Veterans, PTSD and Psychiatric Service Dogs
I know that I have shared other posts about my Rottweiler, but I am not sure that people even have an inkling regarding how much she helped me through the first year that followed the incidents with the PFA-ex, with my father and with my father's special "police arrangement" that he made for me. I have had many situations that have resulted in PTS throughout my entire life--however, the 4/22/10 incident was probably one of the most difficult simply due to the number of people in my life that I lost in one fail swoop.
I lived through a lot of terror and heartbreak when living with the PFA-ex. During the past three years, he has since had other PFAs placed upon him from other women he has dated. Apparently, he even shot a hole in his own house during an argument with one of his latest girlfriends (no PFAs from that one, oddly enough). He regularly hurt my pets and terrorized us with guns and shootings (no, I am not anti-gun, as a result--instead, it was encouragement to renew my
protection permit). I remember one time, he got angry at my dog and broke a metal pole over her back. His sister, nephew and I spent hours searching for her, not knowing whether he had killed her or not. Other times, he would get angry, throw her in the trunk of his car with his tools and drive erratically on back roads. One of my ferrets had her eyes swollen shut for several days and the entire upper half of her body swollen because he either bit her or hit her (he claimed that he didn't remember exactly what he had done, when questioned the next day). Before you judge me, realize that these things began after I had moved in with him (we had dated over a year before I moved in) and I was already trapped. Either way, I was scared while we lived together and even more terrified after I moved out.
I tried to stay on friendly terms after I left because I was frightened of him and also because truly, I did still care about him and didn't want to be emotionally hurting him in the manners that he had convinced me that I was. But as the situation grew uglier and his acts progressively became more and more problematic--it did reach a point that I struggled with leaving my house. At least at home, I could lock the door and I had some semblance of safety. I didn't think that my Rottweiler would protect me from him since she had also dealt with his abuse since being a puppy and she was equally afraid of him. I had some glimmer of hope, however, after my father came to my house and she made it clear that if he touched me, she would touch him, as well.
After the incident when the police came and took me from my own property, my terror was so immense that I was not capable of leaving my house. Between my physical injuries and the emotional damage done, I stayed in bed for weeks, getting up only to let my dog, Harrnh, out. Even then, in my own yard, I kept my cell phone with me and generally made sure that I was on the phone with someone that would be able to help me if my father, the police or the PFA-ex tried to do anything to me while outside with her. The emotional damage of being forcefully taken from your own property when convinced that it couldn't happen due to your civil rights isn't something that I can even begin to describe. I have never been fond of police due to my upbringing and having a father in law enforcement--been manhandled by two of them when you didn't do anything wrong, have no idea why they are taking you and you have just spent an emotionally exhausting day securing a PFA against your ex, while your father makes threats at you throughout the day? More than I could emotionally deal with. Call me weak; state how you wouldn't have had any issues; regardless--it took a toll on me, emotionally and physically, that almost destroyed me.
As the weeks wore on, I found out that many family members that I loved and trusted were part of this "intervention." My youngest brother, whom was my world and the person that I loved most on this planet. His wife, whom I had thought of as one of my best friends and that I would have done anything for. A cousin that I trusted and counted on--his wife, that I had viewed as a little sister. An aunt that I had always viewed as a mother-figure. My father's wife, whom I thought of as a friend, even though she had shafted me over and over, again. And of course, my father. The only man that I ever cared what he thought of me, the one that I had spent my entire life attempting to gain his love and approval. People that I loved, people that I trusted, people that I always thought would be there for me. I have always had difficulties with trust. This was more than I could bear.
When my brother called me to see if I was admitted to the hospital or not (I found out later that our father made him call--at the time, I still believed that he cared)--I told him what our dad did--coming to my house and shaking me, accusing me of being on meth, having the police take me--my brother's response? "Dad wouldn't accuse you of being on meth. If I see you, I am going to shake the shit out of you, too." That was the ending to my day on 4/22/10--knowing that the most important person in my life, next to my mother, hated me. Over the next year, I was banned from seeing my nephews and the family invited the PFA-ex to family functions and events, in my place.
I realize that it is difficult for an outsider to grasp the pain I was living through. My faith shattered. My trust broken. Having been terrorized by my ex, my father, and the police. Who is safe? Who is good? Who do you turn to for help? I don't know that I ever felt more alone or terrified of the world around me. My safety? My Rottweiler. She went everywhere with me during that time. Even though she was even more terrified of the world than I was, together, we struggled forward. I remember calling the credit union, the post office and other local establishments and explaining that I was unable to enter those places without her and that I needed her to feel safe. I had always been an exceedingly independent person until my thirty-sixth year. After those events, I couldn't even go to the grocery store by myself. My dog literally saved my life. She forced me to get out of bed and function. She was my protection when faced with the outside world. Inside, she helped me sleep, even if only for a few blessed hours at a time, because I knew that she had my back. Inside, she soaked up my tears and helped me feel even the tiniest bit loved. My world, outside of her, was too fragmented for me to function.
I received a lot of flack when I spent several thousand dollars to have surgery performed on her hind leg. Many people, even other animal lovers, told me to have her put down, that no animal was worth going into the poorhouse for. How irresponsible would that have been when she saved me? How could I not invest in her after all she had unknowingly done for me?
When I see articles regarding Veterans, PTSD and Psychiatric Service Dogs, it is difficult for me to not get excited. To not cry. To feel hope. To understand and hope that the awareness spreads. To desire that individuals everywhere understand the difference these dogs can make; that they are helpers. Helpers in a world now fraught with struggles the average civilian cannot comprehend. The world is hard enough; for those of us with PTSD, functioning as we once did is not a reality. PTSD is debilitating beyond what I can even begin to explain, but hopefully, as word spreads, service dogs will become a more accepted and understood part of our society. Hopefully other survivors' lives can begin to be mended in a manner that no other psychiatric assistance can remotely touch to the same degree. Safety, in an unsafe world. Is there a better therapy? I can't imagine it.
