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.
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