When you think about the term Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I bet a face swims into your vision. Depending on your own experiences, it could be the face of a soldier, or of an abused child, or possibly you see a glimpse of yourself. I think that most people who live with or close to PTSD often picture the disorder as the face of the person who is affected, but I have long felt that this is completely unfair to the person suffering from PTSD. It is important to remember that PTSD doesn’t define an individual, but is only one aspect of that person’s life. So, while in our first days together, I pictured PTSD as my husband in uniform, gritty and bloody and hardened in a way I’d never seen him, as our relationship progressed I learned to see PTSD a different way.
In our early twenties, we did what people without children do- we went out with friends, went to parties, and were around a lot of people who were young, like us, and also, like myself at the time, pretty stupid. (I say this, because now as I’m a bit older, I see how utterly clueless I was on so much. I can only imagine the wealth of knowledge I'll be at 40.) During one such get together, there was a particularly pretty girl, who locked her eyes onto my Squee and kept them there, staring in awe. Admittedly, I knew why. Squee isn’t just a good man, he’s handsome, and he has a devastating smile when he chooses to use it. It melted my heart the first time I saw the corners of his mouth turn up, so I can sympathize with another woman who finds herself lost in the same way. But, only to a point.
The end of my sympathetic understanding came when the interested individual was informed that Squee was, in fact, attached to another, and she chose not to turn her attentions elsewhere. It had happened before, and as usual, Squee shrugged the attentions off and paid the bright eyed girl absolutely no mind, but she persisted. And so, the primal, possessive part of me took over, and she and I had a bit of a confrontation (non-violent) that led her to going home earlier than she’d planned. Not many in attendance noticed, thankfully, or it could have turned into an embarrassing situation for Squee. As it stands, I’m not sure if Squee ever really noticed the whole ordeal. But I did, and that girl’s image became ingrained into my mind, synonymous with something that is trying to take Squee away from me.
Fast forward several years, three daughters and dozens of my girlhood insecurities laid to rest, and my visualization of PTSD has morphed into one, not of a hardened Marine with a mortar tube and blood on his neck, because that was my Squee, but of a red-dress wearing woman who keeps trying to pull my Squee away. She has her claws dug in to him, even though he wants nothing to do with her and tries to ignore her. Because, that is what PTSD does. It tries to come between you and the person who suffers, intentionally trying to drag them away, back to the darkness and those hopeless places where it can be in control.
If you personify PTSD, all that PTSD wants is control. But you know what? Years ago, I wouldn’t stand by and let some random girl take him away from me, and I won’t stand by and let PTSD take him either. So, when PTSD rears it’s ugly head, I see three things: Squee, and me, and the red dress wearing PTSD. And while she might have her claws in him, he won’t give in, and I won’t give up. We’re stronger together than we could ever be apart.
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