I saw my psychologist today.
Isn’t it funny that my husband is the one with clinically diagnosed PTSD and yet I’m the one getting therapy?
No. It isn’t funny. I’ve cried enough private tears over the past five years to know that there is absolutely nothing funny with any of this.
I’ve only seen this psychologist twice. My previous counsellor, who sadly is on extended leave due to family bereavement, was good for chatting with and venting my frustrations to. But my new counsellor is a psychologist – a big step up. She’s specially trained to work with PTSD sufferers and their families. She actually understands a lot of the things I tell her about our life.
She actually gets it.
My first session was a shock, to be honest. After an hour of hard-hitting questions, I came away feeling wiped out like I’d just done an equivalent of an IME*. It takes a lot for me to cry, but she had me on the verge more than a few times during that session. And the questions she laid out for me, and all my automated responses, stayed with me for the rest of the week. However my truths were starting to become a little clearer. Four weeks later, I was apprehensive about going back…
But back I went. And I’m glad I did. I have come away feeling just that tinier bit lighter, with some new insights and some new strategies to think about.
However a few words and phrases my psychologist mentioned in passing are pressing on me, and I’m worried they’ll turn cancerous being harboured in my overanxious mind. From our conversations, she’s gleaned that my husband has “complex PTSD”. His PTSD is to be considered “severe”. In terms of his harmful relationship with alcohol, he is still very much in the “pre-contemplation” stage when considering stages of change. And in terms of active treatment of his PTSD, we discussed the term “resistant”.
Shit. Here I was naively assuming, despite his latest PTSD relapse two months ago, he was somewhat “okay” – that is, okay in the scheme of what okay actually means under the shadow of PTSD. Words like “complex” and “severe” don’t sit so well with me. Not at all. “Resistant” means my life as I know it won’t be changing any time soon.
And finally, “pre-contemplation” may sound less threatening, but in the reality of my world, that translates as having to accept my husband drinking regularly and often, in what’s known as “self-medicating”. Wonderful.
Who understands this world? When my husband drinks, I lose my husband.
I lose my husband, and I gain a monster.
* I.M.E. = Independent Medical Examination. Something my husband has had to endure multiple times while jumping through the hoops of work cover and a temporary disability pension. Put simply, an IME is the easiest way to dredge up every horror he has ever lived through, in little more than an hour, without any psychological support or follow-up, guaranteeing a severe and immediate setback in his PTSD and exaggerated misery for our family. The term “counter-productive” barely tickles the tip of the iceberg when considering the role of IMEs in cases of PTSD.
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