Desert Storm:

Has it really years gone by since a nineteen-year-old mother of two was left alone while her husband was sent off to hurry up and wait for a war half a world away? A young girl, playing house, suddenly thrown out to the wolves that is known as the real world; terrified, angry, and forced to face it all.... ready or not. All these years I've been apprehensive about expressing what I went through in any detail. It would be selfish, so I've thought, to feel it was so traumatic for me when my ex-husband and so many other soldiers had a real war to wage while my own war was "only" emotional. Needing a shrink wasn't nearly as important as my husband needing armor on a tank! So I downplayed it all these years. Sure, I've told people that it was one of the most difficult events of my life. But somehow I never felt that my turmoil could, or should, compare to that which my ex-husband experienced.

The truth is, first and foremost, that no matter how much pain, fear, anger and loneliness I went through while "on the homefront" during Desert Shield and Storm, I am thankful that it did happen to me, if for no other reason than it was what caused me to finally seek out the help that got me diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and later also with Schizoaffective Disorder. For years my mother had tried to get me help, but I resisted with every bone in my body. I didn't need to be fixed, it was the rest of the world, I was just fine.... the typical denial.

But one lonely night, about two months after my then-husband had gone off to Saudi Arabia, I was sitting alone on the couch, the boys tucked into bed, the TV on.... drinking strawberry daiquiris. Getting drunk. I wasn't even really a drinker. I enjoyed certain drinks, but I had done the "getting drunk thing" when I was a much younger teenager, and by then had outgrown it. And I certainly wasn't one to sit around and get drunk alone!

At first I didn't even realize what I was doing. I truly believed that I was just having a couple of delicious drinks while watching TV. That is, until the alcohol hit. Then, as if Fate Herself had deemed it so, a Crisis Intervention Hotline commercial appeared on TV. Suddenly realizing the state I was in, I picked up the phone and dialed the "800" number on the bottom of the screen. I fairly coherently explained what was going on with my life and what I was doing, and was supplied with a psychologist's phone number in the town I was living in. The next day, I called and made an appointment; she would see me that very afternoon.

Oh, I was terrified to see a shrink! I'd seen many during my younger teen years, when my mom had tried to force help upon me, but now it was different... this time, I was willingly seeking help, which meant that I had to be 100% open in order to receive any help that I wished to receive. I felt like I was about to be emotionally raped, even if it was to be of my own free will!

Somehow I found myself making it to that appointment, and I am so thankful that I did. She put me at ease immediately. First thing she made clear to me was that there was to be no addressing to each other by titles -- her name was Nicole, and she would appreciate it if that would be what I called her. Next, she informed me that she was an adult child of alcoholics (which I am, as well, so we had that in common), and a recovering alcoholic herself, clean and sober for years but still with a lifelong battle… rather than make me think she was some "whacko" it put me at ease, knowing that she thought of herself as an equal to myself rather than my superior who knew all and would be above me in all psychological categories. Needless to say, before the necessary long list of my background and history questions came along, I felt very comfortable with Nicole, and was very open and honest with her. There was no emotional rape; literally nor metaphorically. Rather, there was mental and emotional stroking, caressing, and nurturing for many months to come. I was suffering from major, debilitating depression. I was fully aware of this, but could not "snap out of it" no matter how much I wanted to. I had a three year old and an infant, and was not taking good care of them. I supervised them constantly, changed diapers, and fed them, but I didn't bathe them, I didn't nurture or play with them anywhere near enough… I couldn't even take care of myself, much less my babies! My children were suffering not only because their daddy was gone, but now because, mentally and emotionally, so was their mommy.

My mom worked a shift that they referred to as "four on, two off" -- which meant work four evenings (she worked the swing shift as head nurse), then two days off. Each last night of her rotation on duty, she'd already be packed, and after work she'd drive straight from work to my apartment in Twenty-nine Palms to spend her days off with my boys and me. My apartment would be in a shambles… dishes everywhere, clothing strewn about the house, papers and books spread about. My apartment should have had a huge "Danger, Hazardous Zone" sign on the front door! The boys and I all would have the same pajamas on our bodies that we'd worn when my mom had seen us six days ago, so it was quite clear to her that we hadn't been properly bathed. So, she would set about cleaning house, washing dishes and clothes, bathing my boys, and bullying me into the shower… only to find the apartment, her daughter, and her grandsons in the same condition when she'd be back at the end of her next work rotation.

The only two things that kept me alive during Desert Shield and Storm were the thoughts of my boys and the thought of my husband coming home to me. However, I truly didn't believe that my husband would make it home alive. His company was to lead the ground war, and although the U.S. Marine Corps is very well trained, war is war, and "casualties" as they call them are imminent. This thought certainly didn't lift my spirits any! Yes, in my depression I definitely dwelt on death - but it wasn't suicide or my own death that I obsessed over, it was the death of my husband that I couldn't stop thinking about. I sat up at night, sleepless, pen and paper in hand, figuring out how I'd make it financially when (not if, mind you) he died, for I was terrified of what would happen to me and my boys when I became widowed at the age of nineteen. I found out how much money the military would pay me; I decided that I would buy a house cash, budgeted the monthly income from the military and from Social Security that I'd receive due to my husband's untimely death due to war… only then could I sleep, knowing that my boys and I would have a roof over our heads and food to eat. This was no way to live!

Then one day, a few days before my twentieth birthday, I came in to Nicole's office for my weekly appointment, but I wasn't the same person I'd been all these months. There was no depression -- rather, I waltzed into her office door as if I hadn't a care in the world. Nothing had changed, no reassuring news about my husband or my life as a "temporarily single" military wife. No burdens lifted off of my shoulders, nothing even minute had come my way to cheer me up even slightly, yet here I was, high as a kite!

For months, Nicole had listened to me more than spoken, but suddenly today she was the one full of questions! As I gave answer after answer, all problems I'd always looked upon as separate entities, I suddenly saw them as related to one another. I had had a bit of psych background years ago in school, and had retained a lot of what I had learned, so it was easy to put two and two together… I suddenly looked at Nicole, after a barrage of questions, and said, "Don't tell me I'm manic-depressive?" (Now, I was partially joking, but half serious.)

She looked at me and said, "It's not all that bad, you know."

We discussed Bipolar Disorder (formally known as Manic-Depressive Illness), and then she asked me how I felt. I said that if it meant that I could take medications and go through therapy, and live a somewhat "normal" life, then I didn't care what the name was, I was just very relieved to finally know what was wrong with me… I was happy to finally be revealed the enemy I was fighting in my lifelong war!

That is what Bipolar Disorder is: a war that one fights forever, till death do you part. There is no cure, only treatment. But once I learned who my enemy was, I was able to pick up the right weapons, stand my ground, and fight with all that I have! Unfortunately, I lost my husband… partially because of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder due to his own war (Desert Storm), but also because he just couldn't handle the idea that his wife had a "label" on her -- he preferred the old days when his wife was unstable and out of control and unpredictable over the new days when his wife knew what was wrong and could get treatment and become stabilized. (Of course, this part of my story is long in and of itself, but it's not the main topic of this subject, and therefore is simply only a summary.)

Yes, I lost my husband over ten years ago largely due to being diagnosed Bipolar… but I gained so much of myself, as I gain more and more every day that I fight my war. Some battles I still lose, but most of them I win, and become stronger because of each and every one of them. Further, no matter how many battles I may lose, I will win the war... and no one can ever take that from me!

Thank you, Desert Storm!