It was 1989
and my Nana had come to visit from up North as sometimes she would all the way
down to Melbourne. The cold always struck her small frame right away, even in
September, when compared with the tropical blanket and frangipani kisses of Northern
NSW. She had been called “Tiny” during the war years on account of that dolls
house physique and while the former spring in her step was gone by now moments
of the past leapt about on the inside and peeked through ever so slightly from
her to me. It was those moments that mean even more now than they ever did
before. It was a rainy day in September. It must have been the school holidays.
She’d iron for my mother and sometimes I’d fill in while she rested. We watched
movies together. I was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a sudden flash of
yesterday must have marched forwards then.
“Why are
you wearing that colour? That’s for uniforms of war. Couldn’t you choose something
else? That’s for waiting to hear about dead people. It’s about blending into a
battlefield, not standing out in the rain. “
She was
more of a closed book most of the time in some ways from an emotional vantage
point, except every now and again like that day when she noticed my shorts.
Even more now, than then the significance is ripe. Now I see that people are
deeper and deeper still than what may at first meet the eye. I went to my room
and pulled out a soft pink angora cropped cardigan with larger pink buttons and
added something warm to the other half too. When I returned she was resting on
the couch. I sat close…
“Howsa bout
this then? That better?”
“Yes, you
know I like that colour. Soft like the sky in the quiet morning. Much better.”
“Now tell
me about your horses. The horses you had growing up…”
I suppose
war has touched the lives of just about everyone on this Earth in one way or
another. Post war stress disorders come in varying degrees of magnitude and
effect people differently. A misconception sometimes played out around war is
that PTSD is a man’s domain. Women labour the stress of horrific fear and
losses too if they are directly or indirectly involved. It’s also a gross
misconception that men who experienced war and experienced PTSD always became a
grave burden to their families, that they were always violent and a sad
miserable figure of masculine toxicity. This was sometimes the case but victims
of war, regardless of gender, regardless of race or religious affiliations
presented various different kinds of reactions. PTSD was only one of those
outcomes. It’s really important to remember that PTSD sufferers often feel
hopeless and worthless. Many men and women are hyper aware of how their emotional
struggles might affect the family and so harbor the secrets of turmoils for
years and years there in. It is perhaps fair to say that many men returning
from wars for example in Australia were actually quiet in their struggles and
not even loud or violent. They were very withdrawn and so PTSD developed from
the base of that kind of reaction. In fact, PTSD is the kind of pyschological -emotional
disorder that is given impetus by way of burying emotions, remaining quiet and
stoic. The result is that all of the unaddressed pain bubbles up and forwards
and PTSD surfaces, often many years after the event or events occurred. The
drunk unruly drug addicted Viet Soldier depicted in movies is a bit more of a
sterotype, though it did happen that way sometimes and for reasons that were
very complicated, sad and often filled with more light and shade than a
hopeless father figure who causes everyone else to be marginalised into martyrdom
and thus needed to be cut off and left by himself. Sometimes it feels like PTSD
has become the next catchphrase for a story about hardship. It doesn’t do any
favours to the mental health service providers or for those managing this
condition. PTSD can be managed. There’s a lot of people who find support and
programs post war or trauma to be wonderful contributors again, not a figure of
shame or blame or toxicity. The invictus Games I thought were a good example of
that.
We all have
different ways of reacting to our world. Neouro-diversity is no joke. No vulnerable
point. We are wired differently sometimes or the wiring might take a new shape.
We are all though equal in our right to be included and cared for and seen as
complex contributors. It’s time we reward the work of people who respect and
even more so, actually know about the more complex truth of the human condition.
When I was training to be a teacher, I was
mentored by some lovely supervisors in schools, mostly women. Like that day
with Nana Byrnes on the couch, even now more than before I understand the gift, appreciate those who went above and beyond to not only nurture my mind
but care for my heart. It was an
uncompromised offering really in a very busy busy place and on my last day I’d
always wear soft pink to remember the sunrise and a lost love, my Nana
with her fragile but brave heart.
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