Why the Mount Dessert Island Historical (MDI) Society Matters for PTSD: Another Fundraising Opportunity

As I have indicated before, I use running to manage my anger, to keep my weight down while taking miztazapine, to help me stay present, and to connect with others who like to push themselves further everyday. Occasionally I am asked to run in order to raise money for a worthy charity and I am compelled to do what I can. Also, it is great to support established charities in order to gain more experience fundraising. I hope I can carry the lessons learned into fundraisers for the The Military Experience and Arts and Team Red, White and Blue in the future. With all the cognitive problems I have with mTBI, I need to practice things a few times before I can get the hang of them and these charities both help worthy causes and teaching me the ropes of fundraising.

In addition to my running I try to hit the trail every weekend with my wife and our dog Darby, because I think making new memories and observing beauty is as valuable as therapy. I used to think you could replace old memories with new ones, but I think that is impossible with trauma. However, getting out on mountains, pushing myself physically and being rewarded with their beautiful summits centers me as well as anything else. Living less than two hours away from Acadia National Park, has made MDI one of the most significant places in my life and for my family. I proposed to my wife on Cadillac Mountain, we were married in Northeast Harbor, and out favorite post hike restaurant knows us by name-it helps to bring a giant Rhodesian Ridgeback every visit.

Darby on Cadillac Mountain

While it is great that this location is significant for my life and my renegotiation of place following Iraq, it may seem unimportant to others suffering from PTSD, and the family members that support them. Nothing could be further from the truth. My colleague, Tim Garrrity, who works there is exploring a topic vital to our understanding of the difficulties suffered by military spouses. His research explores a spike in women's deaths during the Civil War and popular notions of death as a result of broken hearts. While MDI's population was far to small to justify general claims about military spousal deaths after Civil War it provides local context for a phenomenon that could have occurred more broadly. His small study, if emulated by other scholars, has a lot of potential to broaden our understandings of the difficulties suffered by military spouses. This coupled with the research of Erick Dean Jr, and Diane Miller Sommerville on Nostalgia and Confederate suicides as a forerunners to PTSD has the potential to provide deeper understanding of how trauma affected Civil War actors.

My wife is raising funds too.

For me it was a no brainer to support this cause. I love local history, I think the exploration of war's affect on the home is as important as its affect on the fighters, I love MDI, I love running, and I love helping out friends when they ask for it. For you it may be harder to justify helping the MDI Historical Society, but history is important and there is such a narrow field of scholars, and a slimmer number of historians, that value the study war's affect on the home. These posts can average over 500 views and if everyone gave a couple of dollars it would reach the society's goal and really make a difference. I know money is tight for vets, but just $2.62 (donate here) from several people will go along way to support such a worthy cause led by a scholar committed to studying women's history in relationship to war. If you can't support it financially share the post with others and maybe others can help. For me I have found that supporting worthy causes reminds me that my life was always committed to service, and that I should not change just because of the burdens caused by previous service. If nothing else find a cause to support and raise some money for it or give it your time and effort. Giving makes you feel good no matter how hard life gets. Sometimes I get so stuck on my own baggage that I forget to do the basic things that bring you the most joy, like charity and helping others.

Congressionally Mandated Study on Caregivers for Veterans with TBI

If you are a caregiver of a service member or veteran who served in OIF/OEF and returned with a moderate or severe TBI, you may be eligible to participate in a study requested by Congress. If you or someone you know may be interested, please call 1-855-821-1469 or email caregiver.study@dvbic.org.

Caring for Caregivers

If I Had a Caregiver

I don't have a caregiver or someone to share my life with, I live alone with my dog whom helps with the companion component. But, I lack a special someone who empathizes and has compassion towards this disabled vet. An advocate for me when I no longer feel like fighting the system and naysayers and a healer for when the pain is too much to bear. The person whom I trust implicitly when it comes to making executive decisions on my behalf when the PTSD beast bites.

Here's what I'd say to my caregiver if I could;

I trust you the most and it's why I can lay my soul wound bare. I understand it hurts you when I'm not able to reciprocate and you may seem to feel a failing. Please understand when I'm lost in pain, mental and otherwise, you are the angel feeding my soul sutures one stitch at a time.

Thank you for being my beacon and providing a base for reality testing. Sometimes it may seem that I'm lobbing round after round with you scurrying about, within the chaos your feelings and place get lost. I recognize the cost upon our reserves of rationality and understanding when the darkness sets in. When I'm delusional and dissociative you receive the overflow from my war trauma and it rings a high toll. I see you doing everything possible and seeking knowledge when there is none. Above all I see your pain and loneliness when I'm in despair.

I see the struggle to understand my conditions and diagnosis, swimming through paperwork and drowning in supporting me. You do not have to be everything to me because then there would be nothing left for you. I choose you because of your capacity for compassion and love. Not your ability to take on my pain, your soul needs nurturing. Let it go and take a break, go for a walk. It's okay to capture your own mind and read a book or go see a friend. I need you to let your creative side out through networking with other talented people and groups.

When I'm in the trenches and you feel out of options, know that I have faith in you.

To the Combat PTSD Caregiver

Reach out to other spouses in your area or online to help educate and support one another. There are many benefits you can apply for today such as the Caregiver Benefit of service-connected veterans. An organization I highly recommend is Family of a Vet, you can find their link on the upper right hand of this blog.

When things between you two become confusing it is due to his perception of reality has been profoundly shaken. Everything he thought of himself has been shattered to the core including his spirit. I often speak of coming home in body starting as we disembark the aircraft to our home soil. Coming home in mind is a completely different experience and mine happened when I was able to be present all day without dissociating or loosing time to spacing out. This happened in 2010 twenty years after my combat experience. I still loose time, in the last several months my stress level has risen and remained constant and my dissociative features of Combat PTSD have been kicking.

Know that when his reality has been high-jacked, you are the means of his reality testing. When this other reality bleeds over into yours, it is real in his mind. Knowing this will help you communicate with him, his comments or behavior can give you clues to his mental state and in what reality his mind thinks its in.

When my kids where around and I was having hallucinations I included them sometimes as combat operations. To them they were playing war with dad, to me the intensity was dulled. I was able to tether myself to my kids and not succumb to the all encompassing flashbacks where the reality of today disappears as the horror of yesteryear rains.

He is in there and will come home in mind when he is ready, his mind trying to sort out the absurdity and brutality of war. It is a long process. I want to thank you for your spirit and knowledge seeking to understand your veteran, you are important to him if he doesn't say it. That's that part of him that cannot reconcile war, killing and the sacrifices your family experiences daily. This part of him is broken, how can we use something effectually rendered inoperable? You are in my prayers.

Friends, Deployment and Community

I never realized just how important it was to be a good friend until I almost lost mine. You see, "L" and I have been friends for over 20 years. We met in elementary school and lived one street over from each other growing up. In high school I was self absorbed and had no time for other people's problems. I was so concerned with being popular and fitting in, that it was easy for me miss how many people I hurt, including my dear friend "L". After school, somehow she still managed to be my friend and I still treated her carelessly.

It wasn't until after my 1st marriage failed and I was left a single mother with no one to depend on that I started to really see what a great friend she was. She helped me to sell my wedding rings so I could file for my divorce. Her Hubby even went with me to the courthouse the day my divorce was finalized. When my Hubby deployed, she researched and found me the cheapest highest quality tires when mine were no longer drivable. She drove me around her town to get the tires replaced and aligned. She had me spend weekends to make sure I got out of the house after I lost my job. She took my daughter for weekends so I could have time to myself. Whenever I have needed her, she has always been there. I can't tell you how thankful I am that she has stuck by me all these years and the invaluable lesson she taught me...how to be a good friend.

In the last few years, I have been lucky enough to find 2 more amazing friends who have helped me through some of the hardest times in my life. "K" and I met when I was a clerk at a drugstore and she was my manager. That was almost 15 years ago. Our friendship has been seriously tested over the years. We have the same ex husband and lived together for 6 months and that almost ended our friendship for good. But, we were strong enough to get past it and we are closer than we have ever been. During my Husband's deployment, she helped shovel the driveway, clean my house, and fix me food when I couldn't get off the couch after falling down the stairs. Even when she was going through a grueling breakup she was still there. She is an angel.

The Tradition of Military Tattoos

Tattoos are Incredibly Powerful Symbols
During my time spent working as a Corrections Officer I saw many inmates with homemade prison-style tattoos; human flesh used as prime real estate on which they eagerly advertise their affiliation with a gang, names of fallen friends, teardrops on the face, full sleeves, backs, chest and necks all adorned with crude bluish colored designs. On the right side of the law however, the decision to permanently mark ones body with ink is not carried out so lightly.

And then there are military tattoos; the Navy being the most synonymous with this age old tradition harking back to salty sea dogs emblazoned with Popeye style anchors on their forearms, or Hawaiian maidens manipulated by undulating abdominal muscles animating the Pacific Island beauty into a hula dance. But that was back in the day and tastes have become far more sophisticated since then.

In 2007, my husband began to bandy around the idea of getting another tattoo, one to memorialize his time in Iraq. The tattoo would pay tribute to the sacrifice made when he re-enlisted 10 years after leaving the Army National Guard volunteering to deploy down range with his Brigade Combat Team. He also wanted it to signify the pride he felt in having served, and despite wishing he wasn't injured if he had to do it all over again he would unwaveringly return to the Sand Box.

Being the artistic one in the family I felt in my own way I would also be honoring my husband by contributing to the tattoo's final design. I enjoyed sharing my draft concepts with him; like an excited teenager I would present one idea after the other... "What do you think of this one?" "Here's another variation on the same theme." And he would always give me constructive feedback on how it could be tweaked until finally he felt it captured all the important elements of his deployment; the 1st Cav patch that he wore on his right arm, the Stars and Stripes for the people he was serving, the dates of his deployment, and the M16 personalized with the same number on the stock and Aimpoint scope exactly replicating the rifle he carried in Iraq.

After weeks of back and forth, fine tuning every detail, in November 2007 (coincidentally the same month he received his Purple Heart three years earlier) he took the design to the tattoo artist here in our town who I'm sure you'll agree did a fine job replicating the final draft on my husbands upper right arm.

He now carries with him an eternal affiliation to his cause, his country, and a time in his life that permanently redefined who he is today.

Realities of Coming Home From Combat

This post is reproduced with my husband's permission from his blog One Veteran's Battle.

Every soldier whose been in combat cannot help but to be changed for life. It may be surprising to know, the veteran believes everything will be OK, that they will comforted if he can just get home. When they finally arrive, there's an element of euphoria, followed by disorientation. Veterans slip into what can only be described as an 'illusion of normalcy.' They pretend that nothing has changed.

As time passes, it could be 1 month, or 2 years, but most commonly it's approximately 3 to 6 months, the veteran can no longer suppress what he's become as a result of combat. His true self begins to emerge. This can be expressed in many forms, anger, depression, isolationism, even suicide. The veteran will become sensitive to being around others and startle easily, and may show little interest in doing the things he once enjoyed. His interests may be alcohol, drugs, porn, or absolutely nothing at all. But these things are not really the man. They are expressions of pain seeking an outlet. It wasn't long ago he was in combat in a shit hole world. Everything you can think of was discarded onto the streets, waste paper, plastic bottles, rubble, feces, urine, and even decomposing animals (both domesticated dogs, etc. and human) now he's in a 'civilized' world with no way to express himself in a normal, culturally accepted way. Therefore, veterans turn to violence, isolate themselves, or commit suicide. How can anyone that hasn't been 'In the shit' possibly know what fucked up shit veterans have dealt with? Pisses me off when I hear anyone call a veteran a freeloader. They have god damn clue what their talking about. I wish they were walking the streets of Baghdad in 2004. If they were to survive they'd shut the fuck-up.

Once the veteran crosses that boundary to the new 'true self,' both the veteran and his spouse must come to terms with the changes in their relationship together or it's doomed to fail. I represent a failed attempt to make the adjustment. I failed, or she refused to accept the changes in me, we ended up in divorce. I had no intention on giving up on the relationship; it was my intention to try and work it out. It was her decision to abandon our relationship. But I realize now, it was the best result possible. I'm just sorry she did it in such a mean spirited way (another post).

I'm a bad example because my marriage was in trouble when I left for Iraq, nonetheless, I think I observations of value. The bottom line is, if you had a good relationship prior to deployment, despite the seemingly insurmountable difficulties resulting from combat experience, much can be overcome with love. I'm not saying it's easy, because it's not. It's hard for the veteran because he's confused, most likely working out prescriptions through VA, suicidal at times, depressed, and anxious. He feels these things within the context of his love for you, his spouse. His spouse sees a changed man, someone she didn't marry. Some women understand the reason, others don't. The ones that do understand and stand with their man, that's true love and compassion. They will work it out in the end. Those relationships troubled before Iraq, as mine was, or those that cannot find common ground and understanding, will likely fail.

Saving a relationship after being separated by something so insidious as combat would be hard on any family. Coming home can provide initial relief from the realities of war, but soon the nightmares return, and we act out, unsure what to do with these emotions forged in war and expect them to fit-into a world that has no understanding of what they've become.

Combat Veteran's Stuttering Returns Post Iraq

My husband has a pronounced stutter (a previously conquered childhood hardship) which returned with a vengeance post Iraq, but over the last few months I've noticed it getting worse. He sometimes has difficulty pronouncing certain words; for example yesterday it was the word "successful", which he finally resorted to breaking into three syllables in order to get it out. It's moments like that I seriously have to battle the urge to finish sentences for him, but he needs to be able to communicate without me jumping in every five minutes to "help" him convey his point of view. And honestly, I don't want to give him any more of a complex than he already has.

I know he's aware of the worsening affliction, his body language and broken eye contact highlights the insecurity which accompanies his frustration.

I wanted him to hear for himself how prevalent it's becoming, and although he brought it to my attention by telling me he was going to blog about it, I'm not sure he realizes the true extent. So I secretly recorded him (sorry to be so sneaky my love) as he read to me from his post PTSD Defines Me in which he addresses the issue.

I've edited the audio for length and added some video footage to give you something to look at while you're listening. It starts out with him saying "um" several times which is usually the way he gets going when he's about to speak.




I used this with his permission after fessing up to my FBI style wire tapping!

Daddy Has PTSD

How do I explain PTSD to an elementary school age kid who is clearly frustrated by the dramatic change of pace from his home life to that of weekends with his father?

Dear Stepson,

You were too young to remember when your dad went to Iraq to fight in the war. While he was overseas he saw many bad things and needed to protect himself and others from danger. He couldn't just run away and hide, he had to be very brave and not show any sign of fear even if at times he was scared inside. Now he is back home, having to cope with danger all the time has made him quiet and not very playful, but he had to learn to be strong and silent. He's like that all the time not just when you're around so don't think it's your fault.

You know how your dad "jumps" when you drop a toy on the floor or fire your cap gun? That's because there were many explosions and gun shots in Iraq which made deafening noises and meant he could be seriously hurt or even killed. When your dad hears loud noises now it still makes him jump because he is reminded how deadly bombs and bullets are. Just for a second it makes him think he is back in Iraq until he remembers he is home with us.

When he was on duty he sometimes had to patrol in a vehicle or on foot and when there were lots of people around it threatened his safety, that is why he does not like to be around crowds. He still thinks he has to watch all the faces and their movements in case they are getting ready to hurt him. Pax helps your dad feel safe when he goes out in public, he can help him watch all the people when there are too many for your dad to keep track of.



Sometimes when you ask your dad a question and he tells you he has to think about it, it's because his head was injured by bomb blasts. You know when you watch a movie and there is an explosion and people are thrown through the air? That's what happened to your dad and now he sometimes has trouble remembering things or answering your questions right away. That is called TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury), his brain was injured when it got banged around inside his head.

Do you remember the other day when you asked your dad if he would play hockey and he said "we'll see, maybe later"? Remember how I made him go outside and play with you? Your dad did not like playing out in the driveway because cars drive past the house. During the war he had to stop cars at roadside checkpoints and search them for bombs and guns so he and his fellow soldiers would be safe and come home to their family. He also had to concentrate and watch traffic very carefully from high up in a tower, so he doesn't like being distracted when there are cars around, even if it is to play a game.

Sometimes people can be hurt deep down on the inside where you can't see it but it is there. Your dad has PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Post means after the war, Traumatic means bad things happened during the war and his life was in danger, Stress means his body is reacting to the bad things... kinda like how you get hives, and Disorder means he will never be the same man he was before he went into combat.

Your Stepmother.

Anyone else had to try and explain PTSD and/or TBI to their kids?

Medications for a Combat Veterans Treatment of PTSD

One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small,

And the ones that mother gives you

Don't do anything at all.

-White Rabbit, Jefferson Airplane 1967
I awoke this morning with a list of items I needed to tackle today. The real trick for me is trying to balance all my work around my family and husband. Today's list consists of running to the post office to mail off many candles, make some phone calls for FRG and our upcoming Family Day, write an article for our unit newsletter, and get my husband's medications in order. So armed with my extra large cup of coffee and my Vietnam Era music playing in the background, I hit the ground running. I had to buy my husband one of those seven day a week pill reminder boxes, or as we lovingly refer to it as, the Old Man Pill Box. Once a week I must refill it for twice to three times a day, and then double check myself as I can be forgetful sometimes. Once completed, I must then go through and double check all the original bottles they came in just to make sure he has plenty in supply or begin the refill process. I wondered how many others are on the same meds and what do all these do for my husband? Thought the White Rabbit song reference really played well with my blog this morning!

PTSD and Depression, In Bed Together

The clock read 1:20pm and my stomach notified me it was long overdue for some lunch, but I'd been holding out hoping momentarily Bill would make his way downstairs.  Last night... correction, this morning he came to bed shortly after 4am, but that's normal for him, however remaining in bed past 1pm is not.

I made my way upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed, he wasn't really sleeping, just suspended in that portal through which we all emerge when waking.  "Are you doing okay?" I inquired, knowing he wasn't but wanting to give him the opportunity to explain what was going on and not lead in with "Look at the time, man you must be depressed!"

"I guess I better get up huh?' he said in a barely audible faltering voice.

"In your own time." I replied, getting up and kissing him on the forehead before making my way downstairs.  About 15 minutes later I heard him in the shower, which made me happy as he's neglected to both shave and shower for several days.

Depression.... pack your bags and go haunt someone else for a while, you've outstayed your welcome!

Sentencing Alternatives for Veterans

One county over from where I live, there is a special Veterans Court which offers a second chance to current and retired service members who commit crimes while struggling with war-related psychological wounds, notably PTSD and traumatic brain injuries. The aim being to identify and treat veterans before they get deeper into trouble with the law and their crimes become serious and violent.

The defendants accept treatment and regular monitoring in lieu of jail time however if they don’t comply with the conditions of their treatment program they land in jail as the judge can revoke the suspended or reduced sentence they received. Anyone with half a iota of common sense, should realize this is a huge step in the right direction.

I come from a correctional background, working in a jail and seeing veterans incarcerated without the proper treatment they need is a national disgrace. I was embarrassed to be a part of a system that couldn't pull it's head out of its ass for veterans yet offered Sentencing Alternatives and multiple treatment options for Sex Offenders.

There are barely twenty veterans courts around the country, a woefully inadequate number yet still encouraging when compared to two years ago when the first one was started in Buffalo, NY.

The Buffalo court has had a zero recidivism rate, surely those kinds of results and the potential tax dollar savings will encourage more of these courts to spring up around the country.

I stumbled across this PBS News Hour Veterans Suspected of Crimes Swap Guilty Pleas for Rehabilitation report I thought was worth sharing.

Men Are From Mars, Combat Vets Are From... ?

Communication comes in many guises; men communicate differently than women, disparities we try to recognize and appreciate in our partners to better understand just where they are coming from. And then there's the combat veteran... a whole other beast with a mix of PTSD/TBI problems thrown in to further cloud the issue, a mysterious blend of "fuck the world" and "can't remember jack shit"... an emotionally detached entity with a hair trigger.

And when it comes to the world of emotionally charged forms of conversing aka The Hissy Fit, I've not quite mastered how to satisfactorily engage my husband, so more often than not find myself walking away from a situation in which I'm about to unleash holy hell recognizing I've made no attempt at rationalizing my thoughts into an acceptable form of communication.

I choose to walk away because...

• Coming unglued on a combat vet such as my husband would only send him deeper into his foxhole... after all, he's been able to shield his emotions from the sight of death and devastatingly hideous combat injuries, from the fear of being fired upon by sniper and mortar rounds. How the hell do I expect my one-woman tirade to have any meaningful impact?

• It's not fair to engage someone with a TBI in an emotionally stressful situation, demanding timely and well thought-out answers and snappy responses to my side of an out-of-control verbal assault.

• It is highly inappropriate (although oftentimes tempting) to use their TBI as a weapon in which to club them upside the temporal lobe.THWACK "You're the one with the TBI, not me!"

There's probably never going to a time we'll engage in a two-way humdinger, he's so fragile and numb in that regard. So I'm not sure which planet combat veterans are from, all I know is that mine is out of this world!

Suicide Bomber

A thundering explosion rocks downtown Baghdad, your body recoils at the deafening sound, adrenaline courses through your veins driven by a heart suddenly hammering within your chest. No time to react; the air expands with punishing force as the concussion of a devastating shock wave races through the afternoon air. It roars in your ears, slams you to the ground, snatches the breath from your lungs shaking every structure, and blowing out every window in its unstoppable path.

As you struggle to your feet a searing rush of heat sends you back to your knees scalding your skin with its suffocating cloak. No time to think; shrapnel flies through the air like a million angry bullets simultaneously fired in every direction. Twisted chunks of white hot metal violently crash to the ground like meteors hurled toward the earth by angry gods punishing all in their path. Your ears are screaming, a ringing so loud you cry out but are unable to hear your own voice.

Now on your feet, all around is burning; acrid smoke chokes the air and burns the soft membranes in your nose and throat. In a surreal moment, a gentle Baghdad breeze momentarily clears the scene… are those charred and grizzled shapes within the mangled wreckage human beings? Before you comprehend the horror of what you're seeing, another gust sends a curtain of black smoke across the morbid sight as though to shield the burning corpses from your gaze.


Your hearing slowly returns to the sound of frantic Arabic voices, police and locals swarm onto the street to load the dead and dying into the back of ramshackle pickup trucks. Just how many misguided Iraqis offered up their lives in Allah's name that afternoon? You count the legs, the arms... but the bodies have melded, intermingling in the inferno of the blast. Who knows how many deadly human weapons conspired to sacrifice themselves in that monumental act designed to kill you and as many of your fellow soldiers as possible.

You may not have lost your life that day, but back at home in the US these horrific recurring events have caused you to sacrifice your way of living.

I wrote this based on an account of just one of the suicide bombing missions my husband was caught up in. He says it's an accurate description but rightly pointed out unless you have been through something as horrific as this you cannot possibly convey to others the true force of the impact, explain the indescribable carnage, and the accompanying sounds and sickening smells.

Dear Deadly Duo PTSD and TBI

An open letter to PTSD and his evil henchman TBI.

Dear Deadly Duo,

You consider yourselves formidable foes, but I am not scared of you. A pair of cowardly trolls is all you are, and if I could find the bridge beneath which you cower, I would rain down deadly mortars akin to those you send to torture my husband in his nightly dreams, entombing you both in the rubble. But for now I will content myself with stabbing your effigy with venomous fervor, wishing you a slow and painful death or a quick and fiery one, I don't care, I'll take whatever I can get so long as the outcome is your ultimate demise.

And do you have nothing better to do with your spare time than sit around creating disturbingly twisted storyboards, planning out frame by frame the hellish nightmares you have in store for my husband each night? Do you enjoy watching him pass out on the couch, drunk, at 3am 'cause he can't face what you have in store for him when he climbs into bed? If you thought you were the only ones with warped minds, I have a suggestion for a new scene, it shows TBI rolling up one of those drawings into a tight tube and cramming it up PTSD's ass!

Oh Wizard of PTSD, why do you insist on using your evil black magic to transport my husband back to Iraq with cruel and realistic flashbacks. I cannot reach him when you do that, dangling him within my grasp but out of my reach is nothing short of mental abuse. If you're looking for something to abuse I suggest you lock yourself in a closet and abuse your d**k! That is of course if you can find it, and if you can't, I'm sure your boyfriend TBI knows exactly where it is seeing how it has his name tattooed on it and all.

And speaking of TBI, I thank you for the gift of patience although I expect to have several years tacked on to both mine and my husband's lives for all those times he's sat on the couch in suspended animation during his 50-yard-stare episodes. And for all those times I have sat by his side waiting for him to free himself from a bout of stammering before he can start a sentence or engaged in a conversation twice as long as it needed to be as it was peppered with ums and uhs. And for robing him of his career twenty years before he was due to retire for which I should be sending you an invoice by the way. But what's the point? You are the poorest of the poor, and have no worth from which to pay him.

I should thank you also for teaching me how to survey my surroundings in order to forewarn my husband of potential triggers. And for showing me and the kids how to conduct ourselves in a calm and quiet manner so as not to startle him. My hope however PTSD, is that while you're setting one of the booby traps that triggers his anxiety, it will detonate in your face. And don't count on TBI to save you, he doesn't remember anything he learned about first aid, he'd be too confused and disoriented in a stressful situation such as that. Chances are you'd bleed out before help arrived, that is with any luck.

You think you hold all the cards, that all the power is in your hands. It is true that one of you alone could inflict enough damage to do the job quite nicely but still insist on tag teaming without having the decency to play by the rules while one of you waits outside the ropes. I call bullshit on that, two against one are unfair odds, but it's not two against one, I am right by his side to defend and fight back. Deadly duo? I think not. Go crawl back under that bridge from whence you came and hide like the cowards you are. As for me, I'll never stop hunting you down, mortars at the ready.

Tell Me About Sgt J Patrick Lamoureux

The double edged sword cuts both ways, it is a blessing and a curse; and oddly there is no better example of the power to both help and harm than the act of sharing my interests with my husband. It's a blessing that he genuinely wants to involve himself in the pursuits I'm interested in and the online research I enjoy, it helps him feel connected to me and strengthens our bond. And yet at the same time it's almost a curse when he wants to be engaged with reading accounts of veterans fallen on hard times or struggling with life after combat. He becomes terribly distressed about those stories, and consequently all I want to do is stop sharing yet he still insists I keep talking until he can't take it anymore.

The latest quandary was when I was reading a story online about Sue Highsmith Lamoureux, the wife of a former Army Reserve Sergeant J Patrick Lamoureux incarcerated in Nye County Detention Center, after being involved in a pre-dawn gunbattle with Nye County sheriff's deputies. It's a very compelling story for me, especially as I work in corrections, and have first hand experience of dealing with combat vets in jail. Highsmith Lamoureux says it was the weight of post-traumatic stress that caused her 46-year-old husband with a previously "squeaky clean" record, to mentally collapse in September 2008.

As I was reading her Blog "The J Patrick Lamoureux Defense" I was about to click on the relating newspaper story link when my husband just hapened to glance across at my laptop.

"What'cha reading there?"

"A blog written by the wife of a Sergeant J Patrick Lamoureux, he's in jail awaiting trial after getting into a shootout with deputies last year. I was just gonna get the scoop from the newspaper report."

"Really? Do you mind reading it to me."

And as the healing edge of the sword swooped down, I clicked on the link to the newspaper article, and our bonding session began.....

Joseph "Pat" Lamoureux couldn't erase from his mind the sight of the young Iraqi girl walking up to his heavy equipment transport truck and blowing herself up. "Her body parts were all over his vehicle," his wife, Sue, said about the 2003 suicide bomber attack.

She said her husband was knocked down from the blast and later was evaluated for traumatic brain injury. In a benefits claim he filed with the Department of Veterans Affairs, Lamoureux wrote that the Iraqi girl, who was 12 to 14 years old, "came out of nowhere.

Then there was a firefight near the Baghdad airport and, later, an old man with a donkey who wouldn't stop when soldiers hollered at him. "He was 'lit up,'" Sue Lamoureux wrote in a July 1 e-mail. "To this day Pat believes the old man may have been deaf, and the image of him haunts Pat."

She said it was the weight of post-traumatic stress from these and other incidents that caused her 46-year-old husband to mentally collapse last September. That's when he went on a shooting spree that began in their mobile home at Terrible's Lakeside RV Park and Casino in Pahrump and ended after a pre-dawn gunbattle with Nye County sheriff's deputies......."

.... partway through the fourth paragraph I felt a nudge against my arm and looked down to see my husband collapse into my lap, tears streaming, almost as though he had literally been struck by the harmful edge of the sword.

"Stop, please stop." He said in a broken voice.

"But I thought you....?"

"I just don't want to hear any more." He sobbed.

"You know you're training me to want to keep my mouth shut and not share this stuff with you. I can't keep putting you through this all the time. I'm not gonna do it any more...no...that's it...no more." I came back defiantly fighting back tears of my own.

"No, I want you to share, it's just.... it's just.... it's hard you know?" Came his emotional insistence.

And as he lays with his head in my lap, I wished he wouldn't argue with me about sharing this stuff with him, wished I hadn't upset him, wished I could turn the clock back just 15 minutes and been checking emails instead of reading her blog when he looked at my screen. Then spared a heart-wrenching thought for J Patrick Lamoureux's wife who I'm sure would do anything right now to be in a position to comfort her husband during his greatest hour of need, wishing she could turn back the clock too.

Signature Wounds, A Scott Gaulin Documentary

CALLING ALL COMBAT VETERAN SPOUSES!



This is my video submission to Scott Gaulin's "Signature Wounds" project. It literally only took me a few minutes to record and I threw in some stills on top of the video. I am soliciting your input on his behalf, to help make his project not only a successful one but one with a real voice, powerful and compelling enough to affect change.

Scott is a journalist from Texas. His documentary is being sponsored through the Kiplinger Fellowship Program and the John Glenn School of Public Affairs. It is centered around spouses and families struggling to cope at home when a loved one returns suffering from combat PTSD or TBI. He needs our help in collecting as many personal stories as he can from across the country from spouses, children, siblings, or parents of veterans. His website Signature Wounds supplies all the details you will need to contribute to this wonderful cause.

The following is an extract from his website:

He would like you to share your personal experiences not those of your veteran. It should offer some insight into you; how you cope, what your experiences are, changes in your family's life after PTSD.

• The story can be whatever you make it; it’s your story. It can be a recollection – how was life before the deployment, or the day you first met.
• It can be about a coping technique or hobby that calms and centers you.
• If you’re an artist – it could be a conceptual work such as a painting that represents your emotions.
• It could be song you’ve written, a page from your journal or a more traditional narrative.

He can take video, audio, a photographic submission, a drawing, a painting or handwritten letter. He encourages you to be as creative as you like. Visit his website and add your voice to the magnificent chorus I am hoping we will create.

This is an awesome opportunity....and if you need help, let me know and I would be willing to work out any of the technical issues that might stand in your way of contributing.

Combat Vets Wife Angers Her Husband: I Feel Shitty, Oh So Shitty

I unintentionally upset my husband last night, the details of which are inconsequential to the emotion behind this post. When I left the house for work he remained behind sitting alone unconsoled. I was so mad at myself that before going into the Jail I sat in my truck, grabbed a scrap of paper, and frantically scribbled out my frustration.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.... so enough said.

Empathy is a Two Way Street: Combat Veteran and Wife Find Unconditional Love

In spite of, yet mostly because of my husband’s PTSD, he possesses an incredible capacity to identify with comparable suffering with such empathy that I feel humbled. And although I don’t want to say I suffer from PTSD, I can say with certainty I have persistent fears related to a trauma I suffered when I almost lost my right eye in an accident involving a horse. Now, almost five years after the accident, my physical wounds have long since healed but the emotional scars continue to create problems for me to this very day. And although I don’t actively seek out his reassurance, my husband is right there to recognize and validate my feelings whenever my fears haunt me.

It was August 2005 around 6:30am; the weather was warm even at that wee hour and I could tell it was going to be a scorcher. I was managing a horse ranch at that time, and on this particular occasion there was no one else in the barn but me. To cut a long story short (‘cause long posts become monotonous) one of the horses I was turning out spooked, slammed into me, knocked me on my back, and kicked me in the face. Without a doubt it was the most terrifying event I’ve ever experienced my entire life.

The whole ordeal took place in the blink of an eye (no pun intended), but when it was over it took me at least a minute to comprehend the extent of my injuries. From my final resting position on my back I could see my ball-cap, my cell phone, my knife, strewn on the ground…then nothing…at this point blood coursed into my eyes from a facial injury. I rolled over onto my knees feeling the warm blood running between my fingers and let out a cry for help. Remembering there was no one in the barn I knew I had to go get help myself as I was going into shock from the loss of blood. Later at the ER, a CAT scan revealed a maxilla facial fracture, a fracture in the optical cavity and a ruptured arterial feeder just above my right eye.

Almost five years later, and although only a feint scar remains below my eyebrow, I am still dealing with the psychological baggage from the accident, the end result of which is an irrational fear of being injured again. Most of the time when the fear creeps in I can rationalize my way out of it, but on occasion the ghoulish flashbacks loom larger than life and twice as ugly as they did on the day the accident happened. Out of the blue I can be struck with such dread that I have to stop riding immediately; I mean literally get off my horse and be done with it for the day. There is nothing quite like the feeling of self-loathing that consumes me when that happens. Coward, pussy, stupid bitch!! I am angry that the accident ever happened, I hate that the one constant perfect joy I have had throughout my entire life is now imperfect and blemished.

But despite how extreme those situations can be, I am eternally grateful that my supportive husband who, despite suffering from severe combat PTSD and TBI, empathizes with me. He never belittles my fears, always encourages me on my bad days, applaudes me on the good ones, and for that I will be eternally grateful. For empathy is a two way street and for all my outpourings for him, he returns the favor to me many times over.

Zoning Out

I sat in the passenger seat of the truck and watched the familiar landscape pass us by as we rolled along toward our destination. Ahead was our exit which I noticed we were approaching at a higher rate of speed than was prudent, and in the blink of an eye we cruised by our turn-off at a steady 60 miles an hour. I looked across at my husband. “We just missed our turn.” No reply. “Hun, we just missed our exit.”

“Huh?” he said, turning to look in my direction with a puzzled look on his face.

“Why didn’t you turn off back there?” I inquired.

“Why didn’t you remind me?” he said as if it was my job to narrate every step of our journey.

“Because we’ve been this way a hundred times.” I said resisting the urge to add “duh” to the end of my sentence.

“Sorry, I guess I zoned out again.” he explained.

At this point I ask him to "please pull over, I’m driving from here.”

Indignantly he responds “I know how to drive.”

I assure him that I’m not challenging his knowledge of driving, fighting back the urge to say; I just want to arrive alive! Again I make my appeal “Take a break, let me drive.” I say this for both our sakes as when he says, “I zoned out again” I know how serious this can be.

There have been many incidents that he’s told me about (and who knows how many he hasn’t confessed to) like the time he found himself in a parking lot not sure where he was or how he got there, and had become filled with panic for what he might have done while “zoned out.” Or the time he set the car on cruise control and then forgot to disengage it and wondered why the car was moving too fast to merge into traffic. Or the time he didn’t stop for a red light, or took off from a red light before it turned green. Or the time his attention was diverted by tire fragments, or road-kill carcasses that might conceal an IED!

So now I don’t take anything for granted, and will tell him “turn here” “turn there” and he looks across at me like “I’m not retarded” and I know he is not. And I curse his PTSD/TBI and how a simple drive in the truck could turn out to be the last thing we ever do.