Shit’s about to get real.
I’m done dancing around all this. And by “all this,” I mean subjects – hard, messy, unpleasant subjects – society tells us we shouldn’t openly discuss.
Nope. That ends today.
I’m going to talk about PTSD, depression, military sexual trauma, marriage issues, VA disability ratings, parenting woes, counseling, and probably sex toys. Strap in.
Full disclosure: I am not a medical professional. I am simply a person who has experienced some of these hard things in her life as a woman, pilot, wife, daughter, aunt, mother, sister, and author. If you need help, get it. Fuck me sideways, stop reading now and go get it. Take a deep breath and send that email, text that hotline, talk to a friend, lover, parent, stranger. The first step is the hardest. Also: sometimes the only way out is through.
Life is messy. Of course it is. Some days you’re on top of the world and it’s all so easy. Some days it’s complete shit and you’re just lucky that the last big hurrah was being soaked at bath time by your preschooler because at least it wasn’t his bodily fluids. But when life gets you down more often than not, whether you know why or not, seek change. Certainly for me, that’s easier said than done.
Servicemembers are great at denial; I know I am. We’re taught to compartmentalize from the start, whether at enlisted boot camp, officer candidates school, or a military academy. You’ve seen the advertisements: a Drill Instructor shouting at a mud-smeared recruit determinedly low-crawling under concertina wire while flash-bangs explode above her. Denial is a powerful tool in a warrior’s arsenal because it works. Giving yourself the ability to push distracting (usually fearful) thoughts away means you can focus on the mission: descending into a hot landing zone in combat; running toward a casualty that needs a MEDEVAC in enemy territory; preparing to move out onto IED-infested desert roads. If shit is going to suck, we’d rather push it deep down, pretend we’re fine, survive the situation, and deal with it on the other side.
In my experience, dealing with it is the hardest part.
I think I’ve finally quit denying that I’ve had, and still have, depression and/or anxiety, probably linked to my diagnosis of PTSD due to MST (military sexual trauma). The last five years have been busy with babies, buying (and fixing) a house, Covid, juggling jobs, writing, and keeping a marriage going. Denial of anything seriously wrong was easy because everything had an obvious answer: I’m sleeping a lot because I have interruped nights with the kids; We’re too tired for sex because every day is emotionally and physically exhausting; I’m sniping at him because my hormones are all over the place.
“Dealing with it” is the first step out of denial, actually acknowleding something happened. Anger seems to be the only acceptable outlet in the military: it’s visible, it’s active, it shows fighting spirit. I don’t condone anger as the only solution, but it is one of many tools in the kitbag. It took me five years to get angry – raging, bitchy, venomously angry. He raped me. I wasn’t an adulterer. Consent was not (and could not be) given. Anger gave me motivation to ask for professional help and purpose to tell my story. It gave me the energy to claim for PTSD due to MST with the VA in 2017, eight years after the fact and two years into my marriage. I am currently a 40% disabled veteran.
Anger has shown up in my relationships. With my husband, with my children, and with myself. I’ve thought about anger management classes. I’ve learned to count to ten, leave a room, or exercise if I feel a certain way. Sometimes, I can control myself. Sometimes, I can’t and I swear like a Marine (because, hello). Mostly, I think I’m angry at myself: for not speaking up about what I want or need; for not seeking help; for not communicating clearly enough. I know it’s not all my fault, but it’s easier to think it is because then I’m in charge of fixing it.
Any parent can tell you that parenting is hard. Maybe each generation thinks they’ve got it the worst and maybe we’re all right. The demands on parents is endless: financial, emotional, physical, logistical, even spiritual. And the demands on spouses to and of each other is mind-boggling: we’re expected to pick up exactly where we left off after having brought a completely helpless life into this world. This includes sleep, domestic chores, work schedules, exercise, making time for each other, spending habits, personal hobbies, and sex. Obviously sex. Which is cruel because that wonderful romp under the sheets is what created your current situation in the first place.
I never thought I’d be the one pushing for more sex after kids. Maybe that’s the hormones talking. Being constantly sleep-deprived while trying to coax your libido back to life is exhausting, not to mention trying to time your intimate moments with your partner. I seriously contemplated giving up sex for a year or two so the expectation and stress would calm down. Compromise has never been my strong suit. I tried for years to achieve balance in bed, trying to ask for what I wanted while acknowledging his own needs. But sexual frustration runs strong and deep in me, and not having (or making) the time to process my past only contributed to a sense of resentment, betrayal, and abandonment. Is he not attracted to me anymore? Am I not trying hard enough? Are my demands too much? I would hold everything in for a while, then explode.
It’s not easy being married to me.
It took me years of continuous attempts before we started to communicate more openly and honestly about the stress of life, work, and parenting. We began exploring the definition of sex, what that actually meant to us, and how we could still be together even if it didn’t lead to penetration, intercourse, or whatever else we saddled sex with. It has led me to try new things (including researching sex toys and resources – see OMGYes.com) to find a solution for the stressful expectations of sex and of performance anxiety. For both of us. We’ve had to compromise along the way: frequency, duration, time, position, accoutrements. This journey is ongoing.
I probably sufferred from postnatal depression after my last pregnancy. I thought I had the tools to cope with the baby blues, the lows of life, the massive change to my identity. I coped because my old friend denial allowed me to ignore my symptoms and fall into a hole, many times, that I wasn’t sure I could climb out of. From the bottom of the pit, my flight response kicked in hard core – I don’t want to be here; I can’t do this anymore; What would happen if I moved out…? My husband felt, as I’m sure most spouses do, the brunt of my instability, especially my crying outbursts in the middle of the night. I blamed him. A lot. Once in a downward spiral – about sex, my inability to parent well, not being a good enough wife – I didn’t know what to do. I knew this was a cycle, even if I couldn’t pinpoint its exact schedule, and worried about my next low. I wavered. I wondered how people would react if I told them I was depressed, or thought I was. I still worry about this. But I also knew something had to change. I needed new tools. I needed more support. I needed to feel proactive in understanding and trying to dismantle this unforgiving cycle. So, I started counseling. Again.
My therapist is a certified sex counselor, as well as a relationship, family, and couples counselor. I’ve only been with her for three sessions, but I know it’s helpful because I look forward to our online meetings. I like having a third party to talk to, someone who doesn’t know me and won’t judge, a professional who can give me concrete advice and guidance. Because I’ve had a good amount of counseling in the past, it feels less stressful bringing up painful memories. I’m curious to know how my past, even my childhood, still affects me and my relationships. I feel proactive, like I’ve taken control and can positively affect my future, and that gives me energy and hope. Things will get better. Playfulness and patience will go a long way, in bed and in life. And, if I’m lucky, I will start to feel satisfied in a way I haven’t for most of my life.
I don’t share my story because it’s easy (it’s not) or because I find it exciting to have strangers read about my private life (I don’t). I share in the hope that someone will read my writing, acknowledge their own denial, and then do something about it. I share in the hope that someone will say, Wow, I’m not the only one. I share in the hope that by writing the messy truths of life, someone else won’t have to suffer before seeking help.
Maybe the most important reason I share is so that my children will grow up to be better educated than I was about mental health, relationships, and sex.
Thanks for reading, friends.
Captain Leatherneck 