Breaking Chains

got a rush that I thought would blow my head clear off the top of my shoulders. It was like when you get really startled, and then magnify that feeling of fear about a million times.

“What’s wrong?” Rick asked.  I screamed something about losing my head and freaking out. This magnified fear stayed with me not only the next day, but for years to come. Every day it got worse instead of better. 

Now I understand why people would jump out of windows on acid. All the talk about drug-related suicides kept running through my head.  A couple of days later, I decided to go to the Veterans Hospital for help. When I got there, I received a barrage of questions, which reeked of a third degree. There seemed to be little concern or help.

 Pumping me full of Thorazine, I was admitted to the psychiatric floor. This was the 7th floor, referred to as the “Nut Ward” by staff and patients alike. The therapy they started me on consisted of a steady diet of 75mg of Librium a day. Physically, I was prodded from stem to stern and even electric shock was considered. After a one-week observation period, a panel of approximately 15 psychiatrists and psychologists reviewed my case. They decided I was dangerous and crazy and prepared to ship me off to a mental institution for the criminally insane. 

They pegged my problems on Vietnam. Let me tell you, I was really freaked out. I now had a clinical diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia and a destination of some booby hatch in Palo Alto. 

When I realized what was happening, I planned and carried out “The Great Escape!” At the time it wasn’t funny, but now I have to laugh as I recall that time. Dressed in my little, green hospital pajamas with little matching green slippers; I made a mad dash to the elevator. The long 7-floor descent remained
uneventful. With all the composure I could muster, I strode past the opening elevator doors as if I was a doctor or something. Marching past the admissions desk and out into the bright sunlight, my eyes darted back and forth to make sure I wasn’t being followed. My heart racing, I walked 5 miles across town, to my friend Jake’s house, yep, 5 miles across town in my pajamas.

Rick was at Jake’s and was concerned about where I was going to go. As the hospital hadn’t helped, I started in drinking. The conversation turned to whose fault the whole thing was; and I started

***

Freedoms Cost

The building our Happy Thoughts stores are in is going to be sold and torn down, according to the newspaper report.  What?! 

So the part of our Happy Thoughts ministry dedicated to helping the community was coming to a close!  Was this an answer to prayer?  Dennis and I did not want to “give up the ship” so to speak, even though more often than not the income was simply not enough.  Closing doors was no longer the threat of humiliation, but perhaps a message of “Job well done!” and on to a new assignment.

Meanwhile the V.A. visit had proved to start the long overdue healing process for my wonderful husband.  P.T.S.D.  Agent Orange.  Diabetes.  Heart Disease.  Hypothyroidism.  High blood pressure.  These are the words that identified the battlefields for Dennis now.  Dennis had faced his worse fears, including pride.  To face the truth, he was only human, and had been horribly violated.  No amount of pride, drugs, denial, or violence could change the fact that an idealistic 18 year old had joined the army to avenge the death of a friend.  No longer his own man, he had become the “property” of the U.S. government and was subject to their bidding.  Vietnam had left him a 20-year-old drug addicted paranoid schizophrenic with a destination of Palo Alto Mental Institution.  The price that was paid by Dennis for service to his country was as real as the veterans who had come back physically crippled and maimed.  As Dennis acknowledged the cost an even deeper root came to light. He had not only come back totally incapable of leading a “normal” life, he had added guilt to the equation. Dennis blamed himself. Helplessness was the most frustrating feeling, as he didn’t understand why he couldn’t get rid of all the problems. Some men had died in Vietnam while others came home with the visible proof of their sacrifices with missing limbs and all sorts of other issues. The VA in Fresno has these words etched above the entrance,

 “Here is a place where the price of freedom can be seen”. It reminds me of the Cross of Jesus!  You couldn’t see Dennis wounds.