(From the diaries - promoted by Brandon Friedman)
Desperation
The gun is heavy in my hand, cold, solid. I sit on the edge of my bathtub and stare at it. The door is shut and I am alone. I can hear my own breathing, uneven.
This I can control.
It feels like the only thing I can control. I can't control my anger, which flares up unexpectedly, making me lash out at those closest to me. I can't control the moments when my boyfriend, who sustained a TBI in Iraq and has severe PTSD, will suddenly turn cold. His face goes blank and there is suddenly no reaching him, he is lost in his own rage and isolation. I can't control whether or not the Army will stop-loss me, or let me out and then call me back on IRR, and send me back to Iraq - back to another year with no control over where I sleep, what I eat, if rockets will fall on me while I shit, if an IED will blow off my limbs.
I can't control the memories that suddenly, with no warning, invade my consciousness: images of men screaming, thrashing, bleeding on the ground. I can't control that the smell of diesel makes me feel like I'm in Iraq again. I can't control my physical reactions, swerving to avoid trash in the road, flinching at sudden noises.
I couldn't control myself when I was driving on a back country road, heard a shot, drove off the road, and suddenly burst into tears. I can't control my dreams, can't even remember them, but I know they must be bad because I awaken drenched in sweat, heart pounding.
I can barely control myself in public, dealing with civilians who can never understand. Can barely bite my tongue when they ask, "What was it really like?"- can barely keep from telling them and watching them cringe.
But this, this I could control. This gun, this choice. It offers me a way out, and freedom from the fear that nothing will change.
I can't get help. Can't imagine going to my Chain of Command - to what? To be put on public, humiliating suicide watch, sleeping in front of the CQ with no shoelaces or belt? I can't admit these feelings of weakness in front of my leaders or - worse - my soldiers. Can't own up to the shame of not knowing if I can do it, take it, keep going at all. Can't talk to my friends from before - can't even conceive of explaining the war to them; I'm not who they used to know. I can't burden my family with this, they already walk on eggshells around me, maybe already think I'm crazy. I can't let everyone down and look them in the eyes after.
I tried getting help already. I went to a civilian psychologist who told me I didn't have PTSD, I had OCD and maybe bipolar disorder. She sent me to the Army psychiatrist - the single psychiatrist for the entire division - to get antidepressants, because how I reacted to them would confirm her diagnosis. I sat in the waiting room, painfully aware of my uniform and visible rank, feeling my cheeks burn as I listened to the specialists behind the counter crack jokes about the last patient. Went into this Major's office and tried to explain my fears - that I would never readjust, never make it in the civilian world. Shoulders stiff, tears leaked down my face. He snorted derisively, "Well, you'll definitely never make it in the civilian world if you start crying all the time." I never went back. The pills made my mouth so dry, I felt like I would pass out on long runs, so I quit taking them.
I sit and stare at the gun. This is mine, my choice, my way out, my freedom, my escape from fear and hopelessness and desperation.
Brian knocks on the door. "Kayla, are you ok in there?"
"Yeah. Give me a minute." My voice cracks.
I imagine what they will go through, Brian and my roommate, dealing with blood and brains and death on my bathroom floor. Imagine my father - I'm his only surviving child. The only time I saw him cry as a child was when my aunt killed herself. Fuck. FUCK.
I can't do this. Not now, not today. But the option is there. If it gets worse. If nothing gets better. I could control my end, if nothing else.
It was 2004.
I only deployed once.
We don't own a gun anymore.
Salvation
I don't want your pity. And I really don't want to talk about my feelings. In fact, I never wanted to even admit to my incident in the bathroom with the gun. Because I found my way, got control, healed. So did my boyfriend, who is now my husband.
But the news about the alarming suicide rate in the Army is forcing me to come clean about my secret shame and weakness. I didn't follow through, but I understand the urge. Understand the desperation and isolation. I'll admit that I considered suicide if it might keep another soldier from carrying through.
Those coming back now may have endured multiple deployments. Not just soldiers but their families are feeling the strain, and the divorce rate is climbing. The bad economy, with rising foreclosures and increasing unemployment, puts added pressure on soldiers as well - they may be facing financial crises, and feel they don't have the option to leave the service even if they want to.
My most important message is that what I felt was wrong. I did have options - and so do we all. You can make a difference.
To our national leadership: Implement the recommendations of the RAND report on the Invisible Wounds of War. to ensure that all servicemembers have access to quality, evidence-based care. Although most media coverage focused only on the numbers of veterans coming home with mental health issues and Traumatic Brain Injuries, the other important conclusion of this report is that it actually costs more - in terms of lost productivity, broken families, and suicides - to NOT provide treatment than it does to treat those who are struggling. (Full disclosure: I worked on that report.)
To state and local leaders: Lots of people want to help our veterans but don't know how; lots of veterans need assistance but don't know where to find it. Support efforts to link resources and needs. Consider the blueprint set forth by Rhode Island to establish a military-civilian partnership to match servicemembers and families in need with available community resources.
To the public: Urge your elected officials to take care of our active duty personnel and veterans, and hold them accountable if they do not. Donate your money, time, and voice to organizations providing needed services.
To friends and family members: Reach out - get help if you need it. If you truly know that your soldier is in trouble, take action. Tell someone. A person can get over being angry.
To front line leaders: If one of your soldiers is struggling, get them help. Be compassionate: this is not the time to fear malingering or push stoicism. When suicide kills more soldiers than enemy action while we are engaged in two wars, there is a crisis. This is a also a readiness issue. Mental health can be like physical health: early intervention and proper care can allow a full recovery. Work to decrease stigma so soldiers feel comfortable getting help. Combat and readjustment are hard - don't make them worse by downplaying real issues.
To struggling soldiers: Fight the enemy within. The one who tells you there is no hope, no one who will understand, there are no other options, there is no future. That inner enemy is wrong. It takes time, the path is winding, and it may get worse before it's over, but you will get better. Seek help. Don't give up if it doesn't come easily - try again. I'm seeing a great therapist now who really helps me, but I had to try a couple before I found the right one.
Check out these resources:
Military One Source
Not Alone
and some of the resources listed on the right side of the VetVoice page.
You are not alone. You are part of a community of veterans who understands what you're going through. Even if society doesn't understand, a lot of civilians actually do care. You served with honor, and you have the right to demand the help you need. Fight through this, and when you are on the other side, turn and offer your hand to those who come after you. |
