Happy New Year 2016-- Finally

I was all ready to write this great New Year’s blog. I usually write in my head for a couple of days before I commit to paper so I was ready to dazzle everyone with my profundity. I was going to write about how not to drag all the crap of the last year into the new year. How to just take the good stuff and leave the rest. How to turn grief into sorrow and ultimately into sorrow lite. How to let go of anger and don’t even think about revenge—such a fool’s game.

I wanted to write about how important forgiveness is, and that in order to have a heart at peace you must forgive and mean it. I was ready to admit that my dislike (ok, hate) of Donald Trump and the rest of those Bozo’s in the GOP have made me somewhat bitter in the last few months but I have tried- I mean with all my heart, to keep an open mind and try to understand Freedom means different things to different people. But...

I keep reading about the Syrian refugees, the people I was saying we should help three years ago, and seeing comments that exude hatred beyond my comprehension. Really, I could not hate that much. I guess I always try to put myself in other people’s shoes. Or I try to figure out how they got the way they are. I wanted to write about that and say- stop it. Just stop being mean.  

How to make a monster? Beat a child, starve a child of love, of food, of clothing or a place to live or a place to even poop. Let them see their mother raped, and their father blown up and their siblings beaten into submission. Fill his head with shit until it explodes.  (And takes a few people with him.) The kids of the middle east have dealt with all of the above. Not just Syria, but Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, Palestine – anywhere there is poverty, there are people there to take advantage of it. There will be more terrorist-- because the root cause is not being addressed. And hey people-- the root cause is not Islam.

So for anyone that does not understand that—let me assure you – we have been making monsters in the Middle East and a few here too. There is a reason why ISIL targets poor blacks looking for recruits. Who in this country is more susceptible than poor people, with not enough food, living in overcrowded project housing, with rats for household pets. If I were looking for recruits that were already angry—I’d look in the segregated (yeah it really is segregated) parts of the country where education is almost nonexistent, where drugs are more available than food, where families have been torn apart by guns and drugs and poverty.

And then mental illness. What some call evil. Back in the old days – the 1960s for my mom, mental illness was treated with shock therapy that fried your brain and left you vegetable. Oops, sorry about that, you’re not crazy or evil after all, it’s just menopause.

All these mentally ill people that shot up movie theaters and shopping centers and schools—all sick. And sure it’s hard to have compassion for the people that cause so much death and destruction, but do people hear themselves? The comments online are actually crazier than the person that caused them.

“We” didn’t make them you say? Well you’re wrong. We most certainly did. We made them here and we made them in the Middle East too. Because we chose to spend trillions on wars instead of helping people. We chose oil. We decided to take a generation of troops and ruin many of their lives for oil, for greed and our complete inability to understand Islamic countries.  

We chose to not spend money researching mental illness and preventing it. We chose to see mental illness as an evil apparition instead of a brain malfunction or undetected injury. We chose to see it as something we should pray about because that works. Ridiculous.

We choose to elect officials who are led by their pocket books and only think what people with money (the NRA, Koch Brothers) tell them to think.

For Example: Totally misinterpreting the 2^nd Amendment, and blowing by the word MILITIA and what that is exactly.

noun: militia; plural noun: militias

1.       a military force that is raised from the civil population to supplement a regular army in an emergency.

2.       a military force that engages in rebel or terrorist activities, typically in opposition to a regular army.

3.       all able-bodied civilians eligible by law for military service.

So take a look at these graphs I stole from CNN. Interesting right? – no wait. The word is embarrassing.

 

And then there is Trump who, if elected, would have us all nuked in about 20 minutes. His friend Putin might do the job, or maybe China, or Pakistan or our little, very mentally ill buddy in North Korea.

I wanted to write about all that. Maybe offer a few answers, or quote Mother Teresa or Walt Disney. “It’s a Small World After All.”  

But let me take a deep breath here.

Because yesterday I got a text from my grandson’s mom that he was in the hospital. He’s got a virus, he’ll be fine. But it was a big smack in the head for me. It immediately changed my perspective from the now—to the future. I really want to leave this world better for him. I don’t think I can blog my way there. I don’t know how to leave him a world without war or gunslingers or torture or famine or air to breathe. I want him to be able to grow up in a world that accepts single moms without condemnation,  that excepts gay and trans people. I don’t want him to be afraid of people that don’t look like him. I want him to have the best health care, the best schools and have it all without being told it’s a burden on his family or his country. I want him to not know the kind of fear that terrorism provokes.

I can write about it and I can vote. But there should be more.

I guess I’ll figure it out. Whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing, I always do.

Happy PEACEFUL New Year

My Manic 2015

It was a hard year and my best year too. A manic year really. My highest high and my lowest low came simultaneously. As one life was entering –another was slipping away, and I did a balancing act that would rival Philippe Petit, while helping others not fall off their rope. Take my hand. Take my hand. Take my hand.  

I felt completely alone, battling demons that were taking away the love of my life—the air in my lungs. And suddenly 30 or so of my best friends and family surrounded me, lifted me up and supported me through the following months, so I could help the people that needed me.

Then my light arrived. My little love arrived with healing powers, the likes of which are for fairytales only—not real life. Certainly not my life.

He arrived in the spring, bringing hope, like all new things in spring. A ray of light, a purpose, a cause to keep not just me moving forward but others too. More than a few of us needed him. I cried tears of joy and then set out to do the impossible—and did it with the help of my friends.

It’s always like this—every year, losses and gains. People pass away, babies are born. It’s the way of the world. But this year was different. It was a massive rescue mission, headed by old friends—some of whom are Marine Moms, others who have known me 40+ years and others who have known me fewer years, but immediately understood the urgency—the life or death of everything.

The best was going to Europe to meet my grandson thanks to my friends—and then having he and his mom stay with me for almost 3 months. No- wait. The best was my son coming back from the edge. Or maybe it was all of us together for the best Thanksgiving ever. Or maybe it was realizing what amazing friends and family I have. It’s hard to say what part of wonderful is the most wonderful.

I can say this, I am grateful.

Because I am so grateful, I plan on spending 2016 raising awareness for what I have deemed the crime of the century. PTS. Post-Traumatic Stress—specifically combat related.  And Veteran Suicide as a direct result of PTS and other injuries. If you follow me on Facebook you’ll see many posts from me regarding missing veterans, at risk veterans, homeless veterans, and their families and caretakers who suffer secondary PTS due to living in crisis mode 24/7.

I learned first hand in this last year that emotional support for families of veterans is crucial. I want all the families to be able to ask for help if they need it. Doing this alone should not even be an option.

Veteran issues are not and should never be viewed as political. We have an all-volunteer military from all walks of life, who have risked life and limb and a variety of illnesses, so we—civilians, didn’t have to go to war. We owe them. So, no matter what side of the political fence you are on—I hope you have an interest in helping me help them. If you can help spread needed information, and resources for vets and families—I will be forever grateful to you.

May the New Year bring us peace around the world. A lofty wish, I know. But if enough people really want that- it will happen. I learned this year—you can change the tide; you just need the right people to help you.

Below are some helpful links if you are in need of help. 

www.facebook.com/TrevorGouldMemorial

www.heartstowardhome.com

www.veteranscrisisline.net

I Forgive You

He sat in my kitchen, in a chair with one leg pulled up to his chest, and his chin on his knee, watching me cook. I was cooking and talking to the dog, and bantering back and forth with our 12-year-old son, when I said something that made him laugh. And because I like it when people think I’m funny, I stopped and smiled at him—you know the smile? The one that says, see, I’ve still got it. He was smiling back. 

“What?” I asked. 

“I don’t hate you anymore. He said.

“Ha! I don’t hate you anymore either.” 

It was mostly true for both of us. 

The 12-year cold war. Over just like that. Except for a few skirmishes.   

As the years went by, I imagined, as we got older, and his parents did too, I would help him take care of them. I imagined that someday we would be roommates, with separate rooms, with him beating me at Scrabble, and us arguing over politics or something equally arguable. I imagined we would be grandparents together, both vying for top spot on the grandparent roll call. 

On December 31^st. 2010, I called him to say Happy New Year. And I meant it with all my heart. He said Happy New Year back to me—and I could tell he meant it too. Six days later my son called me telling me his dad had just died. 2011 was not a happy year at all.  I cried for days. I cry still. That grandchild I imagined is here now but he won’t get to know him. So many moments lost. 

That day in my kitchen was the closest either one of us ever got to an apology.  Neither of us ever said I forgive you—but I’m sure we both meant that. I meant that. I guess I can’t put words in his mouth now. 

My life changed that day. A big dark cloud disappeared but I didn’t notice it until later. I can say now… that when all that hurt and anger left, I started breathing. My brain started working better and my life started falling into place. 

If I have learned nothing else in my life, I’ve learned to forgive. Even when we don’t want to. Even when we think that is that last thing we will ever do-- it’s what we should do to free ourselves from the hate that devours our heart and spirit. It’s a gift to yourself to forgive—and maybe a gift to the other person too, but that’s okay, because you just never know.

Burnt Toast

How many times have you burned toast in your life?  Me… I have burned loaves.

I remember when I was little, and if you knew me, you’ll remember too, I was the kind of kid that would throw a fit over burned toast. A real fit, an end of the world fit, the kind where you have to restrain the child because they are flailing and may well hurt themselves kind of fit. Yep, that was me. 

Somehow, my mother survived that. “No problem” she might have said, as she scraped that toast with a knife, and the darkest crumbs fell into sink or the garbage. But you could not ever convince me that toast was not ruined. It was ruined, and I would never eat it no matter what. 

Then my mom would say, “Okay, I’ll make you new toast.” And proceed to give me my old toast after pretending to make new toast—and voila, I was happy. At least for the moment. I didn’t realize then of course, and maybe not until this morning, that much of my life has been burnt toast.  I have scraped the burn off of many a'slice. 

I’ve scraped it off my broken heart, my fragile ego, and my frail and dusty brain. Sometimes, I had to throw a fit first. Sometimes, I just wanted to throw myself away and give up … piece of shit toast. I’m toast. I’m not worth saving. But then… I would scrape myself off. 

Burned toast is temporary. It’s fixable. No, not without some scars… there will be spots visible to the naked eye. Everyone will see them, but they’ll think – wow… good for you toast—you saved yourself and you look pretty damn good. And toast will look in the mirror and say… “yep.” 

I’ve had the opportunity, recently, to review my life a bit. I usually try not to dwell on the past, I have made so many mistakes that thinking about the past undoubtedly brings up some remorse, some regrets, and often some embarrassment. But when I look at is as a whole… my mistakes made me who I am. My successes did not. My burnt toast made me a better cook. My burnt toast taught me how to fix things that are broken and still use them. They are still good. They are not broken. I am not broken. YOU are not broken. 

We are just burnt toast.

POST TRAUMATIC STRESS AWARENESS 2015

JUNE IS NATIONAL PTSD AWARENESS MONTH

 I always focus on Combat PTSD because that is what I have studied.  I usually write something about it. I usually explain what it is. Everyone should know these two things by now. If you don’t know—look it up. Google it, google it with my name you’ll find several articles and one radio piece.

So this year I am including a different angle of PTSD. This year I’m writing about how these soldiers, sailors, Marines & airmen who were once hailed as heroes by the general public, are often treated with disdain when they suffer from PTSD. I say suffer… I mean suffer. They suffer, their families suffer, their friends suffer, but most of the people who reaped the benefits of their service and sacrifice, they don’t suffer at all. Some of them don’t even have the decency to vote. The whole freedom thing-- shat upon.

TO FULLY UNDERSTAND...

PTSD you have to live it. Not necessarily have it—but live it. If you have a loved one who has PTSD (also called PTS) then you know about the anxiety attacks, the anger issues, the nightmares, the confusion, the depression, the total lack of giving a shit, and the inability for some to function without caretakers. The drinking and drugs are mostly by-products, but surely part of the problem. And, sadly- the most sad of all, is that sometimes they give up and commit suicide. 22 Veterans commit suicide a day. 22 A DAY.

Trips to the VA are too confusing for some. Go to this office for this paper and that office for that paper and go see this guy in that building or this lady in this building and then when you’re through come back to this building but don’t see me see Dr. So & So … and so on and so forth. If you are not suicidal before going there – you may well be afterwards. People, us civilians, do not know that.

People ask why did you join the service in the first place?  There are as many answers for that as there are people in the service. After 9-11, a lot of them joined.  Even though most of them grew up with Vietnam War Vets in their family, and Korean Conflict vets too, they heard stories, they knew Uncle Joe was never the same after Vietnam. They knew the story of Aunt Peggy who was a nurse in Vietnam then came home and drank herself to death.  But, they joined.  Some of them, joined for noble reasons, some were running away from what they were in, some were thinking of their future, some wanted the free education, most of them—did not think they would die. Most of them did not think they would lose arms and legs and eyes, and hearing and skin, and I bet none of them thought they would lose their minds.

I have studied PTSD now for about 9 years. Before it walked through my door, it walked through the doors of people I knew. When I heard them talk about their loved ones, sometimes it was with anger or confusion and sometimes it was with an abundance of empathy and love. Sometimes – all of the above. That made me realize that I needed to fully understand the complexities before I wrote about it or met it head on.

PTS has become pervasive among our troops. We managed to turn a blind eye to the Vietnam veterans that came home with it. We called them drug addicts (and baby killers)  and threw them away. But things are different now. Some people know better, and those people spend every waking hour doing something about it by educating everyone they meet—PTS is not a made up condition. It’s not a weakness. It’s a wound. It’s a scar. It’s a war within.

STOP BLAMING THE WARRIORS...

They were mostly 18 years old when they joined. They had no idea what death and destruction would do to them. (And most of their parents had no idea either.)  Even those that thought they might know--- thought they were smarter than everyone else—they didn’t know either. So instead of blaming the warriors or even the wars that have already taken place, start finding ways to make peace in the world. Start finding common dominators instead differences. Stop using religion to hate. Stop voting for war. And sure—the bad guys are the bad guys, and they have to be dealt with—but don’t sign up our troops until all other avenues are exhausted. Don’t be a knee jerk. Don’t hate just because. Try to figure out why.

 Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and PTS are the signature wounds of the Middle East wars. Studies show that 14-20 % of Veterans from Iraq (OIF) and Afghanistan (OEF) have PTSD.  50% of those with PTSD do not seek treatment. Out of the half that seek treatment, only half of them get "minimally adequate" treatment (RAND study) 19% of veterans may have traumatic brain injury (TBI) Over 260,000 veterans from OIF and OEF so far have been diagnosed with TBI. Traumatic brain injury is much more common in the general population than  previously thought: according to the CDC, over 1,700,000 Americans have a traumatic brain injury each year; in Canada 20% of teens had TBI resulting in hospital admission or that involved over 5 minutes of unconsciousness (VA surgeon reporting in BBC News) 7% of veterans have both post-traumatic stress disorder and traumatic brain injury. The rates of post-traumatic stress are greater for these wars than prior conflicts.

HOW CAN WE HELP?

I’m glad you asked. First- have compassion. Don’t assume someone is a bum or a drug addict or a loser because their life isn’t going the way you think it should. Families and loved ones need to educate themselves as much as possible. And if needed, get your own counseling to help you navigate the difficult days.

Clearly, it’s best to let the professionals deal with such a delicate issue. But it’s good to understand some of the triggers and help the Vet avoid them if you have the opportunity.  Check the link for more information.

You can donate to organizations that help veterans with PTS and /or TBI. (see below)

You can volunteer to help navigate the VA process (there is training available)

Just Listen – don’t ask any questions if you are not a combat veteran. Empathy does not extend to knowledge.

A safe way to check in without being intrusive is ask on a scale of 1-10 how are you doing?  You’ll be surprised how many of them will tell you the truth.

If you know a vet that you suspect has PTSD, carry the VA Hotline number and offer it to him/her.

FOR MORE INFORMATION

National Center For PTSD

Donate to:  (vetted)

Hearts Toward Home International

The Pathway Home

Wounded Warriors