PCOS Air Force Wife
Posted: April 28, 2021 Filed under: Childhood, Coming Home, Home, Making Do, Moving, Spouse, Uncategorized | Tags: PCS Leave a commentPCOS orders! Permanent Change of Station. Dad had his new orders, and we were moving again! Oh joy… The military wife’s view of it was, “Three moves equals a fire.” Not totally true, but not that far off either.
The moving van drove up to our house, forever after known as our ‘old’ house. There were big boxes to put our loose stuff in, like clothing and linen closet contents, smaller ones for heavier but breakable items like china, and padding and wheeled dollies to remove our furniture. The men in the moving company’s uniforms set to work. A few hours later, they were gone, and our house was vacant and strange looking.
Dad grinned at Mother and me, saying, “Let’s get this show on the road!” Mother’s smile was a bit strained and tired as we left in our heavily laden car. We were off! I knew we were going someplace new, but was too young to think ahead, to know I’d never see any of my friends again.
It took us two days to drive to our new assignment. We finally arrived in Bellevue, Nebraska, where we found a motel for the night. The next morning, someone came to pick Dad up, and take him to sign in on our new base. Mother’s job was to find us someplace to live. This was a bit of a problem. She had two days to find us our new house before the movers were scheduled to come with our belongings. That, and Offutt, Headquarters Strategic Air Command, always had a large number of people moving into and out of the area. Which meant there was a need for more homes than were available.
Mother had faced that situation before, during WWII. Assigned to a training base in Louisiana, there had been hundreds of men and their new wives looking for a temporary place to live in a town which didn’t have that many local families. There were no rented by the week hotel accommodations, apartments or houses available, just rented rooms, and not nearly enough of those. She’d wailed her fears over the phone to her father back home. His reply was classic. “Doris, you don’t need several hundred places to rent, you and Paul only need one. You can find one.” And she had.
With that mindset, she, with me trailing along behind, began looking for a new home. Knowing better than to drive around looking for For Sale signs in this situation, she began to make the rounds of the real estate offices.
We were standing in line behind a lady who had two toddlers bouncing around her. When the lady’s turn came, she said she needed to sell her house quickly. Without even asking how many bedrooms it had, or how much it would cost, Mother called a reply of “I’ll take it!” before anyone else could beat her to the punch. The two ladies, and us three kids, were herded to a desk off to one side, where the office’s supervisor managed the negotiations and paperwork. And, just like that, we had a house to move into, even though we had no idea where it was or what it looked like since we didn’t know anything about our new hometown.
Dad bought an old car for a second car just to go to work in. He spray painted it to match the Buick Mother drove. It used almost as much oil as it did gas. He didn’t dare to change the oil for fear something ‘valuable’ might fall out, and the car would quit on him. He just kept feeding it more oil.
We lived in that house for a year before moving into a second house Mother liked better, one with my school right outside our back yard’s gate, and a window that could hold an air conditioner for those summer days over 100°F! Ah! Luxury!
Four years after, Dad received another set of orders taking him to his next assignment, We were PCOS again! That assignment would take us overseas!
Janet Wertz
Plight of a Homeless Military Child…A Testimonial
Posted: September 25, 2019 Filed under: Childhood, Friends and Family, loss, Making Do, Sacrifice Leave a commentThis story first appeared on the following blog: https://survivethriveptsd.org
My Experience as a Former Military Child Who Became Homeless… by Jenny Green
Close to a year ago, little did I know that I would befriend someone who shares somewhat similar experiences from childhood as me. Although these experiences are generations apart, they are rooted from the same source…both our fathers experienced PTSD from war. My friend Steve’s father suffered PTSD from WWII and Korean War, while my father suffers PTSD from Vietnam. I am glad I am friends with Steve; he helped me to realize that I am not the only one out there with effects from a family members fight with this dilemma. Now I know that I am not my own little island in the sea of humanity, there are many of us islands.I was fortunate enough as a child to live in Italy and Germany as a military brat. Dad was active duty and a Vietnam vet with USMC and later enlisted with the U.S. Army.
What I didn’t realize then, was that he had PTSD. When he would yell, scream, and smack me around I thought it was normal, in fact, to me it was a simple fact of life. What I also didn’t realize, was how my Dad’s PTSD affected my Mom as well. She would go to work early, come home late, and work many weekends for the Stars and Strips Newspaper; staying away from Dad as much as possible. I did not know my mother, and she did not know me, and the only thing I knew of my Dad was the abuse and anger he had towards me. That was my life ’till I was almost 10 years old, then the apple cart was turned upside down, we moved back from overseas. Dad divorced Mom about a year and a half after we returned leaving us in southern Indiana, and Dad left for good to Michigan. Once Mom realized he was never coming back, the monster she had harbored came out with a vengeance, secondary PTSD.
When Dad left, I was lucky enough to be at my Grandmother’s house, as she took us in for six months. Mom slept 14 to 18 hours a day, only getting up to go to use the bathroom, and then back to bed to either sleep or lie there and cry. Finally my Grandmother had enough of us being in her house and forced my Mom and I out, leaving us at a public housing office. After a few nights in a shelter, we were placed in a small public housing apartment called, “White Court” in New Albany, Indiana.
I thought this move was going to help give my Mom momentum with having a fresh start; indeed this was not the case, her PTSD got worse. I had to wear the same pair of socks for 8 months; they smelled like ammonia, were caked with filth and were literally plastered to my feet. When I had shoes, I walked out of them at the toes and wear them for months in that condition. My jeans and t-shirt were stained with wearing them for weeks straight day and night, as I did not have night pajamas. There was no washer and dryer, no laundry mat in walking distance, and she would not buy soap or a bucket to wash clothes.
There was never any food in the house, and if there was something in the fridge it was usually what someone was tossing out because it was spoiling. I was at least lucky to have free lunch from my elementary school, so I knew I could have a meal once a day during the school year. I relied on that food, as it was literally all I had in my life. I hated summers because I would miss out on the lunches from school and would scrap together meager meals of stale hamburger buns and souring bologna, bologna so soured that there was a white pasty film on it that I would scrap off.It was during one of these summers when I was 12 about to be 13 and had to attend summer school, that Mom closed the door to me. It was my last day of elementary school, when I got home all the doors and windows were locked and Mom was not answering. I sat on the porch till 10pm wondering what had happened, asking neighbors if they had seen anyone at the apartment, nothing. I went to a 5th grade friend’s house, but her family did not want anything to do with stained clothed, ammonia smelling kid; they told me to leave and not return. Under the glow of the dim street light I slept on the porch that night. The next morning I walked downtown to the amphitheater next to the Ohio River. I would sleep in and around this amphitheater for the next three months. Summer school did not serve lunch, so at night for food I would dig in the dumpsters of the local restaurants after they had closed. I remember eating half eaten fried chicken legs, macaroni salad with my fingers, licking pie filling off of paper plates, and using old napkins with lipstick stains smeared on them. I remember being afraid to sleep outside at night; so I would walk around town, watch the trains, or sit and listen to the coal barges and tugs going up and down the Ohio River till dawn. I was also afraid of the local law enforcement, as I was scared of getting in trouble for being homeless and filthy. I did not know at the time that they would actually have helped me. I kept going home every other day and knocking on the door and no one ever answered, even though I could see the mail was picked up and curtains were moved.
The day 7th grade started, again I went back home and knocked on the door. To my surprise my mom answered the door. Dark circles under her eyes, dirty clothes, and matted hair is how she greeted me. I asked where she had been, and all she could say was that she had been busy. I told her 7th grade started today and I need her to go register me for school at the junior high, she agreed and we walked to school. I walk in the office with the same jeans, t-shirt, socks, and shoes I had been wearing for four months since the end of April, as peopleare staring at us I get registered for school and receive my class schedule. Second period was pre-algebra, and I hated math but I did not know that my life was about to change. I met my best friend Tracy, she didn’t care what I looked like or smelled like. In fact, later in the school year her Mom and Dad invited me over to their house as often as I wanted. They fed me, washed my clothes, and let me shower. By 8th grade I was living in their house. Mom still had custody of me but she allowed for my move. I was in their household ’till just after high school graduation with a 3.75 GPA, college bound, clean clothes and good food. Someone had finally given me a chance to survive, and I thrived…
*****
Military Family Stories 