Recovering from PTSD

A few posts back I mentioned Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in the Iraq and US citizenry. Seems other minds are thinking the same way. I subscribe to OpEd News, and Rob Kall has an interesting take on what he calls PPPTSD, or political, partisan post traumatic stress and "learned helplessness" in the aftermath of the last eight years.

I've also written about PTSD as an all-too-frequent outcome for significant others in an alcoholic relationship. It's tough to live in balance when your president is behaving like an alcoholic bully. Unfortunately, this kind of scenario turns violent quickly, and can put a lot of people in harm's way for what is essentially an adolescent hissy-fit. Best get a lot of distance.

There are new estimates that 300,000 of our military suffer from PTSD, and 320,000 have traumatic brain injuries. We should be helping those men and women out. It's real, and it's the right thing to do. We're going to need lots 'o nurses, doctors, medical facilities, counselors, mental health professionals as well as physical. There's a good place to put money for education. Taking care of our wounded. What a concept.

There's a lot of work to be done. This time I think we have a chance to get some things right. Truth, justice, and the American Way, in the broadest sense. Traveling and living abroad gives one an entirely different perspective of home. We're all on this planet together, and we'd be vastly enriched if we joined the global community. Trade, yes, but broadening minds as well. We all have a lot to learn, and a huge stake in working together to fix this joint up right.

Does anybody know if Mitchell's Herb Acre still exists? I think they were in Oregon. Carried lots of unique things, like saffron bulbs, and quite reasonable. That's my dream. To grow and sell herbs for women. Black and blue cohosh, valerian, angelica root, all those earthy, Capricorn herbs. Good for every stage of life, menarche, pregnancy, childbirth, menopause and beyond--saved my life. Get an Australian Shepherd again. And a decent computer system that will accomodate all my RPGs. I've already run out of room on my current rig. Dontcha hate that?

Our mom lived in Chicago for nearly 35 years. When she died, we had a little ceremony at the end of a pier in the lake and scattered her ashes. It was stunning to watch them descend, the sunlight filtering through revealing curious fish attracted by the sparkles. To think that the cycle of life was complete.

And then on election night, watching the ocean of people in Grant Park, where I have been, with my mother, and know that she would have been on the Obama team from before his senate run. She would have been there to hear his first, historically and intellectually memorable speech that was the turning point in getting us up out of this muck.

A very long way to go, but I sure feel great about finding ways to help us all get back together again. Even to the point of considering...just maybe, you understand...actually attending my 50th h.s. reunion. Who knows?

The scary dude above is my character in Two Worlds. Insanely buffed in weaponry, armor, magic, and that certain savoir faire.

Alcoholism: truly a family disease

I have so much to say and no legitimate place to say it. The blog must suffice. I received a call from my daughter who told me her alcoholic father is drinking again. Sounds benign, doesn't it? In reality it is a statement fraught with heartbreak, betrayal, loneliness, and a name for a family illness that is so deceptive, so powerful, that it has the audacity to ruin entire generations, crush the strongest psyche, break the most forgiving hearts.

How can others not see? The fume-laden breath, the slurred words, the stumbling physique...the signs add up to a sum that some don't recognize, some refuse to recognize, and some recognize, but are stunned with so much pain that they lose the power to objectively protect themselves, or communicate with...the rest of the world.

In her usual fashion, daughter goes through fire, retires, and takes one to three days to synthesize and take stock of the situation. Only then will she contact me, armed with a possible solution, hurt to the quick, but reaching out for some semblance of support.

I, removed from the situation by geography and time, am more able to support her actions, fortifying her decision to refuse any communication until the father takes control of his own life. I urge caution, attendance to that which makes offspring healthy and happy, no matter what the parental behavior manifests. Karma will resolve itself.

The ultimate enabler, now that the divorce is resolved in psyche as well as in fact, she is his most vital relationship, more important than new wife and children. The betrayal of parent to child, never appropriate, never positive, weighs heavily on the both of us. The final straw, "Don't tell B (the new wife)," reminds me of a series of "Don't tell this person that," as if by denying, it ceases to be true. Living a lie is one of the saddest and most toxic conditions of the human experience.

The ultimate heartbreak is that there is real love. The disease of alcoholism is so devastating that it blots out all reason, all care, all appropriateness. It becomes a recurring nightmare, feeding the disease and leaving a tale of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and stress-related illnesses behind it, more often felling the family rather than the alcoholic.

All I can rationally do is support daughter's plan of action. What I WANT to do is fly to Princeton, and protect my child in a flurry of accusations, threats, and words of sharpened stainless steel. Annihillate the cause. Put it out of it's misery, and the pain that it causes others for whom the afflicted declares love.

This is not a a viable option, for her sake or mine. Instead, I reach out to a sister who has suffered the same pain, the same anxiety that her child is being consistently devastated by a parent whom they love, but are continually hurt by. They deserve better. My maternal instincts and hormones are bigger than life. I could easily overwhelm the transgressor and annihilate him in a holy jihad.

But this is not to be. I cannot fix this. Daughter must find a way to survive the frailties of the parent on her own to be authentic and to survive. All I can do is offer love, support, and understanding. It breaks my heart.

Mommy blog, indeed. A far cry from diapers and teething and first day of school. But more visceral, more instinctual, more protective. From a force that I have no control over, nor does the father, or the daughter. My instincts are raging, yet I must find my own way of discharging feelings of helplessness, being out of control, outrage, knowing that decisions I make while in the white hot heat of insanity must be correct and appropriate for my daughter to survive.

Humans are capable of such a polar panoply of emotions, conditions, reactions, behaviors. Would that this particular illness could be cured with an anodyne, a prescription. It isn't. It's real, devastating, and too easily perpetuated.

Deep breaths. Reminders to oneself to let go, detach with love, and simply be. Deep breath. Deep breath.

Love and lemon pie

A sister Zona Rosan, Peggy Grose, has published a book called Love and Lemon Pie--Recipes for the Body and the Soul. The cooking directions are quaint, useful, and delicious, but the main dishes are pearls of wisdom Peggy has polished over the years as a counselor. I have a copy, and found that I was as intrigued by the tips to better commuication as I was by the comfy, home-style recipes. Peggy and I go back a long ways--she was a part of my recovery in Al-Anon in an out-patient treatment program for alcoholics and their families.

Her tiny, brilliant gems of gourmet communication tips and tools is well worth the price of the nicely bound and illustrated cook book. Along with the simple, inexpensive recipes, Love and Lemon Pie is a spiritual and gastronomical delight.