Sgt. David W. Budwah, may you rot…

I understand the allure of the “hero”. When we see a young or old service man or woman who bears or wears the hard earned trappings of combat, people stop and take notice. What I don’t understand is a brother to these heroes stepping into line with them when he knows he hasn’t earned the right.

Stolen valor, to be blunt, chaps my arse so I like to make sure people know the names of those who’ve committed this ugly crime.

Sgt. David W. Budwah has been added to a too long list of names in the hall of shame.

Budwah faces eight counts, including making false official statements, malingering, misconduct and larceny. They carry combined penalties of up to 31 1/2 years in prison and a dishonorable discharge.

Prosecutor Marine Capt. Thomas Liu declined to disclose terms of the plea agreement.

Neither Budwah nor his lawyer, Marine Capt. Kelly Repair, returned calls from The Associated Press.

Budwah is accused of bluffing his way into 33 events last year, including six rock concerts, two Washington Nationals baseball games, a Washington Redskins football game and a World Wrestling Entertainment “Monday Night Raw” show. Sponsored by various civilian groups, the events often included special recognition of injured service members in attendance.

Budwah also is alleged to have worn eight unearned medals and decorations on his uniform, including bronze-star campaign medals from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Other unauthorized decorations included a humanitarian service medal denoting work on the 2004 tsunami relief effort, the government has said.

And as usual, my favorite.

The government claims he faked post-traumatic stress disorder in July 2008 in hopes of leaving service early and was sent to the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, where he began bluffing his way into wounded-warrior events.

Mr. Budwah, may the pain of every soldier suffering from PTSD that didn’t get the help needed because you were enjoying the attentions of a doctor be passed on to you ten fold. May the horrors you claimed play on the movie screen in your mind so that even when you close your eyes the images haunt you. And may all your brothers turn their backs on you. You make me sick.

Marine sergeant to plead guilty in court-martial case

eureka…

That’s right. Eureka. I have discovered something helpful. Benny, our cat, likes to open the cabinets. He also likes to close them, hard. Well, with Chris’ PTSD this is a bad thing. A bang in the middle of the night results in him stiffening, sitting up, and almost hyperventilating.

Last night however, I was able to stop this without waking him up fully. And it was simple. I mean like why didn’t I think of this two years ago simple.

I leaned over and whispered “it was Benny, lay back down.” Usually I would say Chris, it’s okay. But calling his name wakes him up, which is also distressing to him. Telling him it was Benny soothed him and allowed him to lay back down without having to wake up.

It was still a bad night, but at least that’s a little triumph.

why would you do that…

Chris and I are moderators on an online forum. It’s often not fun to moderate for many reasons, but the forum itself is a wonderful place to connect with people who share an interest. Unfortunately, there is a need for us as sometimes people forget themselves and post up things that are just not acceptable. Mostly it’s overly sexual images, sometimes however it’s something different for different reasons. Tonight I saw something I’ve never seen before and hope to never see again.

We have a great deal of military members there, many who have served or are serving in a combat zone. Chris is one of them. Tonight an image was posted that he happened upon first. I’ll spare everyone the details, but this was an image of someone who’d died of massive injuries.

I’m still greatly angered that a former member of the military who knows our membership quite well would feel it was okay to place this image on our forum. The general public may not understand the impact these images have on combat vets, but these veterans’ brother and sister soldiers should know and exercise some compassion. They don’t need more pictures in their head, more material for nightmares.

So a hearty thank you goes out to this member for the pain caused this evening. Next time, you’re gone.

secret circus…

Outside the door, Madeline, an 8 month old border collie, whines. She’s just gone out, but regardless, she wants to come back in. Let me in, her whines now barks, she seems to say.

The reason she wants in? She’s sure we’ve unpacked the circus we hide from her on a regular basis.

Yes. Secret Circus. That’s what we do while the dog is outside. We have the tent, and the rings, and the cat even wears a little jester outfit – if you knew my cat, this would create the most amazing image of a flailing scratching biting storm of kitteny wrath in your mind – zebras, elephants, and a lion that eats children.

What? You don’t believe me?

Well the dog does and she’s sure I set the circus up two seconds after she exits the house because she begins the whine the moment she’s outside. It must be because of the circus.

Yup. The dog believes I have a circus and I have decided to encourage this belief. I’m getting a giraffe.

losing voice…

I didn’t know when I fell asleep how bad Chris’ panic attack was this past Friday night. In fact, I’m usually very diligent about staying up with him when his anxiety gets the best of him.

But, I fell asleep.

Around one in the morning, I woke to the bed shaking violently. It was Chris’. He was trembling so bad he couldn’t talk… or so I thought. His left hand, the injured one, curled up against his chest and Chris shook. I started my usual questions, but this time it was different.

He said nothing.

No, he didn’t have a blank stare, he was conscious, and he knew where he was. He couldn’t physically speak. His tongue pushed up against his teeth and his lips parted, but he made no noise. We tried very hard to communicate, but it was frustrating, and frightening, for both of us.

I’d not really considered how important our voice is. His voice, the aspect of him that had drawn me so close, his beautiful Irish accent, gone.

After about an hour, he began to find the ability to make noise. First it was a “wa wa wa” noise like he was searching for a word he couldn’t find. This frustrated him and out of now where he threw his head back in the pillow and said “fuck”.

Ok, with that, I knew his voice was there. We just had to find it. Another hour and he was able to state simple things, but every word was a struggle and we both were tired. So, I convinced him this was temporary and we needed to go to sleep. This of course was after about thirty minutes of me insisting he go to the hospital because I feared he’d had a stroke.

I was sure he’d be fine in the morning. He was moving his left hand and arm, speaking in very simple sentences with stuttering and hesitation, but he was communicating.

Sleep and it’ll be fine.

In the morning I crossed my fingers. Please please, let him be fine. Let’s hear that accent.

It took almost 24 hours for Chris to regain his voice. Saturday was a struggle, but all day his speech grew better. The stuttering and hesitation finally gone late that evening.

We’re afraid but for different reasons.

See, he’s afraid it will happen again and this time it’ll be permanent, I am too.

He’s afraid I’ll leave if it does… And I’m afraid I did him a great disservice by not forcing him to the hospital. A choice that he’ll have to pay for later.

I hate this war.

teach an old dog…

I have learned a hell of a lot over my years on this earth, but of course most of it was about becoming an adult and learning how the world around me works. There have been some new lessons however, lessons I think most people will learn at some point or another depending on the directions their lives take.

I learned fathers forgive. They may need time, and maybe even space, but they can forgive even the worst trespass, doubt. I learned not to doubt my father. It’ll never happen again.

I learned that people who have never experienced mental illness, either in themselves or a loved one, will never understand the implications having this sort of issue brings. And I’ve learned that’s okay, because I can write and I can talk and I can educate those who are willing to learn. I’ll forever be an advocate for those who cannot be one to themselves.

I learned I’m human. I will never be perfect though I labored under the desperate need to be. I will make mistakes, I will be weak at times, I will cause pain, and I will fail. This however is not a black mark on my permanent record, it’s not a reason to start over. It is not the ruin of everything I have built. I learned mistakes make me human. I’ll remember to learn from them instead of letting them tear my sandcastle down.

I learned to say I’m sorry for the mistakes made against others. This, I have found, is the truest test of strength. No two words have been harder or more important to say than “I’m sorry.” I’ll not hesitate in the future to offer those words when I am wrong.

And I learned, old dog that I am, to be happy and let others do the same. I’ll disagree with people, I’ll be disappointed in rejections, and I’ll have days that are bad. But, I will find enough happiness to bear the bad times because they are far fewer than we tend to believe. Happiness is the true measure of a life lived.

what is wrong with you…

I posted this over on NotAlone.com in the forum, but thought it warranted a place here.

I haven’t been around all that much lately. July was a PTSD free month. No, Chris still has it, but this month I chose not to bring up the subject, or think about it more than I had to. We had no appointments at the VA, we had nothing but a free month with my youngest son, and I stepped back from his PTSD and only delt with it when I was forced to.

Yeah, we still talked about Iraq. But I did no research. Instead, we started removing the old hideous water feature from the backyard. We planned a garden for next year, we planted a truck load of plants my father sent over, and we started a cactus collection.

There were still those nights, nights of triage, nights of thrashing and battle scenes. But in the morning, I didn’t mention them and we went about our business. I’ve even began bringing my clay studio over to the house and Chris found a new love in clay. He’s been creating little tiki heads for the door locks on the car he’s restoring.

I learned something this month. I can forget about his PTSD, put it aside for a time. Instead of just doing it once in a while, I’m going to set about doing it more often. Chris seemed to flourish without my constant focus being what was wrong with him.

So, I’m going to focus on what’s right with him and with me.

it becomes him…

We can’t go, Chris is having a bad day.

My mother and I were talking the other day, as we do most days, and the subject of an old friend came up. Her significant other had died, quite a while ago, and I didn’t remember. He’d had some form of cancer, the specifics I don’t know, and mom mentioned how Sharon spoke of how he’d “become” the disease.

Become it.

We don’t do that, Chris can’t deal with the crowds.

It struck me. Where do we draw the line between becoming the disease and coping with the triggers? Do we practice avoidance or dance in it and hope it doesn’t catch us?

I’ve try very hard to help make a normal life for us and it is a good one. But, I remember those first months very well. The bewildered ones.

Where does PTSD end and Chris begin? Or is it all the sum total of him, of us?

In the end, he became the disease.

There are so many questions and I have so few answers but is that the key? In the end? Do we focus on separating our lives and self from PTSD and not getting to the point where he becomes it because that in itself is the end?

Or, do we just muddle through, talk at night about the war quietly where no one else can hear, avoid the crowds, and scrape every last bit of living from this life because it’s the one we got.

Or maybe, we about face on it, and PTSD becomes him.

ahi, ahi, ahi…

We had Ahi tuna for dinner tonight and it was amazing, but I think my favorite part of the meal was the pepper salad.

I’ve never really been much of a cook, I’ve always baked, but I think I’m getting the hang of this cooking thing. Learning by doing and it’s fun.

I marinated the Ahi steaks in sesame oil and soy sauce. Added garlic, scallions, and sesame seeds, then seared them leaving the center pink.

The pepper salad was just a yellow and a red peppers cut into thin slices, quarter of a vidalia onion, sliced thin, chives, and a little cheese (italian blend, grated). The dressing was sushi vinegar and olive oil with garlic, salt, and pepper. I let it set in the cold box for about two hours and it really surprised me. I’ve never been a big pepper eater but wow, I loved it.

I’m stuffed. And I think maybe I need a nap.

don’t want an answer…

You feel fat. You look in the mirror and the seams on your blues are screaming across your butt like a con trail in the sky.

Honey? Do these jeans make me look fat?

Oh now wait just a minute. This question is not a fair one. You know the jeans are two sizes too small and you used a pair of pliers to pull up the zipper and a paper clip to keep it in place. You have just trapped your loved one into lying or hurting your feelings.

It is unproductive to ask a question when only one answer will be acceptable. It’s not a question at that point, it’s a demand to be agreed with or validated. People disagree all the time and it doesn’t diminish anyone’s beliefs. But questions are asked for one reason, to gather other people’s opinions.

Granted, there are ways in stating your side of a situation that will not escalate the probability of tears.

No baby, your butt stuffed into them makes them look in pain. The seams look like cables holding up a bridge.

Or…

Well, baby, they don’t look comfortable and the other pair seem to fit better.

Either honest opinion will still bring a sour look all evening, and maybe some harsh words.

No, the only words which will work in this case are words in agreement. Complete agreement, because that’s all the person asking the question is looking for.

No.

Even though, yes, you do look fat in those jeans and should probably head over to the mall and get yourself something that fits.