PTSD Sucks.
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BinaryFu
Posts: 240 Member
What a mess.
It's been what, over a year since I've posted in here, that should speak volumes for how well I've been doing since my surgery (although not doing great on the whole LOSING weight, but hey, I've been maintaining, so that's a start, right?) and now I'm getting slammed emotionally.
What. The...
And it's the most messed up thing! Okay, to fill you guys in:
1) I have PTSD. It stems from multiple events, but the biggest one was seeing someone beaten in front of me when I felt powerless to stop it. I eventually was able to overcome my fear and shock to do something, but it was too late. That one event is on loop playback in the back of my mind 24/7, no break for holidays.
To be fair, there are days, sometimes weeks where I don't think about it now. Those are really good days. Some days, I think about it, but that's all, it's just a memory, it can't hurt me. Then there's other days where...well, I'm right there. It's happening right now, in front of me, in slo-mo, over and over and over again.
Those are the bad days. Those are the days I don't talk much, I keep to myself and I generally don't function that well.
This is all stuff I've not really shared with others before, but I feel like I can at least talk a little about it - progress, right? Even after 20 years, a little progress is better than nothing.
2) My wife and I had an adorable and wonderful dog named Lizzie. She was actually my wife's dog and I got her as part of the package deal - she was 7 years old when I met her (the dog, not my wife) and she was a total sweetheart, we bonded quickly (both the dog and my wife).
This past January, my wife and I watched her die. We didn't wake up and find her dead, she didn't get hit by a car...no, she died from some injury we don't know how - and she slowly bled out internally while vets scratched their heads saying it was an intestinal blockage, muscle spasms, you name it.
They didn't know.
She lingered for over a week before one vet looked at us and said, "You need to make a decision right now - because she doesn't have much time left." and the decision was whether or not to have exploratory surgery on an 11 year old dog to hopefully find an internal bleeder that they couldn't find on an X-ray and try to save her.
Or put her down - out of the pain and suffering she was going through.
My wife was looking to me to be the strong one, I was looking to the doctor for a CLUE as to how likely the surgery would be to save our pup, how long she might live beyond that, would she take a long time to recover, would she be her spry old self afterwards? Of course, they're vets, not God. They can't give you all those answers, only best guesses.
So, I did what I thought was best and said, "I don't want her to suffer with all of that (meaning the surgery, the recovery, the not understanding what's going on, the desire to do what she always did and the sudden inability to do it and not being able to grasp why), she's been such a good dog, I just want her to have some peace and rest."
Apparently the vet thought that was a pretty wise idea, because she actually prayed with us and thanked God for our wisdom in making a selfless decision - one that was best for our beloved dog and not for us.
Then they brought her in, laid her on the table, she tried to wag her tail for us and we held her, petting her, letting her know what a wonderfully good dog she was. Such a good dog. And we praised her and loved on her as they injected her with a drug cocktail that let her fall asleep and stopped her heart.
Now I live that moment over and over again. Good days, some days and bad days.
3) So a couple of months ago, my wife said she'd like to get a new dog - eventually. I told her I wasn't ready, didn't know I would ever be ready. She told me she couldn't see a life without a dog in it. I knew that was something that would hurt her deeply to not have. So I sucked it up and I figured, if we get a dog, it'll be a great dog...best type I could find. And preferably a rescue - so we would be making a difference in a dog's life that's not been so great. And if I was uncomfortable with getting a new dog now, in a few months or a year even, I'd probably be a stone wall on the subject - unyielding. (I know this about me - time usually doesn't soften me, it hardens me. The further away from change, the more solid my stance on not changing.) So I knew if it was going to work, I'd have to dive in head-first and give it a try.
So, finally after a lot of searching, we found the perfect dog - she's a year old, her name is Katniss. She's a Carolina Dingo Dog. They're beautiful. Smart. Loving. And she is the epitome of the breed (which happens to be a wild breed, by the way. Only two known in existence - Carolina Dingo Dogs and Canaan Dogs in Israel).
So, we picked her up barely four days ago. And that's when I started on my anti-anxiety/depression meds. Daily. Because the PTSD has fired up to an eleven. Horrible flashbacks of Lizzie dying, the beating that took place in front of me, the other events I don't talk about, just interchanging, mixing and mingling like it was some sort of horror social and I was the best appetizer around - I feel like I'm being eaten alive inside.
My wife and I have talked daily. She knows what's going on, but she also knows I was all for this - I was even excited over the idea that maybe I could get back into dog training.
I told her I wanted a dog.
And that's on me. I ignored the subtle warning signs I had earlier and I crushed them down. But in so doing, instead of my wife having to simply accept that her husband might not ever be able to handle owning another dog, I just had to make darn good and sure that she could see it for herself by getting one and falling apart to remove all doubt.
Nice going me.
So, we now have an agreement - give it a couple of weeks, Katniss is on antibiotic meds because (although she was in virtually perfect health for a dog living on the streets up until about four months ago) she had contracted Lyme Disease. We figured, it would be only fair to her and any potential new owner for her to heal up first.
On top of that, I figured - the least we can do is train her as well. She's got "sit" down pat. But a basic like "leave it" it's as if she's never heard of such a thing. As someone who takes medication for blood pressure, and can potentially drop a pill on the floor - "leave it" is a life-saving skill that *all* dogs need to know above any other training (save perhaps for potty training, but really, that goes hand-in-hand).
But...what happens in two weeks? The "what-if" monster has already come knocking at my door and I just needed to share this with some others and talk it through. What if the PTSD issues don't quiet down? I'm on meds right now (which I have taken maybe a total of 3 times in my life so far, each time was so I could just get a good night's rest. This is the *first* time I'm on a daily regimen of the stuff and I hate how it makes me feel. Everything is an effort.) but what if I have to stay on them? Not something I desire.
What if this adorable dog (and she is - I cannot stress this enough - she is an absolute gem of a dog, with a wonderful personality, a loving and caring soul, a playful spirit that's not destructive and an eagerness to learn and grow and bond with a pack. She is, in short, a perfect dog with a few training needs that time may fix.) - what if she *can't* learn the crucial skills we need her to?
My asthma has already gotten worse and my allergies are kicking in beyond the level of my current meds ability to handle. What if a bath won't fix that? (I'll find that out later this week as she'll be getting her first bath today from PetSmart)
What if my PTSD subsides, but I grow to resent her? I just learned how to cope with being completely and utterly alone in our house when my wife is away on business trips (although recently when I went away for a few days, my wife most certainly did not enjoy the experience).
I faced my demons down. That's a big deal. But now I'm going to have this responsibility here, 24/7. Something relying on me. Something to expect me to care for it. That will *require* me to care for it, or else. Or else I'll be responsible for another demise that could quite possibly have been preventable.
Oh yes, I know. It wasn't my fault. The bad guy did the beating, I didn't. Lizzie got injured "somehow" whether it was her jumping off the retaining wall one too many times, or one of the play sessions with the kids that one of them might have tripped and fallen on her, or a tumble in the dog park. Sure. I get it. Logically.
Logically I totally get that.
But emotionally? Personally? In that dark corner of my soul where my PTSD likes to party? No. Eff that, man. That's on you. All of it. All of it is on you and WHEN this new dog dies? That's on you too. You could have done something, could have been a better trainer, better owner, better person. Whatever. It's on you and that's all there is to it.
And that's where I'm at. Today, right now. With this adorable dog that is the sweetest, most loving animal on the planet, laying at my feet, just wanting to bask in the company of another while my wife is at work...that's where I'm at.
It's been what, over a year since I've posted in here, that should speak volumes for how well I've been doing since my surgery (although not doing great on the whole LOSING weight, but hey, I've been maintaining, so that's a start, right?) and now I'm getting slammed emotionally.
What. The...
And it's the most messed up thing! Okay, to fill you guys in:
1) I have PTSD. It stems from multiple events, but the biggest one was seeing someone beaten in front of me when I felt powerless to stop it. I eventually was able to overcome my fear and shock to do something, but it was too late. That one event is on loop playback in the back of my mind 24/7, no break for holidays.
To be fair, there are days, sometimes weeks where I don't think about it now. Those are really good days. Some days, I think about it, but that's all, it's just a memory, it can't hurt me. Then there's other days where...well, I'm right there. It's happening right now, in front of me, in slo-mo, over and over and over again.
Those are the bad days. Those are the days I don't talk much, I keep to myself and I generally don't function that well.
This is all stuff I've not really shared with others before, but I feel like I can at least talk a little about it - progress, right? Even after 20 years, a little progress is better than nothing.
2) My wife and I had an adorable and wonderful dog named Lizzie. She was actually my wife's dog and I got her as part of the package deal - she was 7 years old when I met her (the dog, not my wife) and she was a total sweetheart, we bonded quickly (both the dog and my wife).
This past January, my wife and I watched her die. We didn't wake up and find her dead, she didn't get hit by a car...no, she died from some injury we don't know how - and she slowly bled out internally while vets scratched their heads saying it was an intestinal blockage, muscle spasms, you name it.
They didn't know.
She lingered for over a week before one vet looked at us and said, "You need to make a decision right now - because she doesn't have much time left." and the decision was whether or not to have exploratory surgery on an 11 year old dog to hopefully find an internal bleeder that they couldn't find on an X-ray and try to save her.
Or put her down - out of the pain and suffering she was going through.
My wife was looking to me to be the strong one, I was looking to the doctor for a CLUE as to how likely the surgery would be to save our pup, how long she might live beyond that, would she take a long time to recover, would she be her spry old self afterwards? Of course, they're vets, not God. They can't give you all those answers, only best guesses.
So, I did what I thought was best and said, "I don't want her to suffer with all of that (meaning the surgery, the recovery, the not understanding what's going on, the desire to do what she always did and the sudden inability to do it and not being able to grasp why), she's been such a good dog, I just want her to have some peace and rest."
Apparently the vet thought that was a pretty wise idea, because she actually prayed with us and thanked God for our wisdom in making a selfless decision - one that was best for our beloved dog and not for us.
Then they brought her in, laid her on the table, she tried to wag her tail for us and we held her, petting her, letting her know what a wonderfully good dog she was. Such a good dog. And we praised her and loved on her as they injected her with a drug cocktail that let her fall asleep and stopped her heart.
Now I live that moment over and over again. Good days, some days and bad days.
3) So a couple of months ago, my wife said she'd like to get a new dog - eventually. I told her I wasn't ready, didn't know I would ever be ready. She told me she couldn't see a life without a dog in it. I knew that was something that would hurt her deeply to not have. So I sucked it up and I figured, if we get a dog, it'll be a great dog...best type I could find. And preferably a rescue - so we would be making a difference in a dog's life that's not been so great. And if I was uncomfortable with getting a new dog now, in a few months or a year even, I'd probably be a stone wall on the subject - unyielding. (I know this about me - time usually doesn't soften me, it hardens me. The further away from change, the more solid my stance on not changing.) So I knew if it was going to work, I'd have to dive in head-first and give it a try.
So, finally after a lot of searching, we found the perfect dog - she's a year old, her name is Katniss. She's a Carolina Dingo Dog. They're beautiful. Smart. Loving. And she is the epitome of the breed (which happens to be a wild breed, by the way. Only two known in existence - Carolina Dingo Dogs and Canaan Dogs in Israel).
So, we picked her up barely four days ago. And that's when I started on my anti-anxiety/depression meds. Daily. Because the PTSD has fired up to an eleven. Horrible flashbacks of Lizzie dying, the beating that took place in front of me, the other events I don't talk about, just interchanging, mixing and mingling like it was some sort of horror social and I was the best appetizer around - I feel like I'm being eaten alive inside.
My wife and I have talked daily. She knows what's going on, but she also knows I was all for this - I was even excited over the idea that maybe I could get back into dog training.
I told her I wanted a dog.
And that's on me. I ignored the subtle warning signs I had earlier and I crushed them down. But in so doing, instead of my wife having to simply accept that her husband might not ever be able to handle owning another dog, I just had to make darn good and sure that she could see it for herself by getting one and falling apart to remove all doubt.
Nice going me.
So, we now have an agreement - give it a couple of weeks, Katniss is on antibiotic meds because (although she was in virtually perfect health for a dog living on the streets up until about four months ago) she had contracted Lyme Disease. We figured, it would be only fair to her and any potential new owner for her to heal up first.
On top of that, I figured - the least we can do is train her as well. She's got "sit" down pat. But a basic like "leave it" it's as if she's never heard of such a thing. As someone who takes medication for blood pressure, and can potentially drop a pill on the floor - "leave it" is a life-saving skill that *all* dogs need to know above any other training (save perhaps for potty training, but really, that goes hand-in-hand).
But...what happens in two weeks? The "what-if" monster has already come knocking at my door and I just needed to share this with some others and talk it through. What if the PTSD issues don't quiet down? I'm on meds right now (which I have taken maybe a total of 3 times in my life so far, each time was so I could just get a good night's rest. This is the *first* time I'm on a daily regimen of the stuff and I hate how it makes me feel. Everything is an effort.) but what if I have to stay on them? Not something I desire.
What if this adorable dog (and she is - I cannot stress this enough - she is an absolute gem of a dog, with a wonderful personality, a loving and caring soul, a playful spirit that's not destructive and an eagerness to learn and grow and bond with a pack. She is, in short, a perfect dog with a few training needs that time may fix.) - what if she *can't* learn the crucial skills we need her to?
My asthma has already gotten worse and my allergies are kicking in beyond the level of my current meds ability to handle. What if a bath won't fix that? (I'll find that out later this week as she'll be getting her first bath today from PetSmart)
What if my PTSD subsides, but I grow to resent her? I just learned how to cope with being completely and utterly alone in our house when my wife is away on business trips (although recently when I went away for a few days, my wife most certainly did not enjoy the experience).
I faced my demons down. That's a big deal. But now I'm going to have this responsibility here, 24/7. Something relying on me. Something to expect me to care for it. That will *require* me to care for it, or else. Or else I'll be responsible for another demise that could quite possibly have been preventable.
Oh yes, I know. It wasn't my fault. The bad guy did the beating, I didn't. Lizzie got injured "somehow" whether it was her jumping off the retaining wall one too many times, or one of the play sessions with the kids that one of them might have tripped and fallen on her, or a tumble in the dog park. Sure. I get it. Logically.
Logically I totally get that.
But emotionally? Personally? In that dark corner of my soul where my PTSD likes to party? No. Eff that, man. That's on you. All of it. All of it is on you and WHEN this new dog dies? That's on you too. You could have done something, could have been a better trainer, better owner, better person. Whatever. It's on you and that's all there is to it.
And that's where I'm at. Today, right now. With this adorable dog that is the sweetest, most loving animal on the planet, laying at my feet, just wanting to bask in the company of another while my wife is at work...that's where I'm at.
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Replies
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Hi, Dr. Fu, I think of you as a Fu Man Chu, lol. I know, right??
I have read your post and think I can relate to your story very well. For me, my pup of 14yrs 9 months died on December 29th. He was old, it was his time. But I wrestled with this decision for a long long time. It is now October, I've cried a lot, still do, and I have realized just how much love I had for Raider. He was my Service Animal since 6 weeks old. I didn't know how to act without having a dog with me 24/7. I spiraled down into an angry deep depression. Meds helped, but what brought me out of it was my miracle pup on Oct. 3, my hubby arranged to get me a new Service Animal. He flew into our hometown airport and it was love at first sight. As you know, our disability dictates our day, so mine has been filled with pain since then, but it is ok. Mentally, I am coming back. I am enjoying the new life I have with my new pup. He is 4 months old now and growing like a weed. We have a paw print of Raider hanging in our room with his tags and collar. Rurik's foot is 2/3 the size of Raider's adult foot. Yep, he will be a big dog. That being said, this pup, is training like a champ. He is so wonderful. Training is not a struggle, and I truly look forward to the morning when I get to take RU out and have our morning training time. It is precious to see how much he has grown mentally and physically since he came to us. He was raised in a barn with his pup family and now has had a hard time of potty training. Today marks the 5th day with no accidents. One in his crate on Sunday when we have to leave him 3 hrs. But that is good. Really good. And cleaning up the mess is no biggie, I have wood floors and great cleaning ability.
But as you said, emotionally some days are just blah, crappy, and hard to make me do anything. I am starting new testing for Vertigo, Fibra Myalgia, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrom. And as if that is not enough, my 21 yr old Worker's Comp Case is finally going to court.
I'm personally a mess inside and a smile outside. It is good to hear you are coming along. I have worried about you for a long while. I know life happens and we all loose touch. I am glad you didn't and shared today this struggle you encounter. It is good to talk it out. It is good to know others have similar.
I have PTSD from physical abuse done to me by others(Mother, Brother, 2 ex-husbands, and my only Daughter). One of them, my 1st EX, flashed across my computer screen yesterday while I was trying to see photos of my beautiful 2 yr old granddaughter, the one I have never heard speak, never seen personally, and may never in her life. You see, my daughter still won't speak to me (4yrs now and I have not seen or hugged her in 12 years), and here her father is in a photo holding our granddaughter. My heart skipped a beat, and not in a good way. Needless to say, my sleep has been nil. He fondled a little girl and here he is with my granddaughter! Yes, he did time. Yes, he is a pedophile. Yes, they all know this. I'm trying to rest and so much to do. And I am so happy I have the pup to keep my mind off those things.
As you know, this is so hard to write and I am holding back the tears as I type. PTSD Sucks. I'm here if you want to talk. I can't promise you I won't cry, but I am here. Hugs, CJ0 -
Thanks CJ, I talked about it with my wife the other night - first time I'd ever opened up to anyone and explained (even this vaguely) what part of my PTSD is from. I think I sobbed for a solid five minutes or so. Even just talking about it, I felt like I was right there again, that fast. The pain, the heart-wrenching pain just ripped me up. And the guilt is absolute hell, it doesn't matter how many times I've heard, "Whatever happened, it wasn't on you. Not your fault." It just doesn't fix it, doesn't make the pain magically go away.
But right now, I look at this adorable dog, all I see is Lizzie, dying right there under my hand...while we pet her and hold her paw...and then I see the other stuff...and it just goes round and round, I can't breathe...I feel like I'm drowning...
She's a good dog, smart, well-behaved. I just don't know if I can deal with having a dog in my life again without it killing me emotionally.
So...PTSD sucks. That's really all there is to say, isn't it?1
