squee, and all those ideas and poems and verses and feelings suddenly made sense. This was what love meant. I had never met another that I considered changing my life for, but Squee made me want to change for the better. I've never considered myself to be worthy of someone's love and devotion, but he gave it without any conditions. He is the first person I have ever completely trusted, and he appreciates it because he knows how difficult it is for me. He is the man that has been my partner in creating a family, there every step of the way for our girls and for the pain of a lost pregnancy. See, I had never envisioned myself as a mother, until I met him. I think it's because I hadn't met my children's father yet, and when Squee was introduced into my life, so many things fell into place at once. It was as though I realized what moms meant, to be blessed to have kids, and I wanted that with him. He is my rock, my heart, my husband, and for a multitude of traits and reasons I can't even begin to touch, I love him and thank the Good Lord and the stars above that we've been blessed with seven years of marriage, and I can't wait to see what the years before us have in store. I love you, Squee. Happy Anniversary!
Somedays, it doesn't seem like we've been together this long. Others, I can't remember what it was like 'before' we were together. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, my life began anew when I met Squee. Some say that their wedding day begins a new chapter in their lives, but for us, it feels like a whole new book. And in seven years, I've been able to do quite a bit of research on this particular novel, and trying to boil down all lessons I've learned with Squee into a handful of ideas hasn't been an easy task, but I feel like I learned them chronologically and each helped our relationship grow.
First of all, Squee has always, always believed in me. When we first met, I was starting my first semester of classes at the local community college, and had all kinds of crazy, half-put together plans and stitched up dreams. He thoroughly believed I could do any of them, that I would do any of them, and he has never doubted me. That sort of unyielding faith in me, in my judgement and my abilities, was something completely unfamiliar to me. Never in my life had I experienced something so humbling, and what's more so, is that after seven years he still has that self- same faith in me, and has taught me how to have that same faith in him.
Secondly, my Squee is probably the most caring person I've ever met. He doesn't always get the chance to show it, being the man of the house, but this is the man who made me custom shoes for Christmas. Pink Converse Jack Purcell oxfords with custom design tongue and the word "Woman" on the sides, a gift so sweet it had me close to tears. I know for a fact that no one else on the planet would have thought to make me shoes for Christmas, but my Squee did, because he knows how much they would mean to me. They reminded me that I was his Woman, his something special, and I felt blessed when I wore them. Today, they are my 'special occasion' shoes, just because they came from my sweet and loving Squee.
Squee's parenting capabilities are awesome, something I had always suspected but got to witness firsthand when our oldest was born. With three girls, one would think he'd be chomping at the bit for a boy, or at least hoping for a tomboy. But no, he accepts his daughters as they are, for who they are, albeit they're all very young. Siren is adamant that she is one day going to be a firefighter. Squee is her inspiration, to put it into four year old logic: "daddy was a Marine, Marines are heroes, Firefighters are heroes too, I want to be a firefighter since we already have a Marine." (For the record, she also likes the idea of being a superhero but doesn't want to wear a cape.) He's proud of them, he loves them, and has no compunction with telling them as much as possible. From the first moment he held our Siren, I knew he would far outshine anyone's expectations of him as a daddy, especially his own. I don't know if he realizes he's a great dad, even when other people tell him, but there's a reason that "dada" has been each girls' first word.
There is next to nothing this man won't endure for his kids. I saw that one first hand on my epic meltdown at Epcot (reference to previous blog entry, Secondary PTSD, Strength and 'She'). I fell apart while he held it together for our daughter, because she needed him to be strong. For a few days, he endured crowds, noise, stress, and a veritable melting pot of all of his nightmares rolled into one, so we could take the opportunity we'd been given to take our Siren, who was an only child as of this vacation, to the Disney parks in Florida. While we were with family, the brother and family my Squee doesn't get to see because they live across the country and who were our amazing sponsors for our trip, and Squee's mom, dad and grandma, his stress level was constantly through the roof. He kept himself fairly composed with medication, but he was still operating at a high level of anxiety the whole time we were away from home. I feel like his willingness to undergo that kind of stress just so she had a normal childhood experience just goes to show his selflessness.
Squee is so incredibly, unbelievably strong. He has seen things that not even he could understand, lived through moments that could have been his last, and yet he is expected to push those moments aside and focus instead on the now. It's an almost impossible thing to ask of anyone, and yet he does it anyway. On days when even trying drains him physically and mentally, he tries anyway. It's not within my Squee to simply quit. But he isn't just strong, he inspires me to strength. I'll never forget the day in the kitchen not so long ago while I had a nuclear meltdown. I was caring for a screaming newborn baby Echo, Banshee was hanging off my hip, and Siren had just gone bananas with goldfish crackers at the kitchen table. This had been our pattern for the last twelve hours while Squee busted his behind at work, and now supper was going to be late no matter what I did. I felt the walls closing in, tunnel vision made my head hurt, and I was ready to just cry. Squee scooped Banshee off me and into her playpen. Then he took my face in his hands and said someone thing to me that changed how I see myself. Squeeze told me that I was stronger than I knew, that he saw it from the start and it was one of the reasons he married me. He knew how much I needed to hear that, and each day I try, even on the harder days, to be strong because he sees it even when I can't.
We have always been Squee's first priority. Whether at work or out with friends to relieve some stress, he never fails to check in on me and the girls, just to make sure we're okay. He takes his role of protector and provider seriously, and although I know how hard it's been for him in light of recent events and attacks within the US, he doesn't demand or insist that we stay home. He fights down the fear and dread that PTSD brings along on every outing, regardless of whether or not he is with us or at home. I feel the fear too, when we go out, and the anxiety that makes my skin crawl, but it's no match for the leg-twitching, heart racing, floor pacing torment he goes through. But we take our kids to the park, we go grocery shopping, we make an effort to get out and have fun with our family, because we are his first priority. If we weren't, he wouldn't be seeking help now. Squee told his therapist as much, one of the reasons I think she likes his attitude. He said he wants to be different for his daughters, and he is working his way towards being as active as his boundaries will allow. Somedays, when PTSD gets the best of us, it will mean we're limited to what we can do. Other days, when he is victorious and feeling good, it will mean new adventures for our girls, and for me, and the chance to see him laugh and smile and know he's truly happy, because he always ensures that his family is happy.
I did not know what love meant until I met Squee. I had thought, for a long time, that I understood love as an odd mix of emotion, notions, songs, and even Biblical references to what love should be. And then, I met Squee, and all those ideas and poems and verses and feelings suddenly made sense. This was what love meant. I had never met another that I considered changing my life for, but Squee made me want to change for the better. I've never considered myself to be worthy of someone's love and devotion, but he gave it without any conditions. He is the first person I have ever completely trusted, and he appreciates it because he knows how difficult it is for me. He is the man that has been my partner in creating a family, there every step of the way for our girls and for the pain of a lost pregnancy. See, I had never envisioned myself as a mother, until I met him. I think it's because I hadn't met my children's father yet, and when Squee was introduced into my life, so many things fell into place at once. It was as though I realized what moms meant, to be blessed to have kids, and I wanted that with him. He is my rock, my heart, my husband, and for a multitude of traits and reasons I can't even begin to touch, I love him and thank the Good Lord and the stars above that we've been blessed with seven years of marriage, and I can't wait to see what the years before us have in store. I love you, Squee. Happy Anniversary!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
A New Angle
Today, as my 'do something for you' weekly activity, I'm sitting at a salon waiting on my turn in the chair to chop off my hair a bit. I truly despise this chore, and got away with my last haircut being by my mother in November (yes, it's May) and I desperately need some TLC to be paid to the coiff, since I can't be bothered to do it myself. So I'm flipping through magazines, blogging, and waiting my turn to try things from a new angle.
My biggest indecision? Bangs. I haven't had bangs since childhood. But aside from them being the new trend that other people are already over, I feel like they would add depth to my look. I'm still unsure even now, although I'm holding a picture of what I want in my hands, but it's not the hairstyle I'm iffy on. I've always been unsure of change.
Thinking about changes takes me back in time seven years to the week before our wedding, when I spent time packing for the first time in my life. I was picking and choosing what was going to come with me to the apartment I was going to share with Squee. I was holding on so tight to such fragile, insignificant things, and took most of them with me. Over the last seven years, many of the things I once saw as vital and important have been scattered or lost, some sold at yard sales and some given away. I've learned to hold on to the things that matter instead. What matters to me is my family, my friends and my faith, and all other things I can let go of, because what matters gives me strength. So, now it's my turn to swivel around in that shiny chrome seat and give a new 'do a whirl. And here I go, without fear.
We chat for a moment about my ideas for a cut, I do the customary showing a picture for a vague description, and the master's scissors start flying. The next thing I know, she has carved this lovely shape into my poofy, frizzy hair. She went so far as to style it a bit to clean up my look, a gift from one mom to another, as we chatted about Memorial Day plans. I got to share that it's our 7year anniversary on the holiday, which she found delightful. But when she was done, it wasn't quite what I wanted.
Now, this is usually where the Quiet PTSD would typically take over, the timid side of me that wouldn't raise a fuss would rise up and I'd bite my tongue and grouse about it later. But no, not this time. I like this stylist enough that I can't hold something against her that isn't her fault. If I walk out this door disliking my haircut, it is no one's fault but my own. So, I swallowed past a lump in my throat and said, politely,
"Can we go just a little bit shorter on the bangs?"
Sweetest stylist I've had since I worked at a Great Clips, she trimmed them up little by little until she got the perfect length, that "just right" look that I immediately fell in love with. I loved the way it made me feel when I saw myself in the mirror, and that's been hard to come by lately. I feel like somehow, I'm becoming the woman, the wife, and the mom I'm supposed to he, and now I'm making the outer shell resemble the soul inside. It's going to be a long journey, but it will be worth it.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Fatigue
Just a week after getting them, and my sneakers are already scuffed. I see that as a triumph. I'm meeting my goals as I set them, breaking down what I want to do per day. I was never a lists sort of person before PTSD entered our lives, but I sure am now. So far, keeping a list of daily To Do's is what's keeping me on track. The other day, I got out of the house and went to a tanning salon (no judgements, I only go a couple times a year) that was running a special, so I was able to do it for free. I love free, especially on our tight budget. But even if I hadn't been able to get my dose of vitamin D, I still would have gotten out of the house, because frankly I was ready to pull my hair out.
It started with a sleepless night thanks to the neighbor's dog and an overactive imagination. Secondary PTSD is no joke when it keeps you checking windows and doors because your mind keeps turning over the idea that the neighbor's gigantic Mastiff doesn't just bark for no reason, and he never has. That drama bled into an early morning with a baby up and hungry at a quarter after five, and then a breakfast meltdown, courtesy of two kids wanting two different things to eat. After the chaos calmed down a bit, Squee suggested that I go take the coupon from the mailer to the tanning place and take a moment for myself. Normally, I wouldn't. I would say no, find an excuse to stay home or invent a reason I couldn't do something for myself that day. Instead, I jumped at the chance.
But, you know what? I needed to. My less than a hour out break turned out to be one of the most relaxing things I've done all week, and I have been sticking to my promise of taking time for me every day, especially now.
Last week, hubby was put on a new medication for his blood pressure, which is making him absolutely exhausted. So, he's having to take naps when it hits him like a sledge hammer, and I understand why he needs them. Fatigue is a large part of PTSD, sometimes caused by the condition itself and other times caused by the medications used to combat PTSD symptoms. For us, easy fatigue is a daily part of life.
We learned to deal with the fatigue monster early on, when medications got the best of Squee, and then later when medicines no longer worked at all, and sleep happened only in snippets stolen throughout the day,but never the night. It seemed as though insomnia set in about the same moment the sky grew dark and rest couldn't come until it was daylight again. But it was better, I supposed, than the dreams.
I wince now writing about them, those demons that came crawling back for him when he had a moment to close his eyes. Squeeze talks in his sleep often, and has been in a number of flashbacks while doing so. He doesn't recall these dreams, they are his worst nightmares con to life, and I'm grateful when his mind protects him enough to lose the memory of those dreams, but I still loathe the fact that he has them. When fatigue takes ahold of him though, and grips him tight, he doesn't dream, and that is a blessing.
So during my 'off' time, I lay in the tanning bed "soaking up some vitamin D and generally being alone with my thoughts, and I realize that the real allure of a tanning bed isn't the 'afterglow' but the simple and absolute peace and quiet you get when you combine the sound of the bed itself, the fans going to keep you cool, and the ever-present background music tuned to the soft rock /power ballad /hair band station. It's a mindless kind of quiet, and kind of intoxicating. I imagined myself on a sandy beach somewhere, watching Squee teach Siren and Banshee how to build sandcastles while Echo sweetly tore them down. I smiled a little. For a moment, I was there. I had dipped my toes in the water as I swung Echo up onto my hip. Banshee wanted desperately to show me a shell she'd found, and Siren was attached to Squee's hip again, wanting to know more about dolphins and what she refers to as "big fish". And that moment was delicious. Until my time was up.
The machine cut off, though it was fair to say I'd had a warning, I'd just folded it into my daydream as a cellphone beep and both daydream me and real me chose not to heed the warning. You see, we've never been able to have a family vacation like that, and I know both Squee and I wonder if we'll ever be able to have a family beach vacation, if we'll give our girls the typical family experiences, or if we're doomed to stay inside our shells and by doing so, encouraging them to remain introverted too. These are the things that go through my mind when it's idle, like the moment of indecision when you can't seem to force yourself up off the tanning bed because it's still warm and the air directly outside is much cooler. Eventually though, even I have to admit it's time to stop thinking and get my rear in gear.
Slightly colder since coming quite rudely inside from my fantasy on the beach, I got dressed quickly and cleaned up, and left with a wave goodbye to a busy front desk clerk. Less than an hour out of the house, but my head felt so much clearer, my migraine had almost dissipated, and I felt like I had more energy. Fatigue doesn't just strike our Veterans, you see. Fatigue is a very real enemy of the Vet Spouse, one that I often grapple with, but a little rejuvenation (and time to sleep in on occasion) goes a LONG way in how you feel.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Mother's Day Promises
This Mother's Day, I got a pair of brand new, squeaky clean white athletic shoes. They were the cheap ones from Wal-Mart, a ten dollar pair of shoes that I can't stop smiling over, because of what they represent to me.
I promise myself, when I look at these shoes, that I will wear these out. It's not a goal, it's a promise, like pinkie swears with Siren about ice cream and The Little Einsteins, and I keep my promises. It's not enough that I drop a dress size or fill out my jeans a little leaner than I did a year before. My promise is different. I will wear these shoes out, and I will do it by next Mother's Day, by getting healthier for my children.
For those who know me personally, you know that while I was carrying Echo, I developed gallstones and had to change my eating habits. A year later, I still have to watch what I eat closely, and that has helped me drop a few pounds already, but I'm not what I consider to be healthy. I can't run full on after the girls. I get winded easily, and I break a sweat with minimal effort. So, it's time to make some changes.
But, I'm going to do it a bit differently. I'm going to take time, everyday, for myself. As caregivers, especially mom caregivers, we often get lost in our roles and jobs and forget about ourselves, and don't realize we're in the slump until someone gives us the look that asks without words 'are you wearing the same sweatpants I saw you in three days ago?'. I know that look, and thank you Mr. Judgemental Mailman for making me familiar with it. And honestly, it's not just the mailman who's noticed, which leads to the realization that things have got to change.
So, everyday for next year, I'm carving out 'me time' by taking a few minutes every day to work out, write, create, pamper, laugh, cry, something specifically for me. And these shoes, these simple white sneakers that I'm proud to have this Mother's Day. They are my inspiration to get my backside in gear, like my daughters are my inspiration to get healthy, something to hold me accountable when all I want to do is hold down one end of the couch. I couldn't have asked for a better gift than that.
Happy Mother's Day!
I promise myself, when I look at these shoes, that I will wear these out. It's not a goal, it's a promise, like pinkie swears with Siren about ice cream and The Little Einsteins, and I keep my promises. It's not enough that I drop a dress size or fill out my jeans a little leaner than I did a year before. My promise is different. I will wear these shoes out, and I will do it by next Mother's Day, by getting healthier for my children.
For those who know me personally, you know that while I was carrying Echo, I developed gallstones and had to change my eating habits. A year later, I still have to watch what I eat closely, and that has helped me drop a few pounds already, but I'm not what I consider to be healthy. I can't run full on after the girls. I get winded easily, and I break a sweat with minimal effort. So, it's time to make some changes.
But, I'm going to do it a bit differently. I'm going to take time, everyday, for myself. As caregivers, especially mom caregivers, we often get lost in our roles and jobs and forget about ourselves, and don't realize we're in the slump until someone gives us the look that asks without words 'are you wearing the same sweatpants I saw you in three days ago?'. I know that look, and thank you Mr. Judgemental Mailman for making me familiar with it. And honestly, it's not just the mailman who's noticed, which leads to the realization that things have got to change.
So, everyday for next year, I'm carving out 'me time' by taking a few minutes every day to work out, write, create, pamper, laugh, cry, something specifically for me. And these shoes, these simple white sneakers that I'm proud to have this Mother's Day. They are my inspiration to get my backside in gear, like my daughters are my inspiration to get healthy, something to hold me accountable when all I want to do is hold down one end of the couch. I couldn't have asked for a better gift than that.
Happy Mother's Day!
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Mommy's Day Out
I think perhaps one of the strangest parts of a PTSD marriage, or at least the part that I didn't expect, was the loss of old friends, both for Squee and for myself. Granted, as people grow and change, relationships change, but they don't all dissolve. Within a PTSD marriage though, only the strongest friends survive. Sadly, there aren't many who made my cut.
I am partially to blame for my lack of fulfilling friendships, because for the longest time I was unable to focus on anything but Squee. Then came Siren. I did, shortly after she was born, make a valiant effort to interact with my friends again and realized suddenly that we no longer had certain things in common. I went home disappointed and subsequently avoided every kind hearted invitation for the next two years. Then, Banshee was conceived, and I spent the next nine months of my life praying that I could eat and hold down enough food to sustain us both, no easy feat. After her birth, I was too exhausted to care about friends. And then, four months later, I was pregnant with Echo, who took after Banshee in making me sick. Since her birth almost a year ago, I still have only managed two friend functions, but today that changes.
This afternoon, thanks to my wonderful sisters in law, I get to spend some time exclusively with other women. This will be the first time in over 8 months that I've had a 'girl's day out', and admittedly I'm nervous. I'm a great pretender, that talent helped me survive high school, but I don't have the energy to pretend anymore, so this is going to be a challenge for me on so many levels.
Mostly, I'm concerned that those little oddball quirks in my personality that still linger from high school won't be well received, like speaking sarcasm before weighing my words. Among my 'before' friends, such behavior wasn't just accepted, it was encouraged. I also talk too much and usually a little too loud, and when I get flustered or embarrassed it gets worse. I'm in no way refined or delicate, and I'm definitely not super mom. I see my sisters in law as superwomen, and that's no lie. They all work outside the home and keep up with their husbands and kids the way I could only dream of, taking care of them without draining their own energy to nothing. Amazing women, so how do I stack up? And what about their friends?
Thankfully, as my afternoon started, I was able to relax. Although I sort of stuck out, like the proverbial sore thumb, nobody ever made me feel excluded. Even among my before friends, exclusion was common. I'm slow to warm to new people, but everyone was so wonderfully friendly that it was hard not to. I got to know my sisters in law a little bit better, and I could finally share with someone else how proud I am of my Squee as his wife for how far he's come with therapy. We went to a wonderful dinner (that I'm still drooling over today) at Abuelo's in Chattanooga, with great conversation and interesting stories from moms who have been there, done that, and have the badges to prove it. For my first day out in over 8 months, I would call it a success.
Sometimes, being in a PTSD marriage means that your time 'off' is less quantity and more quality, but making the most of what you get helps you appreciate the rest of the time. Focusing on yourself once in a blue moon is encouraged, and necessary even, to help your hero along his journey to healing, and it just might help heal your hurts as well.
I am partially to blame for my lack of fulfilling friendships, because for the longest time I was unable to focus on anything but Squee. Then came Siren. I did, shortly after she was born, make a valiant effort to interact with my friends again and realized suddenly that we no longer had certain things in common. I went home disappointed and subsequently avoided every kind hearted invitation for the next two years. Then, Banshee was conceived, and I spent the next nine months of my life praying that I could eat and hold down enough food to sustain us both, no easy feat. After her birth, I was too exhausted to care about friends. And then, four months later, I was pregnant with Echo, who took after Banshee in making me sick. Since her birth almost a year ago, I still have only managed two friend functions, but today that changes.
This afternoon, thanks to my wonderful sisters in law, I get to spend some time exclusively with other women. This will be the first time in over 8 months that I've had a 'girl's day out', and admittedly I'm nervous. I'm a great pretender, that talent helped me survive high school, but I don't have the energy to pretend anymore, so this is going to be a challenge for me on so many levels.
Mostly, I'm concerned that those little oddball quirks in my personality that still linger from high school won't be well received, like speaking sarcasm before weighing my words. Among my 'before' friends, such behavior wasn't just accepted, it was encouraged. I also talk too much and usually a little too loud, and when I get flustered or embarrassed it gets worse. I'm in no way refined or delicate, and I'm definitely not super mom. I see my sisters in law as superwomen, and that's no lie. They all work outside the home and keep up with their husbands and kids the way I could only dream of, taking care of them without draining their own energy to nothing. Amazing women, so how do I stack up? And what about their friends?
Thankfully, as my afternoon started, I was able to relax. Although I sort of stuck out, like the proverbial sore thumb, nobody ever made me feel excluded. Even among my before friends, exclusion was common. I'm slow to warm to new people, but everyone was so wonderfully friendly that it was hard not to. I got to know my sisters in law a little bit better, and I could finally share with someone else how proud I am of my Squee as his wife for how far he's come with therapy. We went to a wonderful dinner (that I'm still drooling over today) at Abuelo's in Chattanooga, with great conversation and interesting stories from moms who have been there, done that, and have the badges to prove it. For my first day out in over 8 months, I would call it a success.
Sometimes, being in a PTSD marriage means that your time 'off' is less quantity and more quality, but making the most of what you get helps you appreciate the rest of the time. Focusing on yourself once in a blue moon is encouraged, and necessary even, to help your hero along his journey to healing, and it just might help heal your hurts as well.
Friday, April 12, 2013
A New Kind of Hope
Yesterday was achingly stressful. Squee had a VA appointment this morning, and so we were able to get Lodging through the VA in Nashville for last night, to attempt to take some of the stress of a three hour drive off of him. It worked, though we did drive through the worst storm either of us has ever been behind the wheel during. It seemed like the rain was being poured out in buckets, and we couldn't see the car in front of us. However, Squee got us to the hotel to check in, and we went up to the room.
After a stressful start and getting Siren, Banshee and Echo off to my parents' place for the night, we were both exhausted, but it was barely 6, so we went next door to a Mexican restaurant called Las Palmas, (excellent if you're in the area and looking for great service and wonderful food without paying a fortune) and they very nicely sat us in a back corner booth, and I watched Squee begin to visibly relax. As we were waiting for our food, Squee started talking to me with a topic I was a little amazed at. At some point this year, he would like to have a get-together with our friends, all of them that he can manage, and he wants to make it known that we both apologize for us being 'off-grid' for the past few years, and that he wants to start mending relationships. But, if after we explain our reasons for being 'off -grid' were PTSD and our small family exploding into a larger one, if there are any friends who don't want to forgive us or be involved with us any more, good riddance and there's the door. He said that if these friends don't understand that PTSD is just something that affects him, something that he has, and that it doesn't define him, we don't need those friends in our lives after all. This entire idea amazed me, in the greatest way.
Firstly, because Squee is not a huge get together person. He doesn't do crowds, no matter how much he likes the people, sometimes it's even difficult for him around his own family. Granted, he has a large family, but they are still in our corner and completely supportive. But the size, noise level, and general sense of having people too close keeps him from enjoying himself like he used to. So, for him to suggest a get together of that magnitude, where we are the ones at the center of it all, is wonderful progress.
Secondly, I feel as though Squee being able to finally say, all in his own time, that PTSD isn't his fault is nothing short of amazing. Our hardest battle has been to keep him from blaming himself for PTSD. For so long now, he's been internalizing his experiences, swallowing his troubles and his pain, but now he's starting to differentiate between who he is and what PTSD does to a person. When I pointed out that last night was the first time he's ever said anything like that before, his face turned just a shade red, and redder still when I told him I was proud of him. But I am proud of him, incredibly so, because he has come so far in such a short time. His resilience is nothing short of miraculous to me.
Lastly, on our way home today, Squee and I got to talking for the first time in a very, very long time about future career plans. He is considering taking classes or courses to become a chiropractor, something I think he would excel at. The midwife who was with us for the births of all three of our daughters told me that she believed Squee would be an asset in the medical field, and I agree with her completely.
To be a day that started off as stressful as it did, all it took was a few phrases from my Squee to fill me with a new kind of hope for tomorrow, next week, and the future. I believe what Emily Dickinson said is true, that hope is a thing with feathers, because it certainly has made my heart light and taken a weight off my soul.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Prayer and PTSD
Living in the South, you hear peppered into conversations a dozen times a day religious topics or aspects, requests for prayer and invitations to attend services. Since navigating a church congregation is something akin to a nightmare for my PTSD family, we have simply elected to stay out of church, but not out of touch with God.
We have been told, by dozens of well-meaning individuals, that church is the answer for my Squee's problems. I disagree, somewhat. I believe a strong faith in God can help make the road to recovery a shorter one, a calmer one, if the person is so inclined. I do not believe that the concept of 'church' is a help. Bear in mind, in the South, congregations vary from about a dozen in a tiny country chapel to the over stuffed megachurches, and every one of them eager for new members. There has been no shortage of inviations, but I'm running out of polite ways to say no.
Our reasons are simple yet complex. Whereas an average person might become nervous walking into a new chuch for the first time, maybe face sweaty palms and a racing pulse, but still a normal reaction, a PTSD reaction is vastly different. Sweaty palms and nervous breathing happened in the parking lot, racing pulse before the car ride to get there. Nausea as soon as you're spotted and know you can't leave without seeming rude, having to overcompensate to quell a reaction when a well-meaning congregation member welcomes you with a slap on the shoulder or a hug you weren't expecting. It's an hour of sitting in the back pew, as close to the door as you can get, not because you're not focused on the message but because you're still on alert to any threat in the room. It's the little twinge of fear that you get when you close your eyes to pray, and hoping that God forgives you when you squint towards the noise you heard up front before anyone says "Amen". It's being unable to focus on God's message and promise of Heaven because you are too aware of the evils you have witnessed on Earth. It's not that we don't want to be there, it means it's harder for us to be there than you realize.
It doesn't help when there are fundamental differences in what is preached in some local churches and what you feel in your heart is right. I discovered at a young age that my own morals are only strengthened in resolve by the constant barrage of opposition, but when one is already physically and mentally exhausted it doesn't bolster resolve but instead drains a person's very soul, which isn't the point of church.
Now, does our lack of church attendance make us less Christian? To some, it does. I have been called everything from an atheist to a whore because we don't attend church regularly. I silently endure these comments, because I know full well what I am and what I am not. I am not an atheist, though I do have atheist friends. I am not a whore, though I know a few. I am not a perfect Christian either, indeed far from it, but I am a child of God, a wife and mother, and in my heart that's all that matters.
Since the beginning of our time together, relationships with family and friends outside of 'us' as a couple and then as a family began to deteriorate, albeit many have remained. We have understanding people, judgmental people, and compassionate people. That's a vast array of people in our lives. And you know what? I pray for every last one of them, every single day.
When I say "I pray," I can see my atheist friends' eyes rolling now. Most often, these are the friends that take automatic offense because they believe my prayer for them hinges on some contingency that they turn to God or change their entire beliefs system.
That's not what I mean, so perhaps I should explain.
I mean that every single day of my life, I pray for the health, happiness, and well-being of my friends and family, no matter what their beliefs are. Prayers are good thoughts or positive vibes from me to them, in appreciation of their roles in my life, because that's the intention of prayer at it's core: praying for others, not for yourself. You may scoff at religion, but I believe prayer to be a powerful tool in my caregiver survival kit, and I'll pray for your happiness regardless, because it makes me happier to do so.
We have been told, by dozens of well-meaning individuals, that church is the answer for my Squee's problems. I disagree, somewhat. I believe a strong faith in God can help make the road to recovery a shorter one, a calmer one, if the person is so inclined. I do not believe that the concept of 'church' is a help. Bear in mind, in the South, congregations vary from about a dozen in a tiny country chapel to the over stuffed megachurches, and every one of them eager for new members. There has been no shortage of inviations, but I'm running out of polite ways to say no.
Our reasons are simple yet complex. Whereas an average person might become nervous walking into a new chuch for the first time, maybe face sweaty palms and a racing pulse, but still a normal reaction, a PTSD reaction is vastly different. Sweaty palms and nervous breathing happened in the parking lot, racing pulse before the car ride to get there. Nausea as soon as you're spotted and know you can't leave without seeming rude, having to overcompensate to quell a reaction when a well-meaning congregation member welcomes you with a slap on the shoulder or a hug you weren't expecting. It's an hour of sitting in the back pew, as close to the door as you can get, not because you're not focused on the message but because you're still on alert to any threat in the room. It's the little twinge of fear that you get when you close your eyes to pray, and hoping that God forgives you when you squint towards the noise you heard up front before anyone says "Amen". It's being unable to focus on God's message and promise of Heaven because you are too aware of the evils you have witnessed on Earth. It's not that we don't want to be there, it means it's harder for us to be there than you realize.
It doesn't help when there are fundamental differences in what is preached in some local churches and what you feel in your heart is right. I discovered at a young age that my own morals are only strengthened in resolve by the constant barrage of opposition, but when one is already physically and mentally exhausted it doesn't bolster resolve but instead drains a person's very soul, which isn't the point of church.
Now, does our lack of church attendance make us less Christian? To some, it does. I have been called everything from an atheist to a whore because we don't attend church regularly. I silently endure these comments, because I know full well what I am and what I am not. I am not an atheist, though I do have atheist friends. I am not a whore, though I know a few. I am not a perfect Christian either, indeed far from it, but I am a child of God, a wife and mother, and in my heart that's all that matters.
Since the beginning of our time together, relationships with family and friends outside of 'us' as a couple and then as a family began to deteriorate, albeit many have remained. We have understanding people, judgmental people, and compassionate people. That's a vast array of people in our lives. And you know what? I pray for every last one of them, every single day.
When I say "I pray," I can see my atheist friends' eyes rolling now. Most often, these are the friends that take automatic offense because they believe my prayer for them hinges on some contingency that they turn to God or change their entire beliefs system.
That's not what I mean, so perhaps I should explain.
I mean that every single day of my life, I pray for the health, happiness, and well-being of my friends and family, no matter what their beliefs are. Prayers are good thoughts or positive vibes from me to them, in appreciation of their roles in my life, because that's the intention of prayer at it's core: praying for others, not for yourself. You may scoff at religion, but I believe prayer to be a powerful tool in my caregiver survival kit, and I'll pray for your happiness regardless, because it makes me happier to do so.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Hands On Therapy
Since he was put on leave in October, Squee has been trying to find ways to curb boredom. On the one hand, he stays tired due to the medications he takes, but on the other hand he stays active chasing after our daughters. It's the down time, the hours of the day not spent busy or exhausted, that eat away at him. For the past couple of weeks, I have been gently introducing him to the world of Pinterest, because he still believes it's primarily for women. A few days ago, he discovered an entire wealth of paracord tutorials for bracelets, necklaces, pouches, and even animals. So, after a quick trip to the Army Surplus store that happens to have a nice selection of 550 paracord colors and an initial $10 investment, he's created a bracelet and necklace for our oldest daughter, a bracelet for me and one for himself.
This isn't the first thing he's undertaken to combat the nervous energy he always seems to possess despite the fact that he's often too tired to function. He also picks around on a guitar loaned to him by his stepdad, though he doesn't do it as often as he'd like because his down time usually coincides with naptime. He has the usual (or more common, I should say) coping mechanisms of Xbox Live video games and computer games, which get a bad reputation, but I really feel like anything in which he's keeping his hands busy is a plus, because it gives him something to focus his attention and energy on.
Often, I hear other veteran's wives who complain or are angry about the time their guys spend on their hobbies, the main focus being video games. Honestly, I embrace the gamer culture. Squee was a video game enthusiast before his service, so it would make sense that he would go back to them afterwards. He sets his own limits on time and frequency but often asks me if I need him to do anything around the house before he begins playing. I don't hate video games, I consider it just another part of his therapy. While he's battling demons on screen, he's dealing with his own as well.
Sit back and consider for a moment, if you will, the empowerment of video games for veterans with PTSD. For veterans who are overwhelmed on a daily basis by the most common things, are frustrated at a system that doesn't honor them as it should, and who are receiving sub-par medical care to say the least. That is a LOT of frustration, regardless of who you are. The visualization of an on-screen 'enemy' that poses no physical threat to the veteran, only the inferred threat, can be a useful tool. Imagine each 'enemy' in a video game is an individual issue in your life, not just PTSD but those tiny, nit-picky, every day things. Like a car out of gas, a late fee on a bill, or an overflowing toilet that turns a decent day into a nuclear meltdown. Now, neutralize your enemy. And as soon as that enemy disappears offscreen, suddenly that burden across your shoulders seems a little lighter. For a moment, that problem is gone, and you focus your energy on the next problem. It might seem silly, especially at first, but it truly is empowering.
I hear you scoffing, I do. "Video games are silly and childish/ I don't see how playing war games helps at all/ You'll never catch me wasting time like that." I hear you, too. But, if you're unwilling to take a chance on a different kind of 'therapy', you'll never know if it works for your family or not. For us, video games, crafts, and music seem to be helping greatly. Best advice, help your veteran find their own path to healing, and remember that unconventional might just be what you both need.
This isn't the first thing he's undertaken to combat the nervous energy he always seems to possess despite the fact that he's often too tired to function. He also picks around on a guitar loaned to him by his stepdad, though he doesn't do it as often as he'd like because his down time usually coincides with naptime. He has the usual (or more common, I should say) coping mechanisms of Xbox Live video games and computer games, which get a bad reputation, but I really feel like anything in which he's keeping his hands busy is a plus, because it gives him something to focus his attention and energy on.
Often, I hear other veteran's wives who complain or are angry about the time their guys spend on their hobbies, the main focus being video games. Honestly, I embrace the gamer culture. Squee was a video game enthusiast before his service, so it would make sense that he would go back to them afterwards. He sets his own limits on time and frequency but often asks me if I need him to do anything around the house before he begins playing. I don't hate video games, I consider it just another part of his therapy. While he's battling demons on screen, he's dealing with his own as well.
Sit back and consider for a moment, if you will, the empowerment of video games for veterans with PTSD. For veterans who are overwhelmed on a daily basis by the most common things, are frustrated at a system that doesn't honor them as it should, and who are receiving sub-par medical care to say the least. That is a LOT of frustration, regardless of who you are. The visualization of an on-screen 'enemy' that poses no physical threat to the veteran, only the inferred threat, can be a useful tool. Imagine each 'enemy' in a video game is an individual issue in your life, not just PTSD but those tiny, nit-picky, every day things. Like a car out of gas, a late fee on a bill, or an overflowing toilet that turns a decent day into a nuclear meltdown. Now, neutralize your enemy. And as soon as that enemy disappears offscreen, suddenly that burden across your shoulders seems a little lighter. For a moment, that problem is gone, and you focus your energy on the next problem. It might seem silly, especially at first, but it truly is empowering.
I hear you scoffing, I do. "Video games are silly and childish/ I don't see how playing war games helps at all/ You'll never catch me wasting time like that." I hear you, too. But, if you're unwilling to take a chance on a different kind of 'therapy', you'll never know if it works for your family or not. For us, video games, crafts, and music seem to be helping greatly. Best advice, help your veteran find their own path to healing, and remember that unconventional might just be what you both need.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Secondary PTSD, Strength, and 'She'
One thing that caregivers often struggle with is a version of PTSD of their own, commonly called Secondary PTSD. Caregivers, psychologists, and social workers are especially susceptible to developing Secondary PTSD based on their proximity to a sufferer of PTSD.
There comes a point in many caregivers' lives that they begin to wonder if they suffer from Secondary PTSD. Mine came when Siren was almost two, and we went on a family vacation to Disney in Orlando with Squee's oldest brother and his family, and Squee's parents. We were at Epcot, enjoying the park, and found an excellent place to view the fireworks. Squee had been mentally preparing for this all day, whereas I didn't realize I had a reason to be concerned. Then, the show started, and the fireworks began. At first, I was a little edgy, but just assumed it came from being at a theme park all day with a toddler and a PTSD spouse. Then, the night got darker, and the fireworks kept coming. And coming. Boom after boom, thudding through my limbs and my chest, and I saw Siren put her hands on her stomach, her brows furrowing. She was uncomfortable too. I scooped her up, and we stepped inside a shop with a sympathetic keeper who saw our reactions to the fireworks. I calmed a little as she did, and we went back outside, in time for the finale, which was my biggest mistake. While Siren was now resilient and had realized that the 'booms' were also pretty, I completely fell apart.
Part of me wonders if Squee had expected my reaction, because he held his ground without any outward signs of stress aside from how hard his arms were gripping me while I had my first panic attack. The only lights visible as my vision went black were the endless colorful fireworks that accompanied the thunderous rapports making me physically ill. My breathing became short and shallow gasps resulting in choppy half-explainations that Squee hushed. I had no idea what was happening to me until he explained it in whispers while he held me to his chest. The show came to an end, a crescendo of light and sound and wonder that would have been beautiful had I not been blinded with unshed tears. It hit me then, that every time PTSD takes him away from me, this is akin to the hell he is dragged into.
After the first panic attack, I realized that I was slowly starting to change. I wasn't aware of how drastic the changes were until I was a mother for the second time, when Banshee was about three or four months old. I has Siren and Banshee in Wal-Mart on a busy Saturday morning after dropping Squee off at work. Siren was being her usual outgoing self, chattering to everyone she saw that would listen to her while I desperately tried to get her to stop. You see, she had just recently begun to flag people down specifically to spin her life story, mostly because she was so proud of her sweet baby sister. That day, she was in rare form, and had managed to corner a young woman that I will always refer to as The Lady.
The Lady was a young woman, just a little older than myself, who looked for all the world like she was an elementary school teacher. She had a nice smile and kind eyes, and I felt no fear for Siren talking to her. Until, that is, she reached out and touched Banshee.
I have never considered myself an overprotective mother. On the contrary, I felt that I was fairly reasonable. But then The Lady's hand touched Banshee's foot, and in my mind, something warped. Time slowed. And I felt something else take me over, something primal and dark and dangerous. That primal force exists within me still, I commonly refer to it as 'She' or 'Her' in context, and in that moment, She stepped in and took my place. I watched in horror in my mind as She reached out and wrapped Her hand around the delicate wrist of The Lady. She knew exactly where to twist to inflict the most damage and break The Lady's wrist, how long it would take for The Lady to register the pain and be capable of screaming, and how long it would take for Her to get Siren and Banshee out of the store.
In my mind, I heard The Lady's bones crunch, I felt her wrist splinter beneath my hand, registered the confusion in her eyes followed immediately by the pain, heard her piercing scream of agony as she wrenched away from me. But thankfully, it remained solely within my mind, and She became quiet again. When She did, The Lady was still cooing at Banshee, and I shook my head, stuttering an apology and inventing an excuse (I think it was a fake phone call, but I doubt it was believable) to make a hasty exit with the girls after abandoning the cart of groceries. I made it all the way to the car and got both girls into their carseats before I broke down crying. To this day, I'm still wary of the perils of Wal-Mart.
It wasn't until hours later, curled on the couch with my Squee while the whole story poured out of my mouth as tears streamed from my eyes, that I began to understand. In his quiet way, he gently explained what I had already started to piece together: it was the same for him each time his PTSD anger flared up.
Each episode for me is different than it is for Squee. He jumps when he hears a balloon pop because it sounds like a gunshot; I jump because I know he only hears a gunshot. My own triggers center around my daughters and my Squee, any threat to them can bring She roaring forth in full force. His triggers are far more complex and vary in the severity of his reactions. I have shorter, smaller episodes so long as I am not already emotional. If I'm upset, my episodes last for what feels like an eternity. Squee's episodes always feel that way to him. While similar, our experiences are not the same. His easiest attacks are still more severe, longer, and take more out of him physically than my worst episode.
The harshest episode of mine occurred last year, where an argument between Squee and I spurred a fight in which he asked if I wanted him to leave. This happens occasionally, when the days have been so tense that any small thing will trigger a shouting match, but for some reason that day I took it differently. As my vision went spotty and I lost the ability to breathe, I felt myself drowning in a swirl of light and muffled sound, while Squee sat with me on the bed and talked to me, trying to bring me out of it. I remember being overly angry that he wasn't touching me, because I was sure that it meant he was still angry about our fighting earlier. I was also sure that it meant he would simply choose to leave now, since he had already broached the subject while upset and was much calmer now, but still saying the same things. All I could see was him leaving, and never looking back. It was the longest, most intense panic attack of my life, and I pray it never happens again. Afterwards, we had to come to a new agreement on how we fight, and we mutually took the 'Do You Want Me To Leave?' card off the table. In a PTSD marriage, there are certain things you do for the sanity of your partner, and never asking me that question again is one of those things that my Squee has agreed to for my sake.
While I may never fully understand what my Squee suffers while he grapples with PTSD, I do see the results of his struggle. He is stronger than his PTSD, stronger than even he knows, but I see it. He can't see the value in his character that I see. I feel, on many levels, that PTSD is proof that our veterans still possess their humanity, regardless of the horrors they have witnessed and endured. to still retain that part of one's self, when faced with such atrocity, is proof of strength indeed.
There comes a point in many caregivers' lives that they begin to wonder if they suffer from Secondary PTSD. Mine came when Siren was almost two, and we went on a family vacation to Disney in Orlando with Squee's oldest brother and his family, and Squee's parents. We were at Epcot, enjoying the park, and found an excellent place to view the fireworks. Squee had been mentally preparing for this all day, whereas I didn't realize I had a reason to be concerned. Then, the show started, and the fireworks began. At first, I was a little edgy, but just assumed it came from being at a theme park all day with a toddler and a PTSD spouse. Then, the night got darker, and the fireworks kept coming. And coming. Boom after boom, thudding through my limbs and my chest, and I saw Siren put her hands on her stomach, her brows furrowing. She was uncomfortable too. I scooped her up, and we stepped inside a shop with a sympathetic keeper who saw our reactions to the fireworks. I calmed a little as she did, and we went back outside, in time for the finale, which was my biggest mistake. While Siren was now resilient and had realized that the 'booms' were also pretty, I completely fell apart.
Part of me wonders if Squee had expected my reaction, because he held his ground without any outward signs of stress aside from how hard his arms were gripping me while I had my first panic attack. The only lights visible as my vision went black were the endless colorful fireworks that accompanied the thunderous rapports making me physically ill. My breathing became short and shallow gasps resulting in choppy half-explainations that Squee hushed. I had no idea what was happening to me until he explained it in whispers while he held me to his chest. The show came to an end, a crescendo of light and sound and wonder that would have been beautiful had I not been blinded with unshed tears. It hit me then, that every time PTSD takes him away from me, this is akin to the hell he is dragged into.
After the first panic attack, I realized that I was slowly starting to change. I wasn't aware of how drastic the changes were until I was a mother for the second time, when Banshee was about three or four months old. I has Siren and Banshee in Wal-Mart on a busy Saturday morning after dropping Squee off at work. Siren was being her usual outgoing self, chattering to everyone she saw that would listen to her while I desperately tried to get her to stop. You see, she had just recently begun to flag people down specifically to spin her life story, mostly because she was so proud of her sweet baby sister. That day, she was in rare form, and had managed to corner a young woman that I will always refer to as The Lady.
The Lady was a young woman, just a little older than myself, who looked for all the world like she was an elementary school teacher. She had a nice smile and kind eyes, and I felt no fear for Siren talking to her. Until, that is, she reached out and touched Banshee.
I have never considered myself an overprotective mother. On the contrary, I felt that I was fairly reasonable. But then The Lady's hand touched Banshee's foot, and in my mind, something warped. Time slowed. And I felt something else take me over, something primal and dark and dangerous. That primal force exists within me still, I commonly refer to it as 'She' or 'Her' in context, and in that moment, She stepped in and took my place. I watched in horror in my mind as She reached out and wrapped Her hand around the delicate wrist of The Lady. She knew exactly where to twist to inflict the most damage and break The Lady's wrist, how long it would take for The Lady to register the pain and be capable of screaming, and how long it would take for Her to get Siren and Banshee out of the store.
In my mind, I heard The Lady's bones crunch, I felt her wrist splinter beneath my hand, registered the confusion in her eyes followed immediately by the pain, heard her piercing scream of agony as she wrenched away from me. But thankfully, it remained solely within my mind, and She became quiet again. When She did, The Lady was still cooing at Banshee, and I shook my head, stuttering an apology and inventing an excuse (I think it was a fake phone call, but I doubt it was believable) to make a hasty exit with the girls after abandoning the cart of groceries. I made it all the way to the car and got both girls into their carseats before I broke down crying. To this day, I'm still wary of the perils of Wal-Mart.
It wasn't until hours later, curled on the couch with my Squee while the whole story poured out of my mouth as tears streamed from my eyes, that I began to understand. In his quiet way, he gently explained what I had already started to piece together: it was the same for him each time his PTSD anger flared up.
Each episode for me is different than it is for Squee. He jumps when he hears a balloon pop because it sounds like a gunshot; I jump because I know he only hears a gunshot. My own triggers center around my daughters and my Squee, any threat to them can bring She roaring forth in full force. His triggers are far more complex and vary in the severity of his reactions. I have shorter, smaller episodes so long as I am not already emotional. If I'm upset, my episodes last for what feels like an eternity. Squee's episodes always feel that way to him. While similar, our experiences are not the same. His easiest attacks are still more severe, longer, and take more out of him physically than my worst episode.
The harshest episode of mine occurred last year, where an argument between Squee and I spurred a fight in which he asked if I wanted him to leave. This happens occasionally, when the days have been so tense that any small thing will trigger a shouting match, but for some reason that day I took it differently. As my vision went spotty and I lost the ability to breathe, I felt myself drowning in a swirl of light and muffled sound, while Squee sat with me on the bed and talked to me, trying to bring me out of it. I remember being overly angry that he wasn't touching me, because I was sure that it meant he was still angry about our fighting earlier. I was also sure that it meant he would simply choose to leave now, since he had already broached the subject while upset and was much calmer now, but still saying the same things. All I could see was him leaving, and never looking back. It was the longest, most intense panic attack of my life, and I pray it never happens again. Afterwards, we had to come to a new agreement on how we fight, and we mutually took the 'Do You Want Me To Leave?' card off the table. In a PTSD marriage, there are certain things you do for the sanity of your partner, and never asking me that question again is one of those things that my Squee has agreed to for my sake.
While I may never fully understand what my Squee suffers while he grapples with PTSD, I do see the results of his struggle. He is stronger than his PTSD, stronger than even he knows, but I see it. He can't see the value in his character that I see. I feel, on many levels, that PTSD is proof that our veterans still possess their humanity, regardless of the horrors they have witnessed and endured. to still retain that part of one's self, when faced with such atrocity, is proof of strength indeed.
Warnings, Questions, and Answers
Each case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is as unique and complex as the person involved. Squee is a multi-faceted person, his individual experiences in combat combined with his injuries changed his personality, but the Squee from 'before' is still within him, he just works around the layers of PTSD. Every veteran suffering from combat PTSD is similar, but they are not all the same. In the wake of recent tragedies involving veterans, I find myself often questioned by well-intentioned but misguided folks about different aspects of Squee's PTSD. Often I've been warned to leave, for the safety of my children and myself, by people who believe that all Post Traumatic Stress Disorder sufferers are violent, crazy, or out of control. This isn't the truth of things, though tabloids and headlines will only tout the extremes as the norm. I decided long ago that it wasn't worth the effort to befriend other veteran wives unless they too understood PTSD, because eventually the aforementioned conversation would take place, and I can say from a place of honesty and sincerity that if one more woman implores me to leave my husband and abandon my marriage, I'm going to lose my mind, my temper, and total control of my mouth.
Many of these concerned women speak from a place that sounds like experience but smells like fear. They voice concerns that stem from a place of personal unease and hardship, without regards to the fact that individuals with PTSD are still, in fact, individuals, and not simply a faceless disorder. From my own experiences, I know a few truths. The first of which is that, no matter how 'violent' a disorder PTSD has a history of being, my husband is not a violent man. Even during his worst anxiety attacks, his harshest blackouts, and his worst nightmares, he has never physically injured or attempted to hurt me or our daughters. So, given my past 8 years of experience as being his other half, I am easily offended when those who don't know myself or my Squee personally dispense unsolicited advice.
Don't get me wrong, we aren't without our struggles. We argue about the usual married couple issues. We argue about silly little things that don't matter. We gripe and complain, nit-pick and goad each other into fights, but we never, ever let it get physical and we always, always work it out. Though we have our problems, there has never been a time during this PTSD circus when I have doubted how much he loves me or how much I love him. That doesn't mean we haven't asked ourselves those difficult questions before.
Once, very early in our marriage, I had to ask myself an important question: could I stay? The question came to mind after two particularly harsh weeks of arguing, bickering without talking, and occasionally sleeping separately. I was awake at four in the morning, listening to the sounds of Squee's breathing beside me, and searched my soul for the answer. While in thought, Squee shifted beside me, inching closer to my side the way he always does in his sleep when he's having a nightmare. I felt the change in his breathing, getting faster as panic set in while he remained asleep. It had been this way for weeks on end, the result of yet another new medication his doctors had piled on top of his already extensive regemin. The problem witht his medication is that it didn't 'help him sleep' as intended, but instead threw him into an 8 hour flashback nightmare that he couldn't wake up from or control. Not for the first time, Squee reached out to me in his sleep, and without thinking, I reached for him too. My answer came in that moment, when his hand closed over mine. I married Squee because I love him deeply, I stay because that will never change.
I told that story to explain the depth just a bit of my agitation. Out of all the 'wrong' things to say to a PTSD wife and mom, anything that remotely sounds like you are questioning them on their marriage choice is definitely #1 on my list, and I'd like to share four others that irk me just the same.
#1) The aforementioned and yet often heard, "I don't see how you can stay married to him, PTSD is dangerous!" and all it's variations.
A) Usually, this is the person that cannot fathom that a relationship can work (and in many cases flourish) when faced with difficulties. My responses to this vary, based upon how it is addressed. Those who attempt to be polite get a placating smile accompanied by "Squee's stronger than PTSD," something that I believe whole heartedly. Those who say it the way I wrote it get a scathing diatribe that issues forth from my mouth like a river of lava, reminiscent of a Biblical judgement. It is not PTSD that is dangerous, but rather behaviors that are exacerbated by PTSD that can seem violent. If a person had almost zero propensity towards violence before PTSD, chances are slim that PTSD induced violence will become the norm for that individual. This sort of blanket approach when it comes to understanding PTSD that all caregivers despise, because it strips away everything we do daily to remind our veterans that they are much more than the disorder they struggle with.
#2) "You never have any time for your friends!"
A) Understandably so. Being a caregiver is the new title for an old job, but just because it is now classified as a job doesn't mean it is the same as traditional work. There is no down time, days off or calling in sick. When you add children into the equation, it makes the job much more complicated. So, when you make demands rather than requests on our time, it creates resentment. Do it too often, and we begin to reassess your role in our lives. At a certain point, friends who aren't conducive to our family's healing process are eliminated.
#3) "Do you ever wear real clothes anymore?"
A) Jeans, yoga pants, sweats and t-shirts are part of our unofficial uniform. So are flip flops and messy ponytails, and faces void of makeup because the demands on our time are greater than the time we have to get 'pretty'. In fact, according to Siren, my wearing shoes is her first sign that we must have a VA appointment. I think you should consider yourself lucky that I had the time to shower and brush my teeth, just don't ask me when I shaved my legs last.
#4) "Aren't you tired?" or, the snarky "Don't you get sick of doing everything?"
A) In a word, we're exhausted. Caregivers are always tired, a good night's sleep being a thing of the past for most of us. And to the snarkier commenters, yes, we do get sick of doing 'everything'. Even when 'everything' is just the laundry. So do most stay at home wives and moms, at one point or another. Caregivers who work outside the home also get tired of the workload, because stressors don't disappear during an 8 hour workday, they just pile up higher. Of course we're tired, so are our veterans. Isn't everyone?
#5) "His PTSD can't be THAT bad..."
A) Warning: this is probably one of the most dangerous things you can say to a PTSD veteran's caregiver, because it could result in bodily harm to the speaker. PTSD severity varies greatly from individual to individual. Squee's PTSD keeps him from doing many things, but doesn't inhibit his ability to do others. So, while many are unclear as to how Squee and I can go to a firing range for target practice where the buzzing of bullets is commonplace when firework bangs and booms can trigger anxiety attacks, those of us who understand a little more about PTSD know that it is about individual nature of the sufferer. Saying this around me is likely to get you a nice Southern 'blessing' that I'll be somewhat sorry for later if it occurs in the presence of my children. This phrase, or a variant thereof, has cost me three friendships and placed an irrevocable wedge in my relationship with my mother. Simply put, if you don't live with PTSD everyday, you probably don't understand PTSD.
In a PTSD marriage, there are things you can change and things you can't. I can't change the minds of people who sneer at us as though we're diseased when we explain PTSD. I can keep educating anyone who asks me sincerely about our struggles. I can't safeguard against every trigger, stop every flashback or end every anxiety attack. But I can be there when they happen, a shoulder to lean on, someone else to share the burden my Squee bears. And I would never change that.
Many of these concerned women speak from a place that sounds like experience but smells like fear. They voice concerns that stem from a place of personal unease and hardship, without regards to the fact that individuals with PTSD are still, in fact, individuals, and not simply a faceless disorder. From my own experiences, I know a few truths. The first of which is that, no matter how 'violent' a disorder PTSD has a history of being, my husband is not a violent man. Even during his worst anxiety attacks, his harshest blackouts, and his worst nightmares, he has never physically injured or attempted to hurt me or our daughters. So, given my past 8 years of experience as being his other half, I am easily offended when those who don't know myself or my Squee personally dispense unsolicited advice.
Don't get me wrong, we aren't without our struggles. We argue about the usual married couple issues. We argue about silly little things that don't matter. We gripe and complain, nit-pick and goad each other into fights, but we never, ever let it get physical and we always, always work it out. Though we have our problems, there has never been a time during this PTSD circus when I have doubted how much he loves me or how much I love him. That doesn't mean we haven't asked ourselves those difficult questions before.
Once, very early in our marriage, I had to ask myself an important question: could I stay? The question came to mind after two particularly harsh weeks of arguing, bickering without talking, and occasionally sleeping separately. I was awake at four in the morning, listening to the sounds of Squee's breathing beside me, and searched my soul for the answer. While in thought, Squee shifted beside me, inching closer to my side the way he always does in his sleep when he's having a nightmare. I felt the change in his breathing, getting faster as panic set in while he remained asleep. It had been this way for weeks on end, the result of yet another new medication his doctors had piled on top of his already extensive regemin. The problem witht his medication is that it didn't 'help him sleep' as intended, but instead threw him into an 8 hour flashback nightmare that he couldn't wake up from or control. Not for the first time, Squee reached out to me in his sleep, and without thinking, I reached for him too. My answer came in that moment, when his hand closed over mine. I married Squee because I love him deeply, I stay because that will never change.
I told that story to explain the depth just a bit of my agitation. Out of all the 'wrong' things to say to a PTSD wife and mom, anything that remotely sounds like you are questioning them on their marriage choice is definitely #1 on my list, and I'd like to share four others that irk me just the same.
#1) The aforementioned and yet often heard, "I don't see how you can stay married to him, PTSD is dangerous!" and all it's variations.
A) Usually, this is the person that cannot fathom that a relationship can work (and in many cases flourish) when faced with difficulties. My responses to this vary, based upon how it is addressed. Those who attempt to be polite get a placating smile accompanied by "Squee's stronger than PTSD," something that I believe whole heartedly. Those who say it the way I wrote it get a scathing diatribe that issues forth from my mouth like a river of lava, reminiscent of a Biblical judgement. It is not PTSD that is dangerous, but rather behaviors that are exacerbated by PTSD that can seem violent. If a person had almost zero propensity towards violence before PTSD, chances are slim that PTSD induced violence will become the norm for that individual. This sort of blanket approach when it comes to understanding PTSD that all caregivers despise, because it strips away everything we do daily to remind our veterans that they are much more than the disorder they struggle with.
#2) "You never have any time for your friends!"
A) Understandably so. Being a caregiver is the new title for an old job, but just because it is now classified as a job doesn't mean it is the same as traditional work. There is no down time, days off or calling in sick. When you add children into the equation, it makes the job much more complicated. So, when you make demands rather than requests on our time, it creates resentment. Do it too often, and we begin to reassess your role in our lives. At a certain point, friends who aren't conducive to our family's healing process are eliminated.
#3) "Do you ever wear real clothes anymore?"
A) Jeans, yoga pants, sweats and t-shirts are part of our unofficial uniform. So are flip flops and messy ponytails, and faces void of makeup because the demands on our time are greater than the time we have to get 'pretty'. In fact, according to Siren, my wearing shoes is her first sign that we must have a VA appointment. I think you should consider yourself lucky that I had the time to shower and brush my teeth, just don't ask me when I shaved my legs last.
#4) "Aren't you tired?" or, the snarky "Don't you get sick of doing everything?"
A) In a word, we're exhausted. Caregivers are always tired, a good night's sleep being a thing of the past for most of us. And to the snarkier commenters, yes, we do get sick of doing 'everything'. Even when 'everything' is just the laundry. So do most stay at home wives and moms, at one point or another. Caregivers who work outside the home also get tired of the workload, because stressors don't disappear during an 8 hour workday, they just pile up higher. Of course we're tired, so are our veterans. Isn't everyone?
#5) "His PTSD can't be THAT bad..."
A) Warning: this is probably one of the most dangerous things you can say to a PTSD veteran's caregiver, because it could result in bodily harm to the speaker. PTSD severity varies greatly from individual to individual. Squee's PTSD keeps him from doing many things, but doesn't inhibit his ability to do others. So, while many are unclear as to how Squee and I can go to a firing range for target practice where the buzzing of bullets is commonplace when firework bangs and booms can trigger anxiety attacks, those of us who understand a little more about PTSD know that it is about individual nature of the sufferer. Saying this around me is likely to get you a nice Southern 'blessing' that I'll be somewhat sorry for later if it occurs in the presence of my children. This phrase, or a variant thereof, has cost me three friendships and placed an irrevocable wedge in my relationship with my mother. Simply put, if you don't live with PTSD everyday, you probably don't understand PTSD.
In a PTSD marriage, there are things you can change and things you can't. I can't change the minds of people who sneer at us as though we're diseased when we explain PTSD. I can keep educating anyone who asks me sincerely about our struggles. I can't safeguard against every trigger, stop every flashback or end every anxiety attack. But I can be there when they happen, a shoulder to lean on, someone else to share the burden my Squee bears. And I would never change that.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Our Wounded Warrior, My Squee
When I say that Squee isn't just my husband, but my soul mate, please understand that I mean it with all my heart. For some reason that makes absolutely no sense, Squee and I were made for each other. Our story is so simple, but so complicated, sometimes happy, sometimes sorrowful, occasionally tragic but we get through together, because we know we're worth fighting for.
Squee is my hero, though he cringes at the term. Without him, I don't know where I would be, but I know I don't like the thought. Every day, he battles with the TBI and PTSD that are his unseen scars of war, something to go along with the shrapnel scar in his neck from a mortar round that went off fifteen feet away from him, and the limp he gets when the hip he fractured in boot camp aches. No, he doesn't think of himself as a hero, but he bears the scars of one.
On many levels, Squee tries to downplay his service. He says he was only doing what needed to be done, and gave his service in the hopes that our daughters wouldn't have to sacrifice in the same fashion. He doesn't understand the depth of my gratitude for his service. He understands I'm thankful, but in all honesty, had he never served, we never would have met. We were set up by a friend in common while he was still in Iraq, and even then it was only a few emails here and there. We met when he came home on leave in October of 2004. He was a lean, strong 20 years old to my awkward 18, he was confident but shy, sweet but unlike anyone I'd ever met. I'd say that I was in love with him by the end of that first date, but really, thinking back, there might as well have been an audible 'click' when we first met, because that's when things changed so completely for me.
It was a Wednesday night at Great Clips where I was the receptionist, and I had just clocked out when his car pulled into the parking lot. One of my manager's regular customers was there, an older gentleman I called Mr. Edward, because while he gave me permission to use his first name, his age demanded a bit more respect. Mr. Edward had already finished with his haircut, nearly a half hour before in fact, but when he found out I was going out on a blind date he wanted to stay and meet Squee. Mr. Edward and his wife were two of the happiest, sweetest people I had ever met, and hopelessly in love after over 40 years of marriage, several of which his wife battled cancer. In my opinion, if there was advice to be given on finding your soulmate, and more importantly keeping them, I could ask them for it. So when Squee's car pulled in, and I felt that pre-date anxiety hit, Mr. Edward just smiled at me and said that being so nervous was a good sign, it meant that Squee already meant something to me. And he was right. In just a few emails and one phone call, Squee had become very important to me indeed.
It wasn't the moment he walked in, or even when our eyes first met. Nope, that audible 'click' that meant that everything had just fallen into place sounded when he first smiled at me. From that point on, I was his, and he was mine. Our first date was typical, dinner and a movie, but different somehow. After talking, we realized we had friends in common and had actually met once before as kids, though neither of us remembered much about it. When he drove me home, I asked if I could kiss him, out of concern that because he hadn't made a move in that direction and if a goodnight kiss didn't happen, I was afraid he would never call me again. He agreed with a sly grin, and our first kiss rounded out our first date.
That was in October of 2004. Now, in 2013, after 8 years together and rapidly approaching 7 years of marriage, I can still see that grin in my mind. I remember the moment I fell in love with him, the moment the world clicked into place and gained purpose. I remember it on the bad days, the days when PTSD gets her claws into him and doesn't let go, when he's grouchy or snippy or demanding, that there's another side to him. That the moodiness isn't his choice, he would much rather be happy and calm. I replay those moments to remind myself of precisely why I fell in love with Squee, to help bring focus on the days when the road to happiness seems unclear. So when I am confronted by someone who asks me how I can stay with Squee because of his PTSD, I reply that I stay with my Squee, the warrior that I see, the hero that I love, because he is more than just my husband. He's my partner, my best friend, the father of our three daughters (Siren, Banshee, and Echo), my other half, and my soulmate; I mean it with all my heart, because my Squee is my heart.
Squee is my hero, though he cringes at the term. Without him, I don't know where I would be, but I know I don't like the thought. Every day, he battles with the TBI and PTSD that are his unseen scars of war, something to go along with the shrapnel scar in his neck from a mortar round that went off fifteen feet away from him, and the limp he gets when the hip he fractured in boot camp aches. No, he doesn't think of himself as a hero, but he bears the scars of one.
On many levels, Squee tries to downplay his service. He says he was only doing what needed to be done, and gave his service in the hopes that our daughters wouldn't have to sacrifice in the same fashion. He doesn't understand the depth of my gratitude for his service. He understands I'm thankful, but in all honesty, had he never served, we never would have met. We were set up by a friend in common while he was still in Iraq, and even then it was only a few emails here and there. We met when he came home on leave in October of 2004. He was a lean, strong 20 years old to my awkward 18, he was confident but shy, sweet but unlike anyone I'd ever met. I'd say that I was in love with him by the end of that first date, but really, thinking back, there might as well have been an audible 'click' when we first met, because that's when things changed so completely for me.
It was a Wednesday night at Great Clips where I was the receptionist, and I had just clocked out when his car pulled into the parking lot. One of my manager's regular customers was there, an older gentleman I called Mr. Edward, because while he gave me permission to use his first name, his age demanded a bit more respect. Mr. Edward had already finished with his haircut, nearly a half hour before in fact, but when he found out I was going out on a blind date he wanted to stay and meet Squee. Mr. Edward and his wife were two of the happiest, sweetest people I had ever met, and hopelessly in love after over 40 years of marriage, several of which his wife battled cancer. In my opinion, if there was advice to be given on finding your soulmate, and more importantly keeping them, I could ask them for it. So when Squee's car pulled in, and I felt that pre-date anxiety hit, Mr. Edward just smiled at me and said that being so nervous was a good sign, it meant that Squee already meant something to me. And he was right. In just a few emails and one phone call, Squee had become very important to me indeed.
It wasn't the moment he walked in, or even when our eyes first met. Nope, that audible 'click' that meant that everything had just fallen into place sounded when he first smiled at me. From that point on, I was his, and he was mine. Our first date was typical, dinner and a movie, but different somehow. After talking, we realized we had friends in common and had actually met once before as kids, though neither of us remembered much about it. When he drove me home, I asked if I could kiss him, out of concern that because he hadn't made a move in that direction and if a goodnight kiss didn't happen, I was afraid he would never call me again. He agreed with a sly grin, and our first kiss rounded out our first date.
That was in October of 2004. Now, in 2013, after 8 years together and rapidly approaching 7 years of marriage, I can still see that grin in my mind. I remember the moment I fell in love with him, the moment the world clicked into place and gained purpose. I remember it on the bad days, the days when PTSD gets her claws into him and doesn't let go, when he's grouchy or snippy or demanding, that there's another side to him. That the moodiness isn't his choice, he would much rather be happy and calm. I replay those moments to remind myself of precisely why I fell in love with Squee, to help bring focus on the days when the road to happiness seems unclear. So when I am confronted by someone who asks me how I can stay with Squee because of his PTSD, I reply that I stay with my Squee, the warrior that I see, the hero that I love, because he is more than just my husband. He's my partner, my best friend, the father of our three daughters (Siren, Banshee, and Echo), my other half, and my soulmate; I mean it with all my heart, because my Squee is my heart.
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