Bob suggested I write up a set of Q & A for an advice column on PTSD and try and sell it to a newspaper or something. It is really what I love to do, but do I have the energy? It would be easy if someone else came up with the questions...
I have a blog at PatienceMason.blogspot.com http://www.patiencepress.com/pat…/PTSD_Help-For_Spouses.html and two other facebook pages, Patience H C Mason, Author and Recovering From the War.
Last Year in June (PTSD Month) I posted everyday here and cross posted to all of them. I think it helped some people.
I keep directing people on some of the groups I belong to to http://www.patiencepress.com/pat…/PTSD_Help-For_Spouses.html which also links to the stuff for kids, the Gazettes and various essays. I have written so much on this subject and few people know, but 
I really think my non-professional take on PTSD is way more helpful than the way professionals look at it as a random collection of symptoms with no rhyme or reason. 
I see it as survivor skills built into your brain which are rapidly/instantly activated by war or abuse and which play out in a logical order, hyperalertness and rapid adaptation leading to numbing and then avoidance, ending up with re-experiencing symptoms like nightmares, intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, anniversary reactions to incidents you may or may not remember, one of the commonest causes for a resurgence of PTSD symptoms.
The other common cause for a resurgence is a new stressor which, having been to war, may not seem like it ought to bother you, but suddenly you are keyed up, angry etc.
I'd be glad for suggestions or inspiration.

To my Congressman about marijuana

When Bob got back from Vietnam
 anyone who had problems was treated badly at the local VA where they were rude and dismissive. The diagnosis of PTSD did not exist. There was no treatment except valium, and he was told to take all he wanted since it was the new wonder drug. He also drank heavily. The students at UF introduced him to pot.
Bob survived BECAUSE he had these three drugs to use. Not because he got help at the VA. Not because I helped him. Because drinking, smoking pot and taking lots of valium just kept him down to WIRED. He could not sleep. Sleeping pills kept him awake. He was irritable and angry a lot, numb a lot, but whatever he was, the pot HELPED.
It helped him and it helped me because it calmed him down.
I think it should be available to every veteran.

What I wrote Ted Yoho, a supposedly pro-vet Congressman in Florida:
'I happen to live with a vet who has PTSD and who has suffered a lot as a result. I have written a book called Recovering From The War and have a website on recovering from PTSD, which involves different things for different people. http://www.patiencepress.com/patien…/PTSD_Help-Gazettes.html
I believe that with so many veterans killing themselves or hurting their families with outbursts of anger etc, they should be provided with something which will help them NOW, not after weeks of therapy, if they can even be seen in the VA or find a therapist who understands. Medications may help, but if they have bad side effects, most vets won't take them and won't say they are not. They give up. Pot just makes them feel better and it should be available. For years after Vietnam, it was the only thing that helped my husband and I was glad he had it.
I know you won't agree, but I wanted to let you know that you could have helped our veterans and you didn't. 
It is not an ideal solution, but it is something that has helped many. "

I wrote this when I signed a letter to Representative Yoho about the fact that VA doctors can't even talk to vets about pot, thanks to a recent vote. The letter came through the Drug Policy Alliance
http://www.drugpolicy.org/

I love this poster. Wish IAVA knew that my website (patiencepress.com) exists with a lot of help on it.
It is normal to be affected by what you live through!
Different people need different things to get better.
There is no pill for PTSD and no therapy that works for everyone (no matter how "evidence based").
The symptoms of PTSD all start in the primitive parts of the brain as brain based survival skills: attention to threat leads to hypervigilance; rapid adaptation to what's happening leads to numbing and then avoidance to stay numb (including alcoholism, drugs, and other addictive behaviors); and the brain's better safe than sorry system, which does not speak English and can't tell time (except when anniversaries roll around) tries to keep you aware that the universe is a dangerous place with intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, nightmares, and anniversary reactions.
NORMAL, people! Not weak! Not weird! We are made to survive if possible.
Having PTSD is evidence that you have been through traumatic events and also evidence of strength, courage, speed, luck, etc, and survival! I am glad you lived through it and made it home.

Do you still think of Vietnam by Kerry "Doc" Pardue,

This is a beautiful essay!

 

Do you still think of Vietnam?

2013/11/01 - OPINIONS / SUPPORT OUR TROOPS

by Kerry “Doc” Pardue
A couple of years ago someone asked me if I still thought about Vietnam. I nearly laughed in their face. How do you stop thinking about it? Every day for the past forty years, I wake up with it- I go to bed with it. This was my response:
“Yeah, I think about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I never will. But, . I’ve also learned to live with it. I’m comfortable with the memories. I’ve learned to stop trying to forget and learned to embrace it. It just doesn’t scare me anymore.”
A lot of my “brothers” haven’t been so lucky. For them the memories are too painful, their sense of loss too great. My sister told me of a friend she has whose husband was in the Nam. She asks this guy when he was there.
Here’s what he said, “Just last night.” It took my sister a while to figure out what he was talking about. Just Last Night. Yeah, I was in the Nam. When? Just last night, before I went to sleep, on my way to work this morning, and over my lunch hour. Yeah, I was there

My sister says I’m not the same brother who went to Vietnam. My wife says I won’t let people get close to me, not even her.They are probably both right. Ask a vet about making friends in Nam. It was risky. Why? Because we were in the business of death, and death was with us all the time. It wasn’t the death of, “If I die before I wake.” This was the real thing. The kind boys scream for their mothers. The kind that lingers in your mind and becomes more real each time you cheat it. You don’t want to make a lot of friends when the possibility of dying is that real, that close. When you do, friends become a liability.
A guy named Bob Flanigan was my friend. Bob Flanigan is dead. I put him in a body bag one sunny day, April 29, 1969. We’d been talking, only a few minutes before he was shot, about what we were going to do when we got back to the world. Now, this was a guy who had come in country the same time as me. A guy who was loveable and generous. He had blue eyes and sandy blond hair.
When he talked, it was with a soft drawl. I loved this guy like the brother I never had. But, I screwed up. I got too close to him. I broke one of the unwritten rules of war. DON”T GET CLOSE TO PEOPLE WHO ARE GOING TO DIE. You hear vets use the term “buddy” when they refer to a guy they spent the war with. “Me and this buddy of mine.”
Friend sounds too intimate, doesn’t it? “Friend” calls up images of being close. If he’s a friend, then you are going to be hurt if he dies, and war hurts enough without adding to the pain. Get close; get hurt. It’s as simple as that. In war you learn to keep people at that distance my wife talks about. You become good at it, that forty years after the war, you still do it without thinking. You won’t allow yourself to be vulnerable again.
My wife knows two people who can get into the soft spots inside me-my daughters. I know it bothers her that they can do this.It’s not that I don’t love my wife. I do. She’s put up with a lot from me.She’ll tell you that when she signed for better or worse, she had no idea there was going to be so much of the latter. But with my daughters it’s different. My girls are mine. They’ll always be my kids. Not marriage, not distance, not even death can change that.They are something on this earth that can never be taken away from me. I belong to them. Nothing can change that. I can have an ex-wife; but my girls can never have an ex-father. There’s the differance. I can still see the faces, though they all seem to have the same eyes. When I think of us, I always see a line of “dirty grunts”sitting on a paddy dike. We’re caught in the first gray silver between darkness and light. That first moment when we know we’ve survived another night, and the business of staying alive for one more day is about to begin. There was so much hope in that brief space of time. It’s what we used to pray for. “One more day, God. One more day.”
And I can hear our conversations as if they’d only just been spoken I still hear the way we sounded. The hard cynical jokes, our morbid senses of humor. We were scared to death of dying, and tried our best not to show it.
I recall the smells, too. Like the way cordite hangs on the air after a fire-fight. Or the pungent odor of rice paddy mud. So different from the black dirt of Iowa. The mud of Nam smells ancient, somehow. Like it’s always been there. And I’ll never forget the way blood smells, sticky and drying on my hands. I spent a long night that way once. The memory isn’t going anywhere.
I remember how the night jungle appears almost dreamlike as pilot of a Cessna buzzez overhead, dropping parachute flares until morning. That artificial sun would flicker and make shadows run through the jungle. It was worse than not being able to see what was out there sometimes. I remember once looking at the man next to me as a flare floated overhead. The shadows around his eyes were so deep that it looked like his eyes were gone. I reached over and touched him on the arm; without looking at me he touched my hand. “I know man. I know.” That’s what he said. It was a human moment. Two guys a long way from home and scared to death.
God, I loved those guys. I hurt every time one of them died. We all did. Despite our posturing. Despite our desire to stay disconnected, we couldn’t help ourselves. I know why Tim O’ Brien writes his stories. I know what gives Bruce Weigle the words to create poems so honest I cry at their horrible beauty. It’s love. Love for those guys we shared the experience with.
We did our jobs like good soldiers, and we tried our best not to become as hard as our surroundings.You want to know what is frightening. It’s a nineteen-year-old-boy who’s had a sip of that power over life and death that war gives you. It’s a boy who, despite all the things he’s been taught,knows that he likes it. It’s a nineteen-year-old who’s just lost a friend, and is angry and scared and, determined that, “some*@#*s gonna pay”.To this day, the thought of that boy can wake me from a sound sleep and leave me staring at the ceiling.
As I write this, I have a picture in front of me. It’s of two young men. On their laps are tablets. One is smoking a cigarette. Both stare without expression at the camera. They’re writing letters. Staying in touch with places they rather be. Places and people they hope to see again. The picture shares space in a frame with one of my wife.. She doesn’t mind. She knows she’s been included in special company. She knows I’ll always love those guys who shared that part of my life, a part she never can. And she understands how I feel about the ones I know are out there yet. The ones who still answer the question, “When were you in Vietnam?”
“Hey, man. I was there just last night.”
~Kerry “Doc” Pardue