“The Demons of War are Persistent” - A Personal Story of Prolonged PTSD

As friends and family gather to celebrate another joyful holiday, I am often disheartened, reminded by vivid memories of lost friendships and battlefield carnage that erratically seeps from a vulnerable partition of my mind. The cerebral hiding place I concocted, decades before, as a mechanism to survive in society. I unwittingly clutch at a profound loneliness as I avoid searching for memories of my youthful years. If I dare to gaze into my past, I must transcend a cloak of darkness weaved to restrain the demons from so many years before.

My pledge to God, Country, and Marine Corps was more than forty years ago. As a young, unproven warrior, I consented to the ancient rules of war. At eighteen, like many others, I was immersed in the ageless stench of death and carnage, in the mountains and jungles of Vietnam. However, my journey began much earlier, on a sixty-mile bus ride with other nervous teenagers, to New York City’s legendary Induction Center at 39 White Hall Street.

We went through lines of examinations and stood around for hours, recognizing one another’s bare asses before we could learn each other’s names. We did not realize so many of us would remain together in squads and fire teams, building deep-seeded bonds of friendships along our journey. Our initial ‘shock’ indoctrination began immediately at Parris Island; intimidating Drill Instructors scrambled our disoriented butts off the bus, organized us into a semblance of a formation, and herded us to the barracks for a night of hell!

Anxiety, second-guessing our decision to join, and apprehension was our welcoming. Following what we thought would be sleep (but was actually a nap), we awoke in awe to explosive clamor, as the DIs banged on tin garbage can lids next to our bunks, yelling ‘get up you maggots.’ Even the largest recruits trembled.

We remained maggots for the next few weeks and began intense physical and mental training, slowly recognizing the importance of “the team” instead of “the individual.” In less than sixteen weeks we were proud United States Marines. It was a short celebration though, as we loaded our gear and headed, in order, to Camp Lejeune, Camp Pendleton, Okinawa and then the Philippines, where we continued to enhance our stealth and killing skills, before executing these talents on the already blood-soaked fields of Vietnam.

We argued and fought amongst ourselves as brothers often do. Still, we never lost sight of the bonds we shared: We were United States Marines with an indisputable commitment to “always cover each other’s back.” Crammed into the bowels of Navy Carrier Ships, we slept in hammocks with no more than three inches from your brother’s butt above you. The sailors laughed as these self-proclaimed “bad-ass Marines” transformed into the wimpy “Helmet Brigade.” We vomited into our skull buckets for days on our way to Okinawa, where we would engage in counter guerrilla warfare training. Aware that we were going to Vietnam, we partied hard in every port. The first of our battles were slug fests in distant bar-room brawls.

Conversely, our minds were opened to the poverty and living conditions of these famous islands in the Pacific. Their reputations preceded them, but stories about war with Japan—John Wayne movies—were not what we found. Instead, we found overpopulated, dirty cities; we were barraged constantly by poor children seeking any morsel of food. In the fields, families lived in thatched huts with no electricity or sanitary conditions. While training I experienced the horror of being chased by a two-ton water buffalo (with only blanks in my rifle). Moments before, this same beast was led around by a ring through its nose by a ten-year old boy. Worse than the chasing was hearing the laughter of brother Marines watching me run at full speed, trying to find something to climb.  In a tree, I felt as though I was losing the “macho” in Marine, and we were still thousands of miles from Vietnam.

In confidence, we spoke as brothers about our fears, hardships growing-up, family, girlfriends, times of humiliation, prejudice, and what we planned to do in our lifetime once our tour of duty in Vietnam was over. We knew each other’s thoughts and spoke as though we would all return home alive, never considering the thought of death or defeat. We had not learned that lesson, yet. Moreover, we dreamed of going home as respected American warriors who defended democracy in a remote foreign land, standing proud, feeling a sense of accomplishment, and experiencing life, as none of our friends at home would understand. Our country had called and we answered.

We transferred to a converted WWII aircraft carrier that carried helicopters and Marines instead of jet planes. We were to traverse the coast of Vietnam and deploy by helicopter into combat zones from the Demilitarized Zone, the imaginary line separating North and South Vietnam, to the provinces and cities of Chu Lai and Da Nang. Then further south, to the outer fringes of Vietnam’s largest city, which was, at that time, Saigon.

Within sight of land, we heard the roar of artillery, mortars and the familiar crackling of small-arms fire. These were sounds we were accustomed to because of months of preparing ourselves for battle. However, for the first time, we understood the sounds were not from playing war games. Someone was likely dead. Anxiety, adrenaline highs, and fear of the unknown swirled within my mind.

Was I prepared? Could I kill another man? Would another man kill me? From that point forward, death was part of my life. We would eventually load into helicopters, descending into confrontations ambivalent, yet assured we were young, invincible warriors. We were convinced the South Vietnamese people needed us; many of them did. Thus, our mission was simple: save the innocent and banish the enemy to Hell!

The first time we touched down on Vietnam soil, we mechanically spread out in combat formation. Immediately, everything I was taught to watch out for rushed through my mind: “Was the enemy around us?” “Was I standing near an enemy grenade trap, or stepping toward a punji pit filled with sharpened bamboo spikes?” Seeing our company walking through the low brush gave me comfort, until an unexpected explosion deafened our senses. We immediately hit the ground and went into combat mode, establishing our zones of fire. There was nothing to think about except engaging the enemy. We were ready for battle.

We waited, but heard no gunfire or rockets exploding, only a few Marines speaking several hundred feet away. One yelled, “I can’t F’N” believe it!” We learned our first meeting with death was due to one of our brother’s grenade pins not being secured; we assumed it was pulled out by the underbrush. Regardless, he was dead. Staring at his lifeless body, I felt the loss of youthful innocence gush away.

One engagement began with us being plunged into chaos from helicopters hovering a few feet off the ground. We anxiously leapt—some fell—into the midst of an already heated battle. The enemy sprung a deadly assault upon us. I became engrossed in the shock, fear, and adrenaline rush of battle. It was surreal! It was also not the time to ponder the killing of another human being, recall the rationale behind the ethics of war, or become absorbed in the horror of men slaughtering each other. Thoughts of war’s demons certainly were not on my mind.

When the killing ceased and the enemy withdrew, I remained motionless, exhausted from the fighting. With only a moment to think about what had just occurred, the shock, hate, and anger were buried under the gratitude of being alive. I had to find out which brothers did or did not survive, and as I turned to view the combat zone, I witnessed the reality of war: dreams, friendships, and future plans vanished. We knelt beside our brothers, some dead, many wounded, and others screaming in pain. A few lay there dying silently.

As I moved about the carnage, I noticed a lifeless body, face down, and twisted abnormally in jungle debris. I pulled him gently from the tangled lair, unaware of the warrior I had found. Masked in blood and shattered bones, I was overwhelmed with disgust and a primal obsession for revenge as I realized the warrior was my mentor, hero, and friend.

My voice fragmented, I spoke at him as if he were alive: “Gunny, you can’t be dead! Son-of-a-bitch, you fought in WWII and Korea, how can you die in this God for-shaken country! Get up Marine!” Tears seeped down my face; I whispered that he would not be forgotten. I placed him gently in a body bag, slowly pulling the zipper closed over his face, engulfing him in darkness.

Navy Corpsmen—our extraordinary brothers—worked frantically to salvage traumatized bodies. We did our best to ease the pain of the wounded as they prayed to God Almighty. “With all my heart I love you, man,” I told each friend I encountered. However, some never heard the words I said, unless they were listening from Heaven. I was unaware of the survivor’s guilt brewing deep inside me.

In two or three weeks our mission was completed; we flew by helicopter from the jungle to the safety of the ship. None of us rested, instead remembering faces and staring at the empty bunks of the friends who were not there. I prayed for the sun to rise slowly, in order to delay the forthcoming ceremony for the dead.

Early the next morning, we stood in a military formation on the aircraft carrier’s deck. I temporarily suppressed my emotions as I stared upon the dead. Rows of military caskets, identical in design, with an American flag meticulously draped over the top, made it impossible to distinguish which crates encased my closest friends. As taps played, tears descended. For the first time I understood, that in war, you never have a chance to say goodbye. I pledged silently to each of my friends that they would never be forgotten: A solemn promise I regretfully only kept through years of nightmares or hallucinations.

Combat is vicious; rest is brief; destroying the enemy was our mission. We fought our skillful foes in many battles, until they or we were dead, wounded, or overwhelmed. Engaging enemy troops was horrific in both jungles and villages. We had to either accept or build psychological boundaries around the terror.

Nonexistent were the lines of demarcation; we constantly struggled to identify which Vietnamese was a friend and which was a foe. The tormenting acknowledgement that a woman or child might be an enemy combatant had to be confronted; it was often an overwhelming decision to make.

I was not aware of the change in my demeanor. In time, I merely assumed I had adjusted emotionally to contend with the atrocities and finality of war. I acquired stamina, could endure the stench of death, eliminate enemy combatants with little or no remorse, suppress memories of fallen companions, and avoid forming new, deep-rooted friendships. I struggled to accept the feasibility of a loving Lord. I never detected the nameless demons embedding themselves inside of me.

At the end of my tour, I packed minimal gear and left the jungle battlefields of Vietnam for America, never turning to bid farewell or ever wanting to smell the pungent stench of death and fear again. Within seventy-two hours, I was on the street I left fourteen months prior, a street untouched by war, poverty, genocide, hunger, or fear.

I was home. I was alone. Aged well beyond my chronological years of nine-teen, I was psychologically and emotionally confused. I was expected to transform from a slayer back into a (so-called) civilized man.

Except for family members and several high-school friends, returning home from Vietnam was demeaning for most of us. There were no bands or cheers of appreciation or feelings of accomplishment. Instead, we were shunned and ridiculed for fighting in a war that our government assured us was crucial and for an honorable cause. I soon found that family, friends, and co-workers could never truly understand the events that transformed me in those fourteen months.

I changed from a teenage boy to a battle hardened man. I was not able to engage in trivial conversations or take part in the adolescent games many of my friends still played. For them, life did not change and “struggle” was a job or the “unbearable” pressure of college they had to endure. It did not take me long to realize that they would never understand; there is no comparison between homework and carrying a dead companion in a black zipped bag.

The media played their biased games by criticizing the military, never illuminating the thousands of Vietnamese saved from mass execution, rape, torture, or other atrocities of a brutal northern regime. They never showed the stories of American “heroes” who gave their lives, bodies, and minds to save innocent people caught in the clutches of a “controversial” war. For years, my transition back to society was uncertain. I struggled against unknown demons and perplexing social fears. I abandoned searching for surviving comrades or ever engaging in conversations of Vietnam.

Worse, I fought alone to manage the recurring nightmares, which I tried to block away in a chamber of my mind labeled; “Do not open, horrors, chaos and lost friends from Vietnam.” However, suppressing dark memories is almost impossible. Random sounds, smells, or even words unleash nightmares, depression, anxiety and the seepage's of bitterness I alluded to before. I still fight to keep these emotions locked away inside me.

Today, my youth has long since passed and middle age is drifting progressively behind me. Still, unwelcome metaphors and echoes of lost souls seep through the decomposing barriers fabricated in my mind. Vivid memories of old friends, death, guilt, and anger sporadically persevere. There may be no end, resolution, or limitations to the demons’ voices. They began as whispers and intensified—over decades—in my mind.

“Help me buddy!” I still hear them scream, as nightmares jolt me from my slumber. I wake and shout, “I’m here! I’m here my friend,” and envision their ghostly, blood-soaked bodies. I often wonder if more Marines would be alive if I had fought more fiercely. “I had to kill!” I remind myself; as visions of shattered friends, and foes hauntingly reappear at inappropriate times.

Guilt consumes my consciousness as I recall the mayhem of war, and what we had to do to survive. As well I question: Why did I survive and not them? Most horrible, however, is the conflicting torment I feel when I acknowledge that I am thankful it was others instead of me.

Regardless of which war a person fought, I am sure many of their memories are similar to mine, as many of mine are to theirs. I never recognized the persistence of the demons, nor realized how quickly they matured deep within my soul. Disguised and deep-rooted, the demons cause anxiety, loneliness, depression, alcohol abuse, nightmares, and suicidal thoughts; traits that haunt many warriors for a lifetime. For thirty-five years, I would not admit these demons were inside me, and believed seeking medical assistance for what was going on in my mind, was a weakness in a man.

It was not until the first Gulf War began in 1990, that I sensed the demons were again bursting from within. No matter how hard I tried to avoid them, I could not escape the vivid images and news coverage of every aspect of the war. Eventually, the bodies and faces in the media were not strangers anymore; they were the faces of my brothers from a much older and forgotten war. Encouraged by peers and several family members, I finally sought assistance from VA doctors, who immediately diagnosed me with PTSD and began an ongoing treatment program.

During my third or fourth group therapy session at the VA, the psychiatrist leading the meeting persuaded me to speak about myself, starting with my overall thoughts of my tour in Vietnam, but then focusing on what I accomplished instead of what I lost.  After a long hesitation, I told them the greatest accomplishment in Vietnam was the hundreds of people our teams personally saved from rape, torture, or savage death.                         

We did not give a damn about the politicians and college students arguing back home, or running off to Canada to avoid the draft. We were enlisted Marines, on the front lines, protecting innocent people caught up in a horrific war. 

My most positive moment, I continued, was when I lifted a three-year-old girl from the rubble that separated her from her parents, who were slaughtered by the Viet Cong for giving us rice the day before. Though traumatized and trembling in fear, she reached up to me, and I cradled her gently in my arms and made her smile for only a moment. I handed her to one of our extraordinary corpsman, and continued to seek out the enemy who committed these atrocious murders. It was then I understood why I was in Vietnam. 

However, as with everything I masked in my subconscious, I obscured that moment of compassion for decades until this small therapy group encouraged me to glance back and look for positive events buried within the worst of my war memories.

Regarding my post-war years, the doctor asked me to focus on my career, an area where he knew I had some success. I explained that when I left the Marines after four years, I was youthful and confident in myself. I had no clue what depression and anxiety were, and I thought the nightmares were personal and temporary. I was determined to look forward, and in no way backwards to the war. Unfortunately, today I realize that while constantly looking forward helped me avoid chaotic memories of war, it also cloaked the memories of my formative younger years, and positive events throughout my life.

I never relished talking about myself, and thought it would be a good time to stop. However, the group asked me to continue. As peers, they knew I needed to feel a purpose, and not think my life was a second-rate existence. I was reluctant; as I looked around the room and knew many of the Vets succumbed to PTSD early in life and did not fare as well as I did. I felt I was about to sound like a wimp, or worse, a self-centered ass.

Awkwardly, I began to tell them - with many gaps - about my career after Vietnam. My first recollection was one they all understood. I went through eleven or twelve jobs feeling totally out of place. Watching sales managers gather their teams, and with fanatical enthusiasm tell us how great we were, and together we would attain the highest sales revenue, whipping all other regions. To me, compared to combat in the jungles of Vietnam, this was a game.

Feeling extremely frustrated within the environment of civilian life, I was ready to head back to the military. However, before reenlistment happened, I got married to my current wife of 40 plus years, who will be the first to tell you living with a type-A personality with PTSD is often a living hell, especially since she had no idea what I was battling. But, neither did I. Like millions of warriors before me, I never spoke to anyone about the war, or the nightmares that abruptly woke me, soaked in sweat and tears.

I decided not to reenlist and pursued a career in business. After numerous jobs, I finally landed a position with a bank repossessing cars - a small-scale adrenalin rush, at times. Within five years, I worked my way up to branch manager.  

Bored, of my repetitive tasks in banking, I accepted an offer from a very large computer company to join as a collection administrator. Though it seemed as if it was starting over, I was promoted into management within a year.  Focusing on new business challenges aided me in keeping the demons at bay. Subsequent promotions followed.

Within roughly eight years, I was selected to attend Syracuse University to attain a degree in Management - paid by the company at full salary.  I continued to accept challenging positions in finance, marketing, business development, sales and world travel.

At first, traveling to other countries was great, but after the second or third twenty-one-hour flight to Bangkok or Singapore, it got old quick. I began to realize boredom and repetition were major catalysts for my emotional setbacks; having too much time to think was a recipe for falling hard into the bowels of PTSD.

As years passed, anger, frustrations, mood swings, and depression were common events affecting me, my family and career. I stopped moving forward, and spent more time battling the memories of the past. It was at that time I understood the demons never leave; they simply wait for a sliver of weakness to overwhelm you.

Consequently, these conditions, as well as heightened road-rage, quick to anger, and sometimes not able to carry on an articulate conversation, I unenthusiastically retired early from my very well-paying job.  This, of course, decreased my income significantly, and opened new crevices in my rapidly deteriorating armor. The demons seized a stronghold; they are persistent.

I have still not won the battle against the demons, but, with the help of therapy, outside physical activities, medications and writing; I look ahead again. The demons continue to haunt me with nightmares, depression, memory loss, anxiety and the need for solitude.

Although I am not able to sit down with a vet and talk about war, I have taken on a cause through writing stories, to reach out to young and senior veterans to help break the stigma of PTSD, by seeking reinforcement. It took me, with present-day support from younger vets at the Journal of Military Experience [http://militaryexperience.org], over the course of six years to finalize this story. I mention this so others can move forward in his or her life; by knowing what I and others know now.

I wish someone cited the following recommendations to me earlier in my life; although being young and macho I probably would not have listened.  However, here are a few suggestions from one old warrior, to those of all ages:

·                  Break through the stigma of PTSD and get medical assistance - PTSD is real!

·                  Unless you are in a high-risk job, you will probably not experience the adrenaline rush and finality of your decisions as you did in combat. For me, I lived by playing business games - never finding the ultimate adrenaline rush again. It is a void within me, I think about often.

·                  The longer you wait for treatment, the harder it will be to handle the demons. They do not go away and can lay dormant in your soul for decades.

·                  Understand that it is never too late in your life to begin looking forward and achieving new objectives.

·                  If you do not want to speak about PTSD with your family or friends, then hand them a brochure from the VA that explains what to look for, and why you need their support. You do not have to go into detail about the tragedies of war, but without your loved ones’ understanding of your internal battle, your thoughts can lead to divorce, loss of family relationship, or suicide – a terrible waste of a hero.

·                  Silence and solitude is not the answer! If you have PTSD you may not be able to beat it alone.

·                  If you are concerned about your military or civilian job, seek help from peer resources. They have experienced what you have been through, and will help keep you living in the present, instead of the past.

·                  Or contact a person in a peer support group anonymously. They will not know you, but will talk for as long as you wish.

·                  You cannot explain the horrors of war to someone that has not experienced it, except maybe a PTSD psychologist. 

·                  Get up off your ass and take a serious look into yourself! Accept the fact that if you have continuous nightmares, flashbacks, depression, bursts of anger, anxiety, or thoughts of suicide, you have PTSD. If so, talk to someone who can help.

·                  There is also financial assistance through the VA, which may help you avoid living a life of destitution.

Finally, let your ego and macho image go. There are many individuals and groups today wanting to help you. If you do not seek help, you may find yourself alone and bitter for a lifetime. The demons are not going away, but with help, you can learn to fight them and win one battle at a time.  Please contact the resources below!

                                               Semper Fi!

Submitted By: AW Schade, USMC 1965/69, Vietnam
                             awschade@gmail.com  www.awschade.com

HEY VA, CAN YA HEAR ME NOW!!!!!!

Funny how things play out in life.  You know that little voice in your head or gut that often you hear most clearly laughing and saying, "I told ya so!".... You know what I am talking about?

Well, my inner voice is pretty well developed, I just have behavior problems and often chose to ignore it.  I actually have grown tired of it saying, "Told ya so", and have decided to start changing my *behavior*.

Red flags, knots in my stomach, electric zings up and down my body, sudden flushes of heat, that annoying, nagging, "Something isn't quite right here" in the back of my head.  These are ways my inner self, my already installed security system, this is how it alerts me.

And I love to set it off, and then ignore it.

Here is the latest example.  I should have acted sooner.  I am as MUCH to blame for delay in care as anyone else.  Should have pushed harder.  Sooner.  Listened to my inner voice.

My husband has had a marked decline in hearing for the past year.  He has always been hard of hearing since Iraq, but the VA only diagnosed it as Tinnitus.

"Now Mr. Peterson, if you are lying, we will know.  You will prosecuted, you could even go to jail", Dr. Peck said.  This was in 2006.  You think after being threatened with jail for HEARING problems this Soldier was going to "complain" about anything else?!  Hell no.

And so he didn't.

But I knew.  I saw.  I watched.  I lived.

My husband is deaf, my little voice would tell me.  There is NO way he could NOT hear me.  And the thing is, his hearing only became more non existent in crowds, busy environments, and cluttered places.  Like sensory overload.

I also watched nurse after nurse, doc after doc, at the VA, tell my husband, "yep, fluid on your ears".  And pass it off as nothing.  No professional ever connected WHAT THE WIFE WAS SAYING, WHAT THE VET WASN'T HEARING, and WHAT THEY THEMSELVES WERE SEEING with my husbands multiple blast exposures.

BAROTRAUMA!!!!!!

But I digress.  My husband went to ENT today, and the confirmation was turned into validation for me.  He has moderate to severe hearing loss in BOTH EARS across the BOARD.  

NO SHIT.

Tell me something I don't know.

It is 7 years of delayed diagnosis and failed treatment AGAIN.  To which I say, BRAVO!  But, such is life (at the VA).  

They are overworked, the system is TOO full, and I know hundreds of Veterans and their stories to prove it.  However, those are not my stories to tell.  And I am okay with that.  My world finally, FINALLY, just got a little clearer.

HEY VA..... CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW!!!??????


~LOVE ALWAYS, 

Kateri

Kateri is the proud wife of an OIF Army Veteran, fierce advocate, and loyal supporter of FOV.  Kateri's writing is often the in your face, this is how it REALLY is, exposé that our community needs.  Often her writing comes with a disclaimer.  

Trendy Update to a Mundane Caregiver Task

The silver linings of meltdowns is the opportunity to recreate your environment to allow for positive change and growth.  This has been an incredibly long winter for my family, full of tantrums, homework, exhaustion, medical appointments, and existing awfully close to "crisis".  Things came to a head over 2 weeks ago, and with the support, mentoring, and "boots on the ground" intervention of a beloved friend, we were able to not only just "get through" this time, but do so with an added benefit: A trendy update to the most annoying and more complicated than it has to be job as a caregiver, wife, mom, household six... and that is the CALENDAR!

Picture a desk calendar taped to my cabinet in the kitchen.  It visually disrupts the flow of the area, and the small spaces and multiple horizontal lines subconsciously repels my husband from ever looking at it.   My friend, a woman who lives states away and is also a caregiver, is absurdly well versed in this life after combat stuff.  She sees my family from afar, yet is able to intimately and with marksman like accuracy, is able to anticipate needs and identify trouble spots. More importantly, she had a real world solution for my family that was implemented within days of identifying the stuck point and made sure to follow up with me by phone calls, texts, and even a Google Hangout session involving both myself, AND my husband.

Ever since I left my job late last year, I have found myself often standing in my kitchen, or living room in a daze, overwhelmed, exhausted.  I was not adjusting as well as I wanted to being at home full time for my husband.  Everyone else around me seemed to be status quo, either no improvement (in husband- well, some....lets be optimistic), or vast improvement (kids not having to deal with overwhelmed, can't-process-the-movement, or I-don't-get-what-you-want daddy).  I was feeling overwhelmed.  The husband was still forgetting appointments, even though I would tell him when I wake him in the morning.  He was still forgetting breakfast, often not eating until I notice his color in his face goes from normal to ashen.  I was beginning to lose hope.

One thing I noticed was things started to pile up in the hutch.  Charing cords, crayons, books, papers, pictures.... Whatever needed to be stashed quick so the kids didn't monkey with, went into this big black hutch in our kitchen.  Something in my home didn't feel right.  It didn't flow.  In fact, visual clutter disturbs and agitates my husband, so that is why the quick tuck it away habit became routine.  I was starting to feel like my home was not reflecting our personality as a family, and it was beginning to wear on me.  It was no longer feeling like home, and here I am, now home full time, not understanding why.

On top of this "feeling out of place", I was feeling like a failure because we were always rushed, always remembering appointments at the last minute, trying to catch phone calls, trying to remember where he put the mail.  I didn't have the energy for pretty updates, adding my flavor to this house, etc.  When my friend intervened, she must have sensed that, and gave me the perfect solution to what clearly was several areas of stuck points.

Mission Control

Instead of using the hideous wall calendar taped to our cupboard, we found a super cheap way to use aesthetically pleasing arrangement of frames as white boards for the days of the week.  Here is a picture of the Husband approved (which means it doesn't annoy him, he LIKES it, and.... he LOOKS at it) area.

The most important aspect of this beautiful masterpiece, is the Sunday Night Meeting.  Every Sunday evening, the kids, the man, and myself, go through each day, and with a dry erase marker, write down appointments on the glass.  We review the family rules.  In the picture, you will 3 picture frames on the table (that is the hutch, we took off the huge top part, and stored it).  One frame is typed, easy to read phone numbers essential to our family.  Doctors, hospitals, police, poison control, and friends and family members that we can call no matter what at any time for any reason- this is a MUST.  If your family is experiencing a crisis or emergency, it can be difficult to remember who you can call for support.  The two larger frames on the table contain a spot for "Mommy time" and "Daddy time", and "Family time" and "Mom and Dad" time.  I have realized that my years as a nurse, my education, my street smarts didn't follow through on the home front. Just like at work, things are scheduled so the operation runs smoothly.  It is easy to overlook "mom and dad" time I realized.  I can't remember the last time my husband and I took the time to purposely and meaningfully attempted to plug in to each other.  I realized that the redundant "family movie night" in on friday nights with the family (our usual family time) was just another way for my husband and I to decompress and unplug while we essentially faked real, meaningful "family time".  Now that we have to write down (and let the kids give us input for the activity), we realized we sure were watching a LOT of movies, and that the kids didn't even want to have family movie night every week.

A thought about scheduling "alone" time for each parent: It is imperative.  I know I often feel more relaxed and in control when I am centered.  Mommy time, or daddy time, means just that.  Free to decide, no kids, time to yourself.  And how much time is appropriate?  Since this is new to us, we decided to try a few 2 to 3 hour blocks for the husband more frequently, and for me, once a week for a few hours.  He is much less grumpy when he is allowed more time, it takes longer for him to decompress, and just the normal chatter of kids can be a source of frustration to him.  The great thing about this is we decide something needs to change, you just wipe away, and rewrite.  Much better and visually acceptable to him than scratching over pen on a paper calendar.

My husband and I have agreed that we need our together time, and we have made small steps toward rebuilding the friendship and intimacy again.  We recently bought the Scrabble board game, and he enjoys it, and often wants to play multiple games.  We LAUGH at each other.  We are both fierce competitors, so sometimes, these games can last a very long time (which I am okay with, because he is pushing himself, and showing interest).  You don't have to go OUT of your house for together time.  That is simply not feasible with my husbands anxiety and his skin issues.  The kids go to bed, and we are left to our own devices.  Something as simple as a board game, who would have thought... but I found myself feeling that very fond, "this is why I fell in love with you feeling".... Silly me.  I had forgotten it is the small things that make a marriage.  That had gotten lost in life after combat.

So back to our trendy update to schedules, let me tell you, my domestic prowess is lacking.  I had no clue how to hang a picture... dry wall anchors? My husband cringed everytime he heard the drill.  He attempted to take over, but we were unsatisfied with the frames that kept tilting and not hanging flush with the wall.  I searched online (Pinterest!) and found a CHEAP, easy, NOT wall damaging solution; Curtain rod!  I used ribbon to hang the picture frames from the curtain rod to add a fancy touch.  Everything was affordable, available from local stores, and total time to complete project was less than 6 hours (unless you are me, which then it takes about 10 hours over 2 days, plus the time to spackle multiple erroneous holes).

Here is the breakdown:

Curtain rod: $10 (sale)
Ribbon: $1.50 per spool (sale)
Frames and
Spray paint (if you want to paint your frames): less than $20
Dry erase markers: $3

So with a little planning, and if you are like me, major life interventions from those who love us most, you can make your house feel like a home, create an easy to read and use family calendar system, and engage the entire family.

Written by resident blogger and advocate for Family of a Vet, a wife of a combat Veteran with PTSD/TBI and other war related things, ~Kateri

I Refuse to Be Shamed into Silence

I am the wife of a "good soldier" who has and continues to serve our country bravely and valiantly. He, as a soldier, is my hero and I will always be proud of his service to our country.

From the outside looking in, it appears that we are living the American dream. In measure of material things, we have more than most. When we are in public, he seems to be a caring and supportive husband. Often other women will tell me how lucky I am because I have such a good, hard working and loving husband. I flash them that "Yes I Know" smile, hoping they don't detect it is only a mask I hide behind to cover the tears that have often flooded my marriage since my husband returned home from deployment in 2006.

The man who came home from that deployment was not the one I sent off to war. Before the deployment, I had a loving, caring and attentive husband. After, I had a husband who was paranoid and full of rage. Before, I never knew my husband to have a headache. After, he had headaches so bad he would almost drop to his knees. Crowds made him nervous and he often had nightmares.

He also did things that revealed he was struggling with impulse control. One day, shortly after he returned home, we had just finished grocery shopping and were pushing a cart full of food to our car. He decided someone had parked too close to our car, so he grabbed a bag of groceries, raised it up in the air, and looked like he was going to throw it on their car. When I frantically asked, "What are you doing?" he froze in his tracks. Not only was I shocked by his behavior, I became more concerned than I had been before. It was at that moment that I realized something was wrong, seriously wrong, but I didn't know what to do about it.

Since that time, we have dealt with many other episodes of his poor impulse control and explosive temper. Most of the time, he seems like a shell, devoid of the ability to love or care about anyone, as if he is empty of all emotion. If anything goes wrong, it is always the fault of someone else, never him. Despite all this, he is still a "good soldier" because he does his job and he does it well. He has become a workaholic. I'm not a doctor or psychologist, but I think he buries himself in his work so he doesn't have to deal with or think about what is causing his anger issues. Because he is a "good soldier", his chain of command does not acknowledge there is a problem and won't have him evaluated for PTSD or anything else that might have caused this change in his personality. After all, he is a "good soldier." A wife and children are unneeded extras in his life. I mean, who hasn't heard the old saying, "If soldiers needed wives and children, they would be issued to them."

If not for my strong faith in God, I know I could not have emotionally survived the last seven years. I don't expect people to understand why I have stayed with him because most don't get it. But in my heart, when I took my vows to him and before God, I fully meant everything I promised. No matter what, through richer and poorer, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, I intended to stay the course and to protect and nurture our marriage. That is what I have tried to do. I am not going to say it has been easy, because it hasn't. At times, it has been nothing but hell on earth. My husband, or the man the military sent home to me after the deployment, became emotionally abusive. I thought I was good at handling it, knowing that it wasn't my husband, but instead some monster inside him. I just wanted to take care of him and help him get better. But somewhere in the process of trying to take care of him, I forgot to take care of myself. The harsh reality of that fact hit me when I found myself being taken to the crisis center in an ambulance in the middle of the night after my husband's intentionally cruel treatment sent me into deep despair. It was then I realized I must take care of myself before I can take care of anyone else.

Healing doesn't happen quickly. I'm not sure I will ever be completely healed. I know I will wear the scars from this for the rest of my life. After hours upon hours of prayer; after struggling with my faith at times; after feeling like God had abandoned me and my marriage; I came to the realization that God was giving me insight that needs to be shared. By doing so, I believe He will help me to continue to heal from the horrors of "this war at home."

This is a difficult topic to write about because there is shame attached to it. This shame causes many to remain silent and suffer alone. It shouldn't be that way but it is. Society tells us we should leave certain types of relationships, so people can sometimes be very judgmental. They don't understand that war has caused "invisible" damage to  many of our soldiers and despite news stories to the contrary, our military leaders are still often ignoring this. Wives and children are now becoming causalities of war as our soldiers return home. Our pain is simply the cost of war and we are just collateral damage in the eyes of many. I refuse to accept that. 

I refuse to be collateral damage in America's most recent war. I refuse to become  a statistic of combat related PTSD and domestic abuse. I refuse to allow people to shame me into silence.

I know I am not the only military wife going through this. I know I am not the only one struggling to get some help for a husband who came back from war an entirely different person. I know I am not the only one who has a need to be heard. I hope that by my sharing the trials and tribulations my marriage has endured due to my husband's military service, not only am I able to continue in my own healing process, but to also help others who need to heal.

Submitted By: "Military Wife"
"This War Is At Home"

Defying Logic

Do you know that in Montana even the snow defies logic?  It doesn't fall down, it goes sideways due to the 50+ mile per hour winds that usually accompany it.  It's mesmerizing to watch it swirl and fly by from inside your window curled up with a cozy blanket and a cup of hot cocoa.

It stinks to drive through it 30 miles one way to pick your TBI husband up from work because his migraines have gotten so bad at 11 PM that you have no choice but to drive in and bring him home safely.  But you load up the kids, warn them to silence, turn on the radio, and make a go of it anyway through the horizontal blizzard while praying silently in your head while you sing out loud mindlessly to the tunes that you make it there alive.

I arrived over an hour later to a husband who's speech was slurred and vision was clearly off.  His memory was worse than normal and his movements reflected the rest of his state.  I was glad I made the choice to drive in and get him - there was no way he could have even gotten himself safely to a hotel in town, much the less survive the drive home. 

I took a moment while filling my gas tank to thank God that it happened today instead of the past two days when I was sick with some variety of food-borne illness.  I thanked God I'd had the sense to not put the kids to bed on time.  I thanked Him for the friend that stayed up chatting with me about baptism outfits for our sons until she couldn't stay up anymore.  I thanked Him for kids that were quiet, that McDonald's was still open at 10 minutes to midnight, and knowing that when I got home, this blog and my FOV friends would still be here to hear the words I can't say to anyone else.

While standing there I couldn't figure out why I was so cold...then I realized I'd left the house in such a rush I forgot to put on a shirt...well, that explains it.  Took a brief moment to thank God once again for a thick, heavy winter coat that no one would be able to tell that under.

As I drove home the experience varied between treacherous road conditions, a husband that was apologizing profusely for "making me come out in this", and a husband that is scared to death he may not be able to work anymore because of these migraines.  My mind was preoccupied with what I had to do when I hit the door - and not just the normal "get everyone to bed".  My mind is focused on the phone calls I'd need to make, the emails I'd need to send.  Who I need to get on board to help solve the problem?  What was the name of that neurologist we saw back in 2009?  Where did I put the phone number of the new local VA employment guy that I can't even remember the name of right now? 

Tomorrow will hopefully hold a pile of phone calls and possibly a few meetings - if I'm lucky a run to the doc's office and a trip over to the pharmacy.  Tonight will hold fear - while he sleeps I will have nightmares of what the next few months will hold. 

TBI Help Ideas Found On Pinterest

Pinterest has become a pretty popular way to find all sorts of helpful things from meal recipes to fun crafts to do with children. However, have you ever thought about using it to find helpful tips and tricks to help ease some of the stress in this Life After Combat? Well, with March being TBI Awareness Month we thought we would share some great ideas we found on Pinterest that could help you out!

Menu Board Tutorial

What a great way to help answer the question, "What's for dinner?"

Dry Erase Weekly Planner

An easy and attractive way to keep up with your weekly schedule!

Another Option for a Dry Erase Weekly Planner

This one is just as attractive but with a more whimsical feel!

Chalkboard Pantry Labels

A much neater and organized look with the ability to change out containers as needed!  I love it!

"I Love You Because..." Frame

A great way to help remind our hero just why we love them and to help ease their doubts!  :)

Cheapo Chalkboards

The uses for something like this are endless!

Individual Box Shelf

What a cool way for our heroes to have their own place to keep things like keys, sunglasses, hats...etc.

Laundry Basket Dresser

Even just one column of these would make laundry organization so much easier to track!

Important Times Center

Though this is more for the classroom I think it could be utilized in the home to help out our heroes with TBI keep track of important times throughout the day.

Have you found any great ideas on Pinterest that would be helpful to a TBI household?  Share them with us and we can add them to our list!  

Connections

Isaiah 40:30-31
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

This is a hard thing to remember sometimes. Even youths will grow tired and weary. For years, I felt like Stretch Armstrong trying to keep my arms wrapped around a family falling apart. In the beginning it was a whirlwind. All I cared about was getting my husband the appropriate medical care, the right doctors to fix whatever was broken. Then years later, I am looking at a husband who works strenuously to keep himself under control, an angry teenager, a depressed daughter and my young son who has no idea that dad changed at all. Oh and me, completely exhausted and not able to recognize myself in the mirror anymore. For my youngest son, it was the easiest. He didn’t see dad go to his baseball games, take him fishing or on a bike ride. So the new dad never wanting to leave the house was ok. Sure he got angry, but it wasn’t too bad. He doesn’t remember the powerful outbursts and raging fits that happened when he first came home. Regrettably, my two older kids remember i!
t all too well. Words were shouted at them in anger, and unfortunately their dad doesn’t remember most of it.

My husband fought so hard to get treatment and it was very difficult to come by, and that is why I stayed with him through it all. Debatably, putting the kids through some horrific fights filled with screaming and hurling objects. My husband was going to any counselor, psychologist and psychiatrist he could. We were going to marriage counseling, but the kids had nothing. I was so consumed with fixing what was broke; I didn’t see what was falling apart right in front of my eyes. My kids were hurting. Instead of beating myself up over the kids’ emotional neglect, I became just as obstinate and stubborn over mending them as I did my husband. My first step in this direction was recognition. Telling the kids, I see what has happened and I know they are in pain. The hard part, after this omission was not letting them get away with murder. I, also, had them evaluated by a counselor. Honestly, she just told me they seemed more grown up then most kids. I didn’t accept her pacified!
conclusion. I knew there was much more going on though, especially, with my two teenage kids. My next move was really penciling in time for them. This is still difficult. Time is always my enemy. It never seems like there is enough. The absolute best move we made though was getting them into a church. Not only, did they have great counseling with the pastors, they had mentors. These mentors for my teens, served as their big brother and sister. It really encouraged the kids to talk, talk and talk some more about everything. It radically changed their perspective.

The last step to transforming the family is taking care of me. It is so important for me to stay healthy, mentally balanced and emotionally available for the kids. It is utterly exhausting to hold my Stretch Armstrong pose around my husband and kids. Sometimes, I need to let go and take care of myself, before I snap. Getting connected is the best advice I can give. It seems so hard, because it’s one more thing to do. Attending events or gatherings is difficult and I absolutely hate making plans, just for them to fall apart at the last minute due to PTSD moments or my husband’s health issues. Either my husband won’t go with me or I can’t leave him home if he’s feeling anxious or angry. It’s nice though to be able to go online a chat with someone. I can do it in the middle of the night, because there are women just like me going through the same thing: sitting up, late at night, alone, can’t sleep, stressed with the weight of the world on their shoulders. Family of the Vet has really helped me connect with some amazing ladies. I can’t thank them enough. Please make time for yourself and connect.

Submitted By: SandyO