I am here before you as a spouse and as a caregiver. Officially, I'm talking on my own behalf as much as I know that many veterans, many veterans organizations, as well as many politicians recognize my vital role in the healing process and recovery of my husband, a wounded warrior. I am sorry to tell you that I feel that we don't have the voice we should have right now. We can tell you a lot.

From coast to coast, in French, in English, in the native communities, I have no idea how many Jenny Migneaults there are in this country. Although I know that my situation is unique, let me tell you something: it's very similar to everyone I know, every single person I know. The biggest difference between me and many of my sisters in arms is the fact that I have a husband who allows me to talk openly and freely. Yes, he gives me the permission to break the wall of silence we live behind. I have permission to talk. My husband might be your hero. He is my hero in my life just for allowing me to be here today.

I testified before this committee for the first time in November 2007. I was 35 years old. We had three children living at home with us. I was struggling to keep a job. I was struggling to stay away from depression. I was struggling to cope with our twisted challenges—twisted challenges.

These are the last words I said back then:

I would like to say that living with someone who has post-traumatic stress syndrome has impacts and repercussions on all members of the family.

This is also what I said:

Without blowing my own trumpet, however, I believe I have succeeded in minimizing the damage. I am 35 years old, and sometimes I feel 70. I would really have appreciated the help provided by St. Anne's Centre for Claude, [my husband] for us all and for our children before this summer.

In my mind, I guess, I was stronger than 20 years of service. Well, I was wrong because I'm a failure. I have no more family; I have no more money; I have no dignity; and I have very little physical freedom now. I am a caregiver of a veteran with PTSD. No offence to anybody—no offence to my husband, no offence to all veterans of this country—but I'm sorry to tell you that I am serving my country as well, as we speak, from my fortress: my home.

My unique humanitarian mission is all about my husband's suffering. My sacrifices may not be worth a lot. They are not glorious; I admit it. I have no medals to share with you for the number of punches I received while he was sleeping. I have no medals to show the world the effort I have deployed to try to have something that would sound like a normal life to the rest of the world. I have no medals to show you our losses as a family.

Thank you so much for allowing me to testify before you tonight and to tell you how wrong I was and to share with you my view about the caregiver relief benefit. Don't expect me to talk about other measures. Although I am directly affected by the notion of financial security in our fortress, caregivers must pronounce themselves about measures that concern them directly. Am I the first one who will talk to you about the caregiver relief benefit tonight? I hope not.

It's actually strange that I get to do so almost exactly a year after my life changed drastically, on May 29, 2014, when I arrived last at a jogging race. It is when I started to talk about my reality, but most importantly, it is when I also realized how much I'm not alone.

Yet in May 2015, here I am to talk to you about the caregiver relief benefit. My fatigue as a caregiver is recognized. I consider this not only to be a political gain, but a social one, too. So, thank you for recognizing who I am.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am drowning in my own fatigue, but this measure is not a half-measure. It's a quarter of a measure. I understand I might offend some of you who believe this measure is a great answer to my excruciating reality. Well, do you know how this measure would apply in my house? I believe it would not. Nobody I know said to me, “I feel like I would receive it.”

First, my husband qualifies because of a percentage that differentiates him from most severe to severe, so it's not clear. Most of all, it's like you're asking me to tell my husband, “Honey, I need a break from you. I need a break from your PTSD. I need air from you. I need to have a little of my life without you.” This is what you are asking me to tell my husband. Do you really expect him to feel good about it? No. Do you know why? He's wounded with PTSD. If you want to know what I think, I think his paranoia will make him believe I'm going away to have a nice little drinking party and probably to sleep with three-quarters of the city. This is it; this is the reality. His anxiety will make him call numerous times. He's not with me today. Would you like to see? If I don't give answer him using the right tone of voice, I can assure you I will hear about it when I go home. This is my reality.

Usually every single time I get to meet you in your office, my husband is in a parking lot somewhere sleeping and waiting for me. The caregiver relief benefit does not apply in our situation the way it is presented. Also, he won't accept a stranger in our house. He won't even accept that his own children come and take care of him. He has his dignity too. You know what? I am the only one he trusts. As much as he would love to see them around, they are not me. My husband will end up suffering in silence while I'm gone and the children wouldn't know how to handle him.

This measure is probably supposed to give me a break, but by doing so, you are putting me in a situation of triggering my husband's anxiety and PTSD. When he's triggered or anxious, he becomes angry. In my reality, in my fortress, I live with a loving husband. When he suffers, he becomes Rambo. This is my suffering husband.

As for the money, everybody seems to forget that I have nothing and that includes financial autonomy. The pink hair and the nails that you see are only because my husband allows them, accepts them, and because he likes them. I think he thinks I look better to him. This is my life.

Do I need to tell you I most probably suffer from transfer PTSD? I'd love to tell you how I am now hypervigilant even going to the restaurant without my husband. You have no idea how much I can choose the place, be aware of the music, the sound, the time—

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