The Joy of PTSD

In speaking with a new therapist this week, (Remember? I’m too fucked up for short term therapy and had to switch to a new therp for the long haul.) I realized that being a military wife aided the violence. Due to our frequent PCSs, we constantly moved; changed cities, changed states, changed countries...8 moves in 16 years of marriage. I checked because I didn’t think that was possible but yes! 8 moves in 16 years. Sometimes we moved because the Beast had so worn out his welcome with his unit, he had to seek an assignment elsewhere. He wasn’t just an ass to me; his assholiness knew no boundaries. Moving so frequently meant we couldn’t establish close friendships. There was no one to bear witness to the culture of our household or to do anything about it. Rarely did we live near family. We didn’t associate with anyone other than church members who thoughtfully looked the other way and his co-workers. As is the case, when I was allowed to work or go to school outside the home, I was not allowed friends. They would distract from the very important business of taking care of Beast, the children, and the home. Our gypsy life maintained our abusive relationship.

The abuse went unchecked for over a decade. In that time of broken bones and torn flesh, I was more concerned with a broken soul. Thanks to the Joy of PTSD, there were many times when I couldn’t feel, literally couldn’t feel any emotions at all. Without that escape, Beast would have broken me. Apathy and humour; never underestimate the power of laughter. One ghastly time, I can’t remember if I’ve written about it here, but who cares? I’ll lay it bare again, open to the daylight. One time, Beast was sitting on me, straddling my abdomen and chest making breathing labored. I was panicking at the thought of losing consciousness, not so much from fear of the lack of oxygen as fear of the sexual assault that would follow should I be rendered helpless. Anyway, picture it:  Beast, full weight pinning me to the Pergo floor below, me, gasping for breath.  Beast then lifted my head with a thick hand on each side and began to systematically bang it onto the floor. I gave over then. Always at a point in his assaults,  my physical body couldn’t take anymore. I liken it to assault victims that say they feel themselves floating away, watching the event from up high. I let myself forget the difficulty breathing and fell into the blinding pain and rhythmic thumping of the back of my head on the floorboards. Not aware, I began counting. Seeing my lips moving, Beast leaned in closer because the sound of my voice begging was an aphrodisiac to him. Instead what Beast heard was, “One potato, two potato, three potato, four....” over and over in time to the head bashing.  I laughed at the absurdity of the scenario, a grown man sitting on top of his wife banging her head into the floor.  Where my tears had fueled his fire, my laughter doused it completely. That day I learned the antidote to his abuse.  I remembered that lesson and returned to it again and again until the day I was strong enough to leave for good.