Healing Combat Trauma

Quotable Quotes -- Thomas Dooley, III, M.D., on Spending Part of Your Life Serving Others

"Dedicate some of your life to others.  Your dedication will not be a sacrifice.  It will be an exhilarating experience because it is an intense effort applied toward a meaningful end." -- Thomas Dooley, III, M.D., U.S. Navy physician. (1927 - 1961.)

© 2010 by Lily Casura / Healing Combat Trauma. All rights reserved. Use with attribution.

 

Paying Tribute at "The Tribute Wall..."

One of the most remarkable experiences, at last week's third annual "The Brain at War" conference in San Francisco, was visiting the Marines' Memorial Club & Hotel in Union Square, where the conference was held.

Unbeknownst to me and many of the other conferences' participants, the Marines' Memorial is both swoon-worthily fantastic as a venue AND happens to house a one-of-a-kind tribute to OIF and OEF veterans who have been killed in action. The so-called "Tribute Wall" is on the 10th floor, mezzanine, and Major General J. Michael Myatt, USMC (Ret.) encouraged us all, during the conference, to take some time and pay honor to those servicemembers who had given the   ultimate sacrifice. 

True to my nonexistent personal GPS, I first mistakenly went to the wrong floor -- the library, on the 11th (which was cool, but not the same) -- and finally found my way to where I was supposed to be. The polished black plaques, listing fallen warriors by name, branch, and date of death, cover the four walls of the memorial room, and then stretch out beyond it, covering a "fifth" wall completely in the adjoining room, and continuing to advance.

If you know when a friend or loved one died in combat, you're able to find the plaque's general location by scanning the wall to find the correct year, then reading vertically to find the approximate location of the date.

If you know only a name, but not the date, it's safest to look up the name of the servicemember in the frequently-updated list kept in a binder in the center of the room, again listing by name, branch of service, and date of death.

In my case, I went to a section of the wall to find those who died on a certain tour of Marines in the Sunni Triangle, back in '05/'06, then went back to find the names of friends of friends and take photos for them of their loved ones' plaques.

There are some surprises. One is, see photo at left, that two "major league" departed heroes, among all the rest of the great departed heroes, Pat Tillman (Army) and Jason Dunham (Marines) died on the same day. Until I saw their plaques resting above each other on the "Tribute Wall," I can't say that I realized that. 

There's also a guest book which people can sign, to leave their memories and condolences; and there's a flag display of the flags of all the branches in the center of the room. There's also a framed photograph of Marine General James T. Conway, (at this writing, current Commandant of the Marine Corps) from the front cover of a Marine magazine, visiting the wall; and another framed "thank you" note he wrote, expressing his appreciation to the Gold Star families for the exhibit.

I found myself returning to this generation's "Wall" time and time again during the conference, sneaking away from the (great) presenters to put myself back in touch with the very great losses of these wars, in terms of men and women who were dearly and deeply loved by those they left behind. I racked my brain and texted friends for the names of friends they had lost on their tours, to make sure I got photos of their loved one's plaques.

In numerous trips to the Tribute Wall ("Room" is more like it, since the plaques cover at least five walls by now), I rarely saw another visitor. Only one couple, the wife or girlfriend tagging behind the husband or boyfriend, who looked like a veteran, searching out key names on the wall. I heard that a number of conference participants also went to pay their respects. I didn't run into them, which doesn't mean they weren't there. What the hushed and reverent silence in the room did mean, though, and the literally thousands of plaques, each representing a servicemember important and loved to many friends and family, is how little we typically recognize the ultimate sacrifice of those who   gave their lives. I feel blessed and honored and frankly, grateful, that I got to pay my respects at the Tribute Wall for those who gave so much.

If you're ever in San Francisco, and you can handle seeing the sheer enormity of OIF and OEF deaths honored in one single "room," you owe it to yourself -- nay, them -- to go by the Marines' Memorial Club & Hotel, head to the 10th floor, Mezzanine, and pay your respects, so that their sacrifice is not in vain.

Editor's note: Servicemembers who were KIA from all branches of the Armed Forces are represented on "the wall," not just Marines.

"My Body's Intact, but Not My Soul"

Periodically we talk on this blog about the catharsis of poetry -- as a reader, as a writer. Here's a poem about Vietnam, in the form of a song called "Don't Go There," by S.L. Ponciroli, USN, quoted in Frederick Graham's "The Bamboo Chest," which we discussed recently, here:

Don't Go There

"Night in the bush in the drivin' rain
Heard the rockets burst then the screamin' pain
Feelin' pretty good 'cause I'm still whole
My body's intact but not my soul.

Don't go there is what my Mama said
You're gonna get hurt, wind up dead
But I had to go, stand and fight
'cause I didn't listen, I died that night.

My tour was over, I was done
The battles fought, but the war not won
I caught that bird, took me to the World
See my home, see my girl

Don't go there is what my Mama said
You're gonna get hurt, wind up dead
But I had to go, stand and fight
'cause I didn't listen, I died that night.

John Wayne told me to be a man
Defend my country the best I can
My home had changed, my girl didn't care
Made fun of my clothes, ridiculed my hair

Don't go there is what my Mama said
You're gonna get hurt, wind up dead
But I had to go, stand and fight
'cause I didn't listen, I died that night.

Nights at home in the drivin' rain
I hear rockets burst and the screamin' pain
Feelin' pretty good 'cause I'm still whole
My body's intact but not my soul."

-- Song by S.L. Ponciroli, USN, Danang '68-'69

Editor's note: In the photo used to illustrate this post, the handsome guy on the right, with the faraway cold expression, is headed back to Vietnam for his second tour.  He's already had the dream in which he dies, and he knows from experience that his comrades who've had that premonition, invariably do. The guy on the left, with the much less wary or apprehensive expression, is headed elsewhere. The man on the right's premonition came awfully close to coming true, as it turned out. Read more about that, in a post linked here.

A Combat Veteran Asks Himself, Who Am I, on the Inside?

The combat veteran, one with decades of severe PTSD, asks himself that question, and the answer that comes back isn't pretty.  "What's your biggest problem right now?" he was asked, and then handed some implements with which to draw his answer.  Describe what you've drawn, he was asked.  "My biggest problem?" he said, "It's that I'm 'an exploding ball of hate'...on the inside." (Comment and drawing, used with permission.)

Now, on the one hand, this doesn't tend to give you a lot of hope.  Forty years out, still thinking about life this way.  Ugh.  That's intense.  And so, so very tragic.

On the other hand, the story has a "happier" ending -- or at least, progress report.  The same person who said that is doing much better now (and has the drawings to prove it.)

But I was reminded of this story again today when I read of the terrible story of Marcus Luttrell, the former Navy SEAL, awarded a Navy Cross for his heroism, whose entire team was wiped out in a horrendous firefight in Afghanistan, and who suffered greatly because of that experience.  (Luttrell is also the author of "Lone Survivor," about that experience.) This past week, his lovely yellow Labrador retriever therapy dog -- who he named DASY, after a combination of the initials of his SEAL team buddies who were killed and himself,  who, parenthetically, says he also died on that mountain, with his team that day -- was shot in cold blood outside his house, apparently in a pointless thrill-killing by some heartless local punks.

From articles about the incident in the Houston Chronicle and on MSNBC, which described the 40 mile high-speed chase an injured (he was recently hospitalized) Luttrell went on to capture the perpetrators, assisted by the police:

"I did everything right; I didn’t do anything wrong," (Luttrell) said. "Make sure everyone knows they cold-bloodily murdered."

In other words, he was heavily provoked. (It's remarkable the self-control he exercised, just helping to capture, but not kill, the jerks who shot and killed his beloved therapy dog.)

The saddest part for me, after reading and hearing about this story, were these poignant lines from Luttrell, after the incident, no doubt disillusioned, despondent, as well as totally triggered.  Reportage said that Luttrell "said he had left his Huntsville home and [like Vietnam veterans before him, who took themselves out into the woods rather than deal with society that was hard for them to navigate anymore] was in "the middle of nowhere," adding that Dasy's killing -- of course! -- was a "huge setback" in his life. (A huge and completely unfair setback, too...cruel beyond cruel, and so completely pointless.)

Here are the heartbreaking lines of Luttrell's, as he's trying to come to terms with what just happened, not that he had any fault in the matter:

"I was trying to talk myself out of being who I am," he told the Chronicle. "Talking to myself about not doing the one thing I am good at."

Those are the words that should stick with people on this, who care about the topic of healing combat trauma, that is.  War -- and even training for war -- breaks people down and builds them back up in the mode of the warrior, in which they have a new, and very authentic skill set -- but one which they won't find much use for in civilian life, or are basically constrained by society from using.  Nobody wants to talk about it much, but the ability to kill, and the confidence and esteem that gets created by being "good at what you do," even if it's very much relegated to the combat experience, is a very hard thing to shake afterwards.

I can come back later and supplement this with references, but read the literature, watch the interviews with people who have combat-based PTSD.  There's a very uncomfortable relationship with killing: it's a high that's hard to deny, but also hard to live with, about yourself (no pun intended).  And that dilemma is at the basis of the combat veteran's, above, remark about what his biggest problem is: being "an exploding ball of hate," on the inside. 

It's very hard to get a grip on that, particularly when killing has become a significant skill set, and very hard to unwind from.  In many cases, veterans covertly mention, mostly to one another, it's become an addiction of its own.  Perhaps just the feeling of being amped up and in command of the situation, not necessarily the killing part, but whatever: it's a way they say they felt truly alive for the moment, and hard to replace in civilian life, which operates according to completely different rules, and is often ridiculously boring and unfair, by comparison.

No judgment intended: far from it.  It's the reality of the situation.  And it's part of why, as much as the military concentrates on breaking someone down to become the perfect warrior, there needs to be an equal and opposite side of the coin -- how to help someone reintegrate, so they can keep their skills, but become a whole person again who, most importantly, can look at himself or herself with appreciation and respect, for every aspect of their personalities.

Editor's note: For a video of Marcus Luttrell being interviewed by Matt Lauer, several years ago, about his book and the incident fighting the Taliban that inspired it, click here.

(Also, the second drawing, above, is done by the same combat vet mentioned in the first illustration, but it's not the one that shows improvement. It's another from the same day, where he answers the question about drawing himself "as I am now" -- in other words, with two very distinct sides to himself, darkness and light.

Commander Beverly Dexter, Military Psychologist

Commander Beverly Dexter, Ph.D., is an Active Duty U.S. Navy Psychologist who has served three tours with Marines in the U.S. and Iraq.  She is a warfare qualified former Navy Special Operations Officer (salvage diver and ship driver) and former Navy Supply Corps Officer.  She completed operational tours on four Navy ships and frequently gives professional military presentations on leadership, resilience building for military families and prevention and treatment of trauma.  CDR Dexter has lived military life as a single person, double active duty couple, "dependent" wife and mom, deployed mom, stationed overseas and deployed to a combat zone.  She is the Founder and Chairman of the EMDR International Association Military Special Interest Group and the ISTSS Military Special Interest Group.  Dr Dexter is a leader in the effort to improve trauma treatment for Active Duty, Reservists, and National Guard returning from combat and for their families, and has considerable experience serving Army National Guard troops in Iraq.  Dr Dexter is EMDRIA Certified in EMDR and a Fellow and on the Speaker’s Bureau of the American Academy of Experts in Traumatic Stress.  Author of the forthcoming book, No More Nightmares:  How to Use Planned Dream Intervention to End Nightmares (scheduled for release in 2008), she has taught her original theory of Planned Dream Intervention to thousands of individuals who have experienced rapid resolution of recurring dreams and nightmares.