Tuesday, April 28, 2015

I am thankful for my PTSD

I am thankful for my PTSD, I know this sounds crazy. But keep reading and let me explain myself.

PTSD is a terrible affliction, it is, I won't lie to you. But as I research it, and write about it, and deal with in my own life I have come to several eye opening realizations.

First, I am not weak. I have the skills, know-how, and interpersonal strength to survive.

This isn't just some bolstering, I mean it. I have had a hard life, and I have lived through terrible times. I know that no matter what happens, I will never have to go through it again, and that if I do have to I can survive it.

Second thing I realized is this: If I survived my traumatic event, all other events are dust in the wind compared to what I survived.

If I can survive years of mental and physical anguish, I can survive the power getting turned off, or late bills, or even breaking down on the side of the road. These things, and all the events that we go through every day pale in comparison to what I have survived.

And third, and final thing is this: Without my trauma I would not be as strong as I am now.

Yes my event(s) have made me someone who has issues. I get angry for no real reason, I get scared, and frustrated, and have panic attacks. Yes I have a terrible memory now, and forget things, important things. And yes I forget to take my medication, when I have it. But all that aside, I am a rock. I am a foundation for others to rely on, other that know I am broken come to me. Because of my past, I am able to have the strength to help others.

My PTSD has opened my eyes and realized that death is around every corner. It's behind every rock, under every unturned leaf. But because I made the choice to live life, and not run from it, I have grown as a person.

To date, I have crossed five, FIVE things off my bucket list, and I am working on so many more. A bucket list isn't meant for when you're old, and frail. It's meant for every second before you kick that bucket. You may kick it at any moment, so why not start now.

So, to my PTSD, I thank you. Thank you for showing me death, for opening my eyes to the darkness in the world, so that I may grab hold of the light and ride it to new, and bigger things. Thank you for beating,and breaking my mind so that I can have the scars that make me stronger. Thank you for testing my mantle and finding me worthy so that I may help others.

Thank you.

Remember you are never alone, we are all in this together. Never forget, never give up, embrace life, and LIVE!

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Simple, yet powerful.

Tonight's post is a simple one:





The choice is yours, are you going to choose the right one?

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

I struggled to post this.

I was asked "How are you today?" toady. This is a question that is pretty common, since we ask it in many forms through out the days as a way of saying 'hello' in the halls at work, with people we don't know.

But it is different when people who you grew up with ask you. When those who raised you ask you, you are taken back, and actually spend a second to process that question.

When I was asked that question, by my dad, it took me almost a half an hour to answer it. I was torn in two. I wanted to shout and scream, I wanted to tear the world asunder, I wanted to watch it burn and pour my pain into it. I wanted to smother all of the memories I have that keep me up late at night. I want the nightmares to fuel the flames that would burn the world to ashes. I wanted to pour my heart out and tell him I am hurting. Everyday I am hurting. I wanted so much to tell him that I don't know how to survive anymore. I don't know how to be an adult, and pay bills, and drive a car to work. I wanted to tell him that I no longer have those skills, that my fear is real, and it has taken his son from him.

I wanted to do that. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to tell him I am not who he raised, I am not who I was when I entered this world. That chubby little kid is no more. That son that he watched grow and mature, that son that brought a smile to his face as he watch him have dreams and goals of his own is gone forever. That son that he watched board the plane never made it home.

I tried for over a half hour to be honest to myself, and to him. I was able to muster one word:

Maintaining

That is where I am at in life. I am maintaining. Everything is boiling over, and I am falling apart, I see my life decay around me, and I see the streets calling my name louder and louder everyday. I lie in bed every night fighting back the tears that someday I will see someone else driving away leaving me on the streets. Leaving me there because just like myself, they aren't strong enough to battle the demons.

There will come a day, a day when I am once again physically running from the demons in my head, and I will look upon the cold eyes of those who drive away. And I will look back upon this day, and wish I had the strength to shout that I need help. I will look back and wish that, as the demons whisper, "Run little boy, no one is coming, you have been forgotten once again".

And run I shall, I will be lost to the world, and to myself.

Until then I maintain. 

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

We all have that one person.



Easily startled. That is what I am going to focus on. We all have that one person that loves to push our buttons. I have that person as well. I am not going to call them out, because I work with them. But everyday about 3-5 times they do everything they can to scare the shit out of me. They think it's funny, and I would tell them to stop but when they are laughing, I am barely able to hold it together. I am falling apart, and ready to explode at the same time. 

Thoughts race through my head, "why weren't you paying attention more?", "You let them sneak up on you, now you're dead". All this while trying to focus on computer systems, and the steps I've taken to fix the issues, or where I am in the progress of the work I have done.

Even writing this I am worried of repercussions, my hands are sweating, and aching. But if I can deal with this everyday, with the fear that if I lose my sh*t at work, and lose my job. I know I can take this same control to the rest of my life. 

We all have that one person, that one person that pushes us to our limits. That one person that on the worst of days makes life unbearable, and on the best of days we find strength in their antics. We can physically laugh in the face of our fears, and draw a sense of victory on those days. 

Remember, that no one in our life is there by mistake. Everyone from the people we love and care about, to the people who try our patience to the last thread. They are all there to ensure that we are the best "YOU" you can be. 

Diamonds are not made with hugs and bunnies. You can't hit the target without a few drawbacks. Life is a test, and with PTSD I was just given a better version of the test, to be a better me. How boring would it be without a little strife, a little heart race when people sneak up on you while you work. 

Never give up, remember with each new struggle, it is just the blacksmith coming in for a new swing. Hammering away all those flaws. It may not be tomorrow, or the day after, but the days is coming when the hurting will end. The struggle will be over, and the blacksmith takes the folded steel, and cools me off. Then Ill be the best me I can be.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Waxing and Waning

The first rule of blogging (if you google) from other bloggers is to post everyday. I violate this rule a lot.

For fashion blogs, or car blogs this is easy. You do some research, you write some stuff, and then you post and promote.

For PTSD blogs, and other issues in life, it's innumerably more difficult. There is an emotional, and psychological connection to our topics. The more we think about, dwell on, and work on the more it effects us. It effects us because it is always there, it is always in the forefront of our minds. I used to plan out my blogs, and pick topics. I used to spend time writing and editing.

Then PTSD kept coming and going in waves, my depression would flare up, and thoughts that are my own, but I refuse to admit are mine, would attack me. Now I struggle to get into that rhythm again. I love writing this blog, and talking with you all through the day. Your stories, and my own help us connect and grow together.

Even on the days I do not post this blog is calling my name. I sit in front of this monitor, and I pour my heart out, I say "here I am, I am broken, heal with me". I keep this blog raw, and unfiltered. Half of what I write is my own pain eating away at me, the other half is my fight to keep hope. There may be errors, or poorly structured sentences, but those are the proof that I am real. That my emotions are real, that I matter, and that my feelings matter. (Thank you, Hope)

Dark days come, and go, but so do the good. It is difficult to see the light in the darkness, but it is there. Sometimes all you need is a pesky significant other to give you space or hold you tight. I haven't figured that one out yet.

Other times you need a 15 lbs dog to stand on your throat while she lays her head on your face to get you to have a good nights sleep, to rest your light switch. (True story by the way, B.B. my service dog did just that)

Either way, as long as you keep charging forward I will be right there with you, fighting along side you.

Never give up.

Never give in.

Always choose life. 

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The Monster is back

I am always angry, I am always alone. I have forced those around me back to a distance I know is safe enough. Safe enough that when they finally leave I won't feel anything. Because a numbing tingle is better than the pain I feel now.

There is so much pain inside I have no where left for it to go. I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes. I feel it in the air I breathe, I see it covering everything I once loved.

The monster has slumbered for far too long, and it is restless. It tears at my skin, and devours my mind. With each passing day, it grows stronger, and I grow weaker. My emotions are full of hate, and rage. My sense crave tears, my mouth salivates at the thought of everyone feeling the pain I feel.

I am not well. I know this, I live this battle everyday. These are the days the demons wait for, the days when the monster that I am awakens and has my full attention.

I know there will be those that say stay strong, and fight on. But these are the days that my tongue wants nothing but to taste cold steel. My nostrils need to smell the acrid stench of burnt gun powder. My hands ache to feel the wood grain one last time before the last cool breeze slides through the newly formed hole.

I want to cry because I know that will never be a possibility. I gave my word to never do it again, even though I am hurting and want it, I will never break a promise.

No matter how much I want it.

No matter how much my demons say I need it.    

Sunday, April 12, 2015

A trip to the VA

Today I spent a large portion of my day, sitting at the VA. Long story short, nothing got handled, and I was not seen. This post is not about the VA though. It is about talking about our feelings.

As a vet, and if you've ever met one, we are not the most loving, caring, "soft" individuals. Our feelings are not the first thing we talk about, or in some case even the last. After any amount of time a veteran, and service members become less than emotional. Now this is also true in some cases of people with PTSD. They can seem distant or unfeeling, and other times they feel too much. Sometimes our emotions can get the better of us. The frustration, and anger, and sadness can get away from us.

Now when we got and talk to someone about it, they have a way of asking questions that do two things. One, is to make us drop our guard, the other is an odd side effect. The questioning brings on waves of anxiety. It makes us stumble, motor mouth and trip over our words.

I know when I am questioned by therapists and other "mind melters" I get really weird. I get sweaty, and wipe the sweat away excessively, I start to judge myself, and worry if what I am doing or saying is going to get me sent up to the 5th floor never to be seen again.

In situations like that I have two choices.

One, I can brave it myself, and carry on like nothing happened when I return to the waiting room, and play off the obvious sweat dripping from me. Trying to hide the shaking in my hands I can get a bit frantic, and expressive.

Two, I can admit that I need help, and take someone with me to talk for me, or remind me to not be so weird, This has yet to happen because of my fear of seeming weak.

I say weak, not because I am a man and should be strong. I say it as if from my point of view if I seem like I am going to hurt myself or other, or I wont be able to leave the hospital. That, the not leaving the hospital, is too scary to even think about. I already need someone to go with to the VA because I refuse to go on my own. I need the security of someone being able to fight by my side if they try and lock me away.

We all need a support system, we all need to talk about our feelings, and how we are dealing with, or not dealing with them. Never give up, never give in. Always stand tall, and stand proud. You made it through hell, it didn't kill you. Tell your story, set it free and watch the weight go with it. 

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Is this reality?

There are those of us with PTSD that either distance ourselves from everyone or chose a small group of people to trust. I am the latter of the two. I have an inner circle of people who I trust, and rely on when things are too dark for me to handle.

These people are my core group, the foundation of my success, and the light in the dark.

I try to balance my emotions with them, even though some days it is harder than others. On good days I have to maintain a certain level of anger. If I don't I spend my two hour drive home in tears. Tears of fear, of regret, depression. If I can maintain the set level of anger I can counter act my fears. I can remain hopeful on the outside. I can appear normal.

Sometimes the anger I maintain is sometimes directed, and over flows at the ones I keep close. Sometimes my fears let loose the anger on purpose. I have a fear, that has been with me since my event. It is a simple one: What if everything around me is a figment of my imagination, and everything I have ever experienced has all been in my head. What if I am actually laying in a bed in some psych ward somewhere being pumped full of medication just to maintain this false reality.

Crazy, right? I was told once that that is a pretty common fear. That did not help. It made me think that if other people have that fear, then maybe they were all just having my fear that I projected to the rest of the world, in my false reality, subconsciously. On top of that maybe my subconscious mind was making the doctor say that so I would know that I was safe here in this mad up world.

So I struggle with that fear daily. When things in my life happen, when things get bad that is the fear that likes to take over. That is the fear that likes to let loose my anger and frustration upon my close circle. This is the fear that makes being called crazy turn into a trigger. This is the fear that makes that word hurt so much.

I am not crazy, I am just hurting. 

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

It's getting weird

I have been out of medication for more than six weeks now, and I know I sound crazy but I was followed the other day. I say those two things in the same sentence because I can feel the eyes watching me again, I can feel the paranoia set in. But I am still aware enough to know that I was in fact followed.

Last Sunday as I was writing my previous post, a woman drove through my Starbucks. I called it mine, because it was where I used to disappear to. The works shifts rotated, so I never saw the same two people working, and I made sure to never go there on the same day twice in one month. It was mine, I learned the routine of the workers before any of them learned my name. Now I must find a new place to disappear to. But...

As I walked out, past the broken glass, and bent metal, I saw him. For the fifth time that day. I spent my Sunday doing chores, I went to get breakfast, I went to harbor freight, I even drove to random place for lunch. I went to a place that I have never been before in a town I have never been to til last Sunday.

He was there every time, ten minutes after I got to where I was going he would show up and sit in his car waiting, watching. The entire time I was talking with Mr. Palmer (my last post) I saw him in my rear view mirror. His windows were tinted. His car was an auctioned off police cruiser. With after market lights installed in the grill.

He would wait til I started my car, and pulled away, and then I would catch sight of him taking a different exit from the parking lot. He would always show up again after I had reached my next destination.

I tried to tell my SO about it, but now "I am going crazy". I tried to tell friends about it, but I got "that's crazy bro". I told a friend of mine that I went to Iraq with and he asked if it was really happening or in my head, I told him what I am writing here. He took the full description of events, and the driver, and told me to lose him, and get home. I know it wasn't in my head, and just the fact that my friend didn't blow it off made me feel normal. Like maybe someone was going to be able to pass on the information if anything happened.

It took me 30 mins to lose him, and make sure he wasn't following me.

Maybe I do need to get back on medication, but I know what I saw, and I know I am not going crazy. Yet.

I know enough about myself, and I am self aware enough to know when and if my mind is playing tricks on me. I know I am not going crazy, because I deal with this every day. I know the difference between me being paranoid that I am being followed on the freeway going to work, and when I spend 6 hours being followed by the same car.

I am not crazy.

I'm not crazy, right?

I don't know anymore. 

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Stanley Palmer

Every so often I get this urge, if not a need to disappear. Not a normal kind of disappearance, where people just drift off and you lose sight of them. I have to disappear in such away that no one sees me leave, sees which direction I went, and I have to go where no one knows me. I turn the GPS off on my phone, and use proxies on my laptop if I chose to write or publish. I have to disappear, I have to blend in, and blur the lines between me and the world.

Today was that kind of day.

And it paid off.

Today I was people watching from my car, just thinking nothing, doing nothing.

*Knock* *Knock*

There was a man standing on the side of my car. I had found my center sitting there, and let my guard down. I got lost in my thoughts of nothing and was caught off guard. My heart raced from being pulled back to the world so fast after so long of being away.

I roll my window down.

"Excuse me sir, my name is Stanley Palmer..."

I introduce myself. He is dressed in a collared shirt, sweater vest, dress shoes, and a fitted ball cap. The black and gold, with dollar signs ($) all over the cap was a stark difference to his attire. He was clean shaven, except for his salt and peppered goatee. His hair was finely cut, and wavy, colored the gray of fine ash.

"I am marine. I am 68 years old, but I whooped two cops ass last night."

He didn't ask for anything. He just wanted someone to listen. He needed someone to hear his story. For an hour and a half I listened. The more I listened the more I watched and examined. He was finely dressed, but as he spoke I started to notice that all was not right.

His collar was stained with sweat, his pants were ill fitting, and his body was wrecked. Misshapen and broken. This was a man who had seen tough times. Who had seen terrible things. But he wasn't angry about it. He wasn't upset, or resentful at all. This was a man who had been to hell and back and laughed in the face of the devil. Spat in eyes of demons and came back with his head held high.

How was this possible? How did this little, broken man survive and triumph? His eyes were foggy, the blue had long since faded, but there was a fire there. A fire I wanted, and needed. So I listened on, trying to decode his stories, trying to learn the secret of his strength.

He was clearly homeless, crazy, and losing touch with reality. His words were slurring, and he stuttered. He went in circles, and doubled back. But I had to learn his secret.

His faith kept the darkness at bay. He kept saying the world is the devils domain now, and I thought it was mad ramblings, things a naysayer of apocalyptic reckoning would spout. But I discovered his secret. He knew there was darkness in the world, he knew there were demons and nightmares. But he also knew that in his faith he was protected.

We tried to exchange numbers so I could keep in touch and check up on this man who changed my life, and my day of hiding. But the number he gave was for a stranger. I lost an angel today, I dropped him off a couple blocks from where he approached me, and I pulled away. Instantly I turned around to see if he needed anything, and he was gone.

Stanley Palmer, you are a good man, and thank you for showing me yet another way to combat my own demons. I pray you are safe, where ever your wings may have taken you.     

Friday, April 3, 2015

When one battle begins, another ends

In 2012, I lived in southern San Diego County. I lived with a woman, who at the time was my partner. It was pretty serious, we even began talks of having children together. I was in college, finishing up my degree, and she worked full time.

As it would happen she got pregnant 4 times.

And lost them all, late late late term. We lost four children. It seemed as if the day we named them, was the day we lost them. Again and again our hearts broke.

Through this all I stayed hopeful, on the outside. Inside I was a storm of emotion, and torment. I had to remain strong because I could not imagine the pain and sadness that anyone could reach feeling their own children die inside of them.

I took time off from school, to take her to appointments, and even some days to just lay in bed with her. I would handle the needs of her daughter while she sank deeper into depression. I maintained, as I was falling apart. I had to drop out of a couple classes, and even take a semester off.

The school eventually decided that school was more important the deaths of my children. And made it mandatory that I show up or get kicked out. Then the VA charged me 12,000$ for the missed classes, all this while I was barely holding on to my sanity.

For the last 3 years I have fought the VA, and the school over this. My defense was simple: I had hardships in my life, and I was never paid 12,000$. The money was paid to the school, I shouldn't have to pay it back. Common sense, right? I thought so. The VA and the school didn't.

So for the last 3 years I have been paying that money back, and fighting the VA.

Today I received a call from the school. They wanted an updated address.

"Why do you need my address?"

"Well it turns out you over paid, back in 2012, for classes you were forced to drop out of due to hardships."

"Yes, I remember. I also remember your school refusing to pay back the money you took."

"Well sir, I am the new VA financial rep. the last one is no longer at this school, and I am following up on all the claims that were overlooked. Did you want to update your address?"

So after 3 years a new player entered the game, and closed a chapter in my life I wanted past me, so I could move on. It was never about the money, it was about the indigent disrespect I was shown, and the school did what they could to apologize without admitting fault to the situation.

I'll say I reached a stalemate in this battle, but anytime you didn't lose, that's a victory in my book. I didn't get ANYWHERE near what I paid the VA, not a quarter of it. But it is the principle of the matter. They admitted that I was forced to drop those classes, and was not at fault. That is a victory in anyone's book.

That horrible time in my life is passed me now. I can look forward to the next battle and gain understanding from the past. I no longer have to fight on that front any more.

I will always love my children, I will always miss them. Alive or dead they will always be in my heart. To all of my sons, I love and miss you. Always.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

The battle has started... again.

I have taken a few days off from writing here, I needed it. I have started up the fight the VA once again. The mountain of paperwork has already started to pile up and wavier, as it sways in my hands.

Even the "new" system is still a nightmare. The new system is design to stop you from calling the number (1-800-827-1000) for VA live assistance. Anything to keep the VA from helping you, the entire system is not design to help anyone.

Ok, stepping off my soap box. I have started to get the help I need, and deserve. The fight is not easy. But I have friends, and family this time.

The negative side of me preaches "Just wait you'll see!"

The positive side is grateful even though the feelings of doubt are powerful.

I share my story with friends and family, I get one resounding question "What? How is that even possible?". For 3 years now the VA has said that, yes I do have hearing lost, and YES I do have Combat PTSD. BUUUUUUUT they are not service related. So I have Combat PTSD, that I somehow got while in combat somewhere else?

This whole day, and the last few days have been a struggle. Holding on to hope is becoming a struggle. Hope is quickly becoming a dirty four letter word. Hope, the SO keeps reminding me to keep it. I am trying. Emotions are a flurry, and anger is coming and going like the tide. Frustration is loosing the words to express itself.

Now I playing the waiting game, waiting to get the papers I need to get the medication I need to stay balanced. Waiting til I can get back on track, and not feel like the world is crumbling around me. Waiting for hope to not feel as though it is trying to race me to an early grave.