Red gets it

A few days ago I had a two hour long phone conversation with Red.  This is what happens when we don't keep in touch.  Which seems strange, since we were nearly inseperable at Walter Reed.  But, I am glad that despite all of the craziness that we've maintained our friendship -- he's the only one I feel totally comfortable talking about PTSD-related issues and know that he really does understand.

We're both on medication and although at seperate points didn't want anything to do with drugs, neither one of us will tolerate someone saying that we'd be better off without the drugs or that our medication just doesn't work.  Neither one of us is employed and we're living on a fixed retirement income.  (It's still strange to think of myself as retired.)  We struggle going out into public and would rather stay in our safe zones.  We are prone to doing strange or "abnormal" things when we're stressed.

And while it sounds terrible, neither one of us feels like we have a purpose.

Red's sense of purpose came from the Army.  Mine was from goals that I don't believe are possible to achieve now.

Our friends and families don't understand.  Our therapists try their hardest to convince us to think otherwise.  They don't get it.

Red does, and I'm grateful for that.

he won't win

I would like to take this time to remind you that giant squids are going to take over the world and that prescription medications don't work after three months.

You can thank my brother-in-law for those. Granted, I blew those statements even more out of proportion than he did, but you get the idea.

Stoner stirred up some drama during our little vacation that ruffled just about everyone's feathers. Everything from lying to Wolf about a supposedly overheard phone conversation where I said I didn't want to be there to telling everyone who would listen that I was a manipulative bitch. If he was trying to get the family to dislike me it was too little, too late. The ones that matter already knew me at that point and I'm pretty sure I left a positive impression on those that I hadn't met yet. I am new, Wolf and I suit each other well, and I have actually lived a life that didn't involve sex, drugs and rock 'n roll -- therefore I am an evil manipulative know-it-all bitch who is a bad person that no one should associate with. Welcome to the family.

Part of me is upset because I have this urge to please everyone even when I know it's not possible. And getting along with Stoner is going to be one of those things that is just not going to happen. I don't put up with myths and lies about antidepressants. Sorry, after being on them for more than a year and doing my own share of research, I'm not going to sit there and listen to someone tell me that my drugs don't work. Not to mention that I have the habit of calling bullshit when something just sounds absolutely ridiculous. My mouth gets me in trouble -- I know this. Let him call me names and hate me. I'm going to do my very best to not care.

I have a wonderful husband, two beautiful dogs, stories about foreign countries, an education and a loving family. And I'm not going to let him win by making me upset.

Thanksgiving

Home again. This time it was for a second Thanksgiving meal. I didn't think I would come, especially without Wolf with me. But, I got on the train all by myself. No husband, no friend, no dog. And I did just fine.

On our way to the train station, Wolf asked me what I was thankful for. Honestly, I didn't give him much of an answer because I really didn't want to talk about it. Yes, I know how strange (or stupid) that sounds.

Here's the list:

• Wolf, for sticking around through the bad days and dragging me out to do the things I really don't want to do.
• My parents, for patiently dealing with relatives that just don't get it.
• My friends, for dragging me back into socializing, be it through outings, phone calls, or emails.
• My guild, for being so understanding and easy to talk to.
• My dogs, for being my constant daytime companions -- not to mention the cuddles, kisses, and invitations to play.
• My medication, because better living through chemistry is a wonderful thing.

Honestly, I should add the blog to the list... but I need to actually, you know, write. Maybe it'll help me connect the dots better.

Going Home

I am taking the train home tonight with mixed feelings.

The man I used to work for at the planetarium passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. His heart just stopped. Twenty minutes later they got it working again and while his body was living, he was long gone.

He and the planetarium were some of the things that kept me going while I was deployed and again while I was at Walter Reed. During the deployment I would call about once a week and he would tell me everything that was going on. Even though he was very much against OIF/OEF and would go protest downtown every week, he was very supportive of the actual Soldiers. He always told me how proud of me he was.

Although he was married, he and his wife never had any children. But, as I once told him, we were his kids -- the planetarium techs, the students he tutored, and many more, I'm sure.

I'm not going to lie -- there were some things that I stumbled across or happened that made me feel rather anxious about being around him. Go ahead and call me paranoid, but I'll just blame the PTSD. The last time I really spent time with him was New Year's Eve. I'm still not sure how I feel about that.

But I can tell you that no matter how much my feelings are mixed, I am going to miss him very much.

old challanges in new places

The dust has settled for the most part. The wedding and associated planning is over, Wolf is back at work, and I'm officially retired from the Army.

Fortunately, the to-do list has grown shorter. Set up my compensation exam, write thank-you notes, finish moving in and settling down. And, of course, wait.

Wolf and I were anticipating the move to be stressful, but I don't think either one of us expected it to be this bad. I've noticed that I feel much better at my parent's than at the apartment. I won't leave the apartment (other than potty breaks for the dogs) without Wolf. And then it's a matter of time before I start tweaking out and feeling detached. Which then leads me to wonder what people must be thinking when they see me like that. Not an easy cycle to break.

My biggest fear of going out alone is that I would fall and hurt myself and everyone would react and get too close which would probably only make things worse. I wear a medic alert bracelet just in case. Having someone there makes me feel more secure, but it doesn't prevent that feeling.

There's been talk of getting an assistance/response dog. A program trained dog that's big enough to be noticed by others (and act like a barrier), tall enough for balance work, and able to calm me and get help. Some programs don't allow working dogs to be placed in homes with pets or have some kind of restriction. I don't see Wolf or myself giving up our animals. If this is something we decide to do, we'll likely have to fight an uphill battle.

(Then again, what hasn't been an uphill battle lately?)

the desert hasn't left me

I may have left the desert, but I don't think the desert will ever leave me.

It's been almost eleven months since the MEDEVAC. Most of the sand has been scrubbed out of my boots and uniforms. My friends seem to have settled back down into routines that civilians would deem normal. I enjoy the lack of several, sometimes strict, restrictions that I had lived under a year ago.

But, it's not uncommon for me to view the world through a veil of memories from the desert. Drifting snow reminds me of drifting sand. The sound of thunder takes a few seconds to register. And the recent summer rains? Mudstorms, hard packed sand, flooded streets and walkways -- not to mention the association to a few bad memories. The landscape from quick news clips of Iraq look all too familiar. Even the mental pictures I have of Ky and Aramis have a desert backdrop.

Honestly, I thought summer would help. I thought that having a lifestyle closer to what I was used to pre-deployment would help. I thought that being around friends and family would help.

I went away and came back a different person -- for better or worse -- and I don't think I'll ever be able to look at the world they way I used to.

I got the phone call

Today, I got the phone call.

The Army had declared me medically unfit for service, they decided that it was service-related, and it was determined that I would get 30% disability. But, even with all of that, I was still in the Army.

That phone call? It was to let me know that I've been put on the list of Warriors in Transition to be out-processed from the Army next month. Out. Done. Retired.

(Finally.)

Retired at 23

My PEBLO called last week and informed me that I've been offered 30% disability and temporary disability retirement pay. It's exactly what I wanted, so of course I accepted. Now I hurry up and wait again for my discharge and my retirement pay to kick in. Only a little over a month more until that happens. In case you were wondering, it's the same thing Red received. Only he fought much longer than I did -- he really did want to stay in and return to his unit in the worst way. Considering I was MEDEVAC'd in August, it's taken nearly a year to get discharged. Although, I must admit, if I had said in Germany or Walter Reed that I wanted out of the Army I wouldn't have stayed on active duty this long.

It is a little weird to think of both Red and myself as medically unfit to serve, even if it is the truth. If you were to talk about it with my mom, she would tell you that I was never medically fit to join the Army in the first place and if I had stayed in the band, everything would have been just fine. I wouldn't be screwed up. I wouldn't be hiding in the house and avoiding people. Yes, I made the decision to learn another job and deploy -- but it's not my fault that I came back like this.

And really, who wouldn't expect change from a person who's been away from home, in a completely different environment, in a completely different culture (both military and host country), and a completely different daily routine? I didn't just come back with PTSD. I have new friends, a fiance, new interests and hobbies, and more insight and understanding of that part of the world. That's the short list. I don't regret choosing to deploy. I just wish things had turned out better.

it's been awhile

It wasn't until I logged in that I really realized how long it's been since I've written much of anything. Internet at my jobsite is filtered -- more than what it was in the desert -- and I don't really have a workstation to myself anyways. And there's all of that regular life stuff.

In a nutshell:

• Red is out of Walter Reed and on temporary retirement. (He's only 20.)
• I have been officially declared unfit for duty.
• My packet is at the med board, where they will decide how much disability and what separation benefits I'll get.
• Wolf and I have spent a lot of time together -- in fact, there's a rock on my finger. Technically, thirteen of them.
• The date is July 22. There's no rhyme or reason for picking that day, either.
• Someone has dragged me into the world of computer games. It's only contributing to the agoraphobia.
• I'm moving to upstate New York. Have I mentioned how much I hate snow?

Really, I do live.

bad start to the new year

Christmas may have been wonderful, but the New Year ended up being a disaster.

Red came to visit -- we were practically inseparable while at Walter Reed -- and for the most part it was one stupid argument or another. One was over dog training. There was more than one night that he slept on the couch and there was definitely days that I wanted him to drive back to DC. I wish I was joking.

That's not to say it was all bad. He tried to surprise me New Year's Eve by bringing me my Ativan and stayed for two shows. (Weeks later, I wished he stayed until I left.) We went out and did a few fun things -- which is a big deal for both of us.

But when your ex-boss tries to kiss you, your friend gets smashed and cries on your mom's shoulder, and you go to bed before the ball drops? Not such a good holiday.

And yes, I have a feeling that I'm going to report another incident of sexual harassment. I don't think I'll go back into the planetarium for a long time, if ever. I don't think I'll be involved in their big projects. And I don't think that I'll even register for classes next semester.

After everything that's happened, I just can't put myself in that kind of situation.

at least I had a good holiday

Switching meds is not fun. The nurse wanted to try SSRIs again, which have been nothing but unpleasant in the past. I may or may not be allergic. We've started low and slow on one that isn't so nasty. It will be awhile before I'm up at an effective dose again.

In the meantime, life sucks. I am back to that "please let me be, I don't want to do anything" mode.

I wish the Army would hurry up and fire me.

not rock bottom

For all the writing I haven't been doing, you'd think I would be out and about in this world. There are four places I go to on a semi-regular basis: work, the pet store, the VA, and the Physics Department -- in that order. I'm beginning to wonder if my home has become more of a self-inflicted prison rather than a safe place.

I didn't think that going out into the world after Walter Reed would be a big deal. Sitting in the doctor's office is anxiety-inducing, and my Primary Care Manager looks at my knee bouncing up and down with a very concerned look. She has a hard time accepting that it isn't her that's making me anxious. The grocery store and most other retail places are outright uncomfortable. I go numb. I know where I am, I can talk to you, but I don't exactly feel "there". I move slow and feel weak, worrying that I will collapse. Without the dog, it's very difficult to be "there". My parents took me to a concert just last week. Dad checked at least twice to make sure my knee wasn't hitting the back of the seat in front of me. I don't go out with friends -- I haven't even met up with my civilian friends yet. Life is lived in "safe" places: home, work and the VA. And I hate it. I want my life back.

Wolf is incredibly patient, constantly telling me that I'm getting better. My definition of better is not being tweaked out and anxious about stupid stuff. His definition of better is how often I smile, how long I can stand to be in a store, how I interact with people, how much stamina I have -- not things like my current dosage of meds or how much a jump at a noise.

On several occasions, Wolf and I have had conversations about how bad it's been. He left the desert in March and he could tell that I wasn't doing too good then. Aramis left for another base in July. Before he left, he asked if I would be okay. I knew I wouldn't. I'm pretty sure he knew as well. We've never talked about it. Rock bottom was late July-early August. And I really do mean rock bottom. It was a very slow and painful downward spiral that was drawn out over several months, and we all knew it.

This is not rock bottom. I am not crying myself to sleep. I am not wishing to disappear. I am not keeping it all to myself anymore. Most importantly, I am not lying to the doctors.

This is not rock bottom.

Mental Health PostSecret

I did actually have both a Chaplain and a nurse tell me something very similar to that. They only made me cry harder.

changes, for better or worse

The things I wished had never changed:
-the ability to go out alone without worrying about my well-being
-thinking that it was impossible to jump at the sight of my own shadow
-trusting male senior NCOs soldiers, regardless of rank, without question
-the possibility of obtaining a pilot's license for myself

The things I'm glad I did change:
-ditching MeuExAmor
-going no-contact with several men that were once in my life
-my opinion about psych medication
-learning to stand up for myself

The things I want to change:
-having any kind of feelings for my nephew
-my fear and trust issues with relationships
-not jumping at every single thing that startles me
-convincing my brain that the world isn't all that bad out there

home at last

I've been home for nearly two weeks now. It's been a bit of an adjustment.

Until I'm done with the military or treatment, whichever comes first, I'm still active duty. My primary place of duty is the VA clinic in town for appointments. If I'm not there, I'm at the job site. No outside employment. Not allowed to go back to school full time. I call my platoon sergeant every single day, my case manager multiple times a week, and I'll probably be talking to the social worker about once a week. There was no more than a day off of working and appointments when I first got home. No travel outside of a 200 mile radius without putting in leave. And don't dare ask for a pass -- it's probably not going to be approved anyways.

I know that I shouldn't complain. I'm home, I'm still getting paid, and I am not spending a cent on medical treatment. It's just not the idea of home that I'm used to.

My family -- well, most of them -- have been awesome. There was a problem when my brother came to visit and our parents stepped in and dealt with it. The holidays are going to be a bit interesting, and not in the good way.

Going back to campus was easier than expected. Bossman was so happy to see me. Someone had mentioned that he probably was lonely, with most of the gang graduated or otherwise busy. One of the professors assured me that I was no different in the eyes of the department and that as far as most were concerned I did my time and came back. Which is always reassuring.

Even though I know it's not possible, part of me wishes that it was like how it was before I left. Life moves on. And that's okay.

The goal is to get better, not to roll back the clock.

the good, the bad, the ugly

The Good:
-The sound of rain is still surprising.
-I'm no longer terrified of the metro. (Just don't add crowds.)
-I've remembered how fun it is to step on the really crunchy leaves.
-I will be home for the holidays.

The Bad:
-I still carry the tiny anti-anxiety pills. I hope I don't have a drug test any time soon.
-I have been awakened in the middle of the night by someone else's PTSD-related nightmares. More than once.
-I can tell when he's dreaming about Iraq, and I know when to wake him up.
-I don't know if I'm ready to face the not-so-supportive members of my family. I don't know if I can politely avoid talking about my issues and treatment.

The Ugly:
-A knock on the door makes me scream. It always startles everyone involved.
-He will not leave the room unless he has to after I go home.
-I'm afraid that I won't be able to go out alone after I leave.
-He knows what the roll of tape is for. I think it scares him.

Military Secrets

These are all postcards from the community art project known as PostSecret. People are invited to write a secret they have never shared and anonymously send it in.

The following are postcards that I either saw in the PostSecret books or floating around the web. They all are in one way or another related to Operation Iraqi Freedom or military service. My goal is to post military related cards as they come out, as PostSecret does not have an archive.

A note on two of the cards that share thoughts of going to Iraq and never coming back: this is more common than you realize. There are serious mental health issues in military community that never get addressed because of the stigma of getting help. Some seek help, but most do not. No one wants to be thought of as crazy. Not all commands know and understand mental health and treatments that are available. There are soldiers every day that at least think about crawling into a bunker, a port a john, or some other secluded spot with a loaded weapon and never seeing their loved ones again. And those are just the ones in theater. PTSD can kill someone slowly once they're stateside when they turn to alcohol or drugs to deal with it.

Help is available. All you have to do is ask. If necessary, demand it. Take yourself in. The only person that can take care of you is yourself.

coming to terms

In a way, I've come to terms with being in a psych ward. Yes, people have called me crazy both in jest and maliciously. My reply? I'm not in denial about it and am receiving treatment. Which is more than a lot of people can say.

My family doesn't know much about what brought me here. They know I was MEDEVAC'd. They know I'm being treated for PTSD and depression. They know pieces of what happened. I don't think I can bring myself to tell them the whole story and I'm not sure how long I can get away with that. For now they're happy that I'm coming home to continue treatment.

A few months after I start the treatment at home, someone in my treatment team will have to make a decision about my disposition. Do I get a permanent profile and go back to duty or do I go in front of a Medical Board to plead my case and possibly chaptered out? It's not my decision -- I really don't care how it goes so long as it's done in a way that I will never be deployed again. My normal drilling status as a Guardsman expires in late July, and after that I have two years of inactive status where I can be (and a lot of people are) pulled for deployment.

There will be no reenlistment. My Army career will end with this -- the hospitals, the doctors, the probing questions, the introspection.

Believe it or not, I'm okay with that.

malicious acts

During my visit and all of our lounging around and being lazy, we spent time in Wolf's barracks. Two of the three nights I visited the barracks went just fine.

The third night, a Friday, didn't go so well. It started with someone knocking a broom around on walls and floors. When we stepped out into the hall and asked who did it, all we got were shrugs and "I don't knows". I caught the soldier messing with a broom, told him that I have PTSD and asked him to stop pounding on things. His response was "What's PTSD? Oh that post-traumatic thingy..." (We're all required to have training on PTSD so there's really no excuse to not know what it is.) The banging continued. It was making me jumpy so we made the brooms disappear. All was quiet for a few hours, probably because of the drinking going on downstairs.

Then someone came upstairs and pounded on the door. I screamed. Barracks went silent. No one came to check to see what was going on. Another long period of quiet. More banging on the door, another scream from me. I was beyond freaked out at that point. The banging progressed to someone just yelling up the stairs... and me still screaming. Hyper-arousal kicked in, and I was sitting on the bed staring at the door, straining to listen for someone sneaking up the stairs, and not really able to talk or move.

Wolf went out to investigate after each incident. He told them that I have PTSD, stop banging and yelling, and that I was freaking out so bad that he was afraid that it would take an ambulance to get me out of there. He also asked who was doing the banging, the yelling. No one in the group confessed. No one told. And I know they all heard me scream.

After I finally got out of the barracks (it took an hour and a half), we stopped by the staff duty desk to report what happened. A few of the people from the group downstairs had walked over as well. The sergeant on duty asked them what happened. Want to what guess their answer was? "Nothing." When what was really going on could have been marked up as harassment. And that was not even including the underage drinking.

I still can't believe that they would protect themselves and each other when they knew that person was being malicious to another person.

We weren't asking for much -- just for the banging and shouting to stop. We both thought that it was a reasonable request.

I hope that that night, my screams stays in at least one of their minds. I hope they think about what happened. And, as terrible as it is to say, I hope it haunts them.

I really want to believe him

I survived the bus trip -- a very nerve wrecking solo event -- and made it there and back without a problem. I enjoyed a very lazy week, an expensive dinner, and huge pancakes with Wolf. We played lots of computer games, bought too many books, treated ourselves to goodies, and had several long conversations.

He said that I did very well. Apparently he was expecting the worst: unable to sit through a meal at a restaurant, overwhelming anxiety in crowds, jumping at every little noise, breaking down in tears.

My definition of doing well is different. It is not one that includes flashbacks or pelvic pain. There are no mad dashes for the car after feeling trapped in the commissary. There would not be an emergency bottle of tranquilizers in my camera bag. And I would not scream, yell, or jump when startled.

Wolf constantly reassures me that it will get better. I really want to believe him.