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.
Monday, March 25, 2013
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.
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