'My husband came home a stranger': One family's struggle with PTSD

I turned around at an awards ceremony to notice an intense-looking reporter who wished me luck, then said something odd and annoying.

Soon, I would come to know and love this man, admire his crisp writing, fierce intellect and unrelenting will.

We married. Had two children. I called him Curty. An odd title for a titan. This man could craft an evocative story, wring facts out the prime minister in a scrum and cook a perfect turkey. 

He moved with ease from political reporting in Ottawa to Vancouver, where he did a series of foreign stints. 

I'll always regret how I said goodbye when he left to cover the typhoon in the Philippines three years ago.

I can't recall exactly what I said, but I know I didn't stop him. I let him go. And my Curty never came home.

A man did return to my house. But he was hollow-eyed. Zombie-like. It took years to connect with him again, and we are still working on it. 

The Curt who returned was wounded. His ability to feel joy and connect with other humans, stripped away. For months he was only able to sit, stare, exist in a drugged state. Prescription drugs prevented suicide at best.

Then began the arduous journey to try to recover who he was — spanning five therapists, two marathons, drugs, experimental psychedelic treatments and endless guitar playing. 

Watching him battle this beast — these cruel echoes of trauma in his nervous system — I've come to know PTSD.

The disorder is not something pure will can overcome.

My husband has an iron will and ran a marathon, never stopping, despite 30 extra pounds and full-on panic attacks. As he ran past the sunlit seashore he was transported back to the Philippines, the smells of rotting death.

He kept running.

He keeps running.

He's not short on willpower, but you can't will your brain to rewire itself.

PTSD rewires your brain, in some measure, forever. You can get help coping and work to build new neural pathways, but it takes time, science, help -- and a painful struggle through panic, pain, flashbacks, anger and depression.

It's been three years. I barely recognize the man I married. He's lost 50 pounds in total. He grew a full beard. His habits, tastes and desires have shifted to the point that at times it is akin to living with a stranger.

He has not been able to work for two years.

He's had to relearn how to communicate, touch, and cope with what he's lost.

We both struggle daily to find marital harmony. I won't lie. It's been nightmarish. Like something out of Twilight Zone or a David Byrne song.

There have been screaming fights, tantrums, slamming doors. I feel luckier than most PTSD spouses, as Curt is not violent. But walking on eggshells to avoid his fury has taken a toll on my children and myself.

A dropped glass or misplaced item could ruin a day.

"PTSD victimizes the family," said Dr Nicole Aubé, an expert in the disorder who travels with doctors into war zones to help them cope, and treats frontline emergency workers.

I, a well-educated, independent, journalist, became a boiled frog. Managing relationships to try to protect my husband from his mood swings and inappropriate outbursts. The dynamic becomes toxic.

During the worst times Curt's entrance into a room was like a dark cloud.

I was afraid to hang a picture in my own house or invite a guest over, cringing at the risk of Curt flying into full rant. If we found an ant crawling on the floor we'd hurry it outside, as bugs could set off a 24-hour frantic search and tirades.

God forbid somebody fed the cats more than a half cup, or loaded the dishwasher — nothing was ever done right.

'Eventually friends stop calling'

A drive down our hill meant enduring the inevitable anger touched off at the four-way intersection where anybody who committed a rolling stop or signal fail could ruin an afternoon.

Eventually friends stopped calling. Dinner invites ceased. Family found other options for holidays and we became outcasts. 

There were neighbours who stopped waving. Work colleagues who acted as if Curt had simply vanished. There were times I wanted to scream at people I overheard criticizing the man I knew was at home teetering on suicidal.

There were no cards, no managerial notes, no outreach. Our family was left on a virtual island. And the few who bothered to paddle over or even send quiet words of care, I will never forget.

If I could give one bit of advice to people who love somebody with PTSD I would say: get help.

You will need it.

And it's not easy to find. I have a penchant for research and I continue to struggle.

Spousal support groups are not common. Most focus on the military, though PTSD does not discriminate.

And there's no suicide prevention avenue with PTSD expertise — one trip to emergency with Curt ended with the doctor prescribing a tranquilizer and sending us home. There are no mental health beds. No respite. 

I dream of a place I could send Curt — an island — for a month's escape.

'It will bring pain'

Escape for all of us from the ravages of PTSD.

If you love someone with PTSD, fight for any help you can. Ask family. Lean on friends.

Find therapy for the PTSD sufferer, but also for yourself and anybody touched by the pain this will bring.

I am married to two things. My husband and PTSD.

I hate PTSD. But it's part of who my husband is now. Most marriages do not survive PTSD and it is no wonder.

What has helped for me:

Walking away, taking breaks

Getting support

Returning to work

Being with people who love me

Friends, phone rants

Therapists on B.C.'s Cortes Island who saved my husband's life

What has helped him:

Exercise

Therapy

Family pets

Cortes Island

MDMA

Ketamine treatment

Hugs

Time

Me, when he can let me in.

Yvette Brend is a reporter with CBC News in Vancouver. 

The documentary about Petrovich's struggle with PTSD, Lost on Arrival: Me, the Mounties & PTSD, airs on CBC Television Thursday, February 9 at 9 p.m.