Healing Combat Trauma

Anatomy of a Suicide: OEF Veteran Orrin McClellan, RIP from PTSD

The Seattle Times has an article in yesterday's paper about a young Whidbey Island OEF veteran who unfortunately killed himself in May of this year. Orrin Gorman McClellan served with the 173rd Airborne Brigade Combat Team in Afghanistan in 2005-2006. He took a lot of photos of his experience in Afghanistan, and he also wrote, poignantly, about his experiences as a soldier in an online journal, where he wrote every day. (The article doesn't reveal the location of that journal.) In what's known in the journalism biz as a "package," the article also has two multimedia presentations included with it: a video of his parents leafing through a book they're putting together of poems Orrin wrote, linked here, and a video narrated by his parents of some of his photography from Afghanistan, linked here. "I've become numb," McClellan writes, "but not comfortably so."

It's wrenching watching his parents in the videos sit side-by-side on the couch, in a tableau no doubt repeated across America, as the parents of the approximately 18 veterans a day who kill themselves must do, trying to make sense of why Orrin had to go, and still actively grieving, trying to come to terms with their own loss. In Orrin's case, his mother is a social worker, who the article says specializes "in the treatment of traumatized individuals." Of course, not even a mother with this background can necessarily save her son, which only adds to the tragedy. It says his mother even "took a counseling job with the Whidbey Island NAS and helped her son navigate through the VA system." He was retired with a 100% disability due to PTSD. The article quotes the mom as saying that as a community, we all need to listen better to our vets. And practice "deep listening" to their stories of what they've gone through.

What makes the article good, from this reader's perspective, is that it positions Orrin McClellan's death against the backdrop of the statistics of veterans suicides across the country, and then projects how those statistics affect Washington state, where the Seattle Times is based, and where Orrin lived. Eighteen deaths of veterans a day, the number of suicides approximating deaths in combat this year -- these are shocking statistics, but like so many others, we become numb to them over time. Bringing it closer to home, those same statistics mean of the almost 36,000 OIF and OEF veterans from Washington state, a dozen would be lost to suicide. In 2010, Orrin McClellan was sadly one of that number.

(Army veteran Chris Loverro, who served with the Stryker brigade from Fort Lewis, Washington, did a poignant video of his own about PTSD and suicide in the life of a veteran. We've shown it in a recent article, linked here.)

McClellan's mother, Judith Gorman, says that her son never really came all the way back home, because of his PTSD. Retired Army General Eric Shinseki, now head of the VA, is also quoted in the article, as ruminating -- perhaps not about McClellan's death in particular but about veterans' suicides in general -- that he often asks himself, "Why do we know so much about suicides, but so little about how to prevent them?" That's a fabulous quote, but it's also quite a profound question.

Edwin Shneidman, the so-called "father of suicidology" -- who ironically got his start leafing through files at the VA, reading suicide notes of veterans -- is someone we've written about a fair amount on this site. He's also known as the originator of the concept of a "psychological autopsy," where someone, reasoning backwards from the fact of the a person's death, tries to reconstruct the extent and timing of the stressors in that person's life, to determine how and why it became too much for them (the "when" having already been determined.)

I'm not sure, but I would hazard a guess that, other than the families of veterans who commit suicide, who are directly involved, there isn't much of an effort made on a larger level to reconstruct what stressors became unbearable in the lives of those who kill themselves, during or after military service. Perhaps a broader study into this, a la Shneidman's methods, would produce important or helpful conclusions.

McClellan's story is in many ways all too typical...except for the social worker mother, and the wonderful legacy he left behind in the poems he wrote and photographs he took. He struggled, as many veterans with PTSD do, with drugs and alcohol, with trying to fit back into his life, with impulse control, with hypervigilance, with nightmares, with combining alcohol with prescription medications, with grief and perhaps blaming himself over the deaths of two close friends. And he struggled with long drives to the VA, which was located quite a distance from his home.

His parents sound like amazing people, who tried so hard. They even established a Veterans Resource Center, on the island where they lived, "to offer referrals, networking and other assistance," to help other veterans in addition to their son. In the wake of his son's death, they may also publish a book of his writings, to raise awareness about PTSD.

Digging around on the Web, especially within social media, it wasn't hard to find some of McClellan's thoughts. He had two journals where he kept his writings, one on MySpace and one on LiveJournal. I've chosen not to link to them, to protect his privacy in case that's an issue. But in one he quotes from T.S. Eliot's famous poem, "The Hollow Men," which closes with the memorable lines about "this is how the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper."

It also contains an entry from September of 2008, while McClellan was actively struggling with PTSD, but a full year and a half before he ended his life. In an entry called "What the hell happened to me?" he writes:

"I read some entries in my journal from two years ago" 

[2006, the end of his Afghanistan deployment and beyond]

I love who I was.

Why did I do this to myself?

Was it war?

Did I implode from all the shit I saw?

Or was it something else?"

Questions really with no answer. He goes on for a bit more, and then concludes with the poignant question:

Why did I let myself

Get so lost?

RIP Orrin McClellan, gone too soon, and comfort to your family and your friends.

Editor's note: The photo is of a point on Whidbey Island, a thoroughly beautiful place in Washington state.

Literary Fireworks! Combat Vets Celebrate the Fourth with 5...7...5...Haiku

War poetry has a long and storied history; combat veterans and haiku, not so much. But that may all be changing, thanks to Susanna Speier's innovative "Politiku" -- the application of the traditional Japanese short-form poem familiar to schoolchildren everywhere, with its three line structure of five, seven and five syllables apiece, which can also be a suitable vehicle for expressing profound and personal reflections on trauma.

Speier has already developed some fans for her Politiku concept -- it appears regularly as a column in the Huffington Post -- but thanks to an introduction by the very kind and genuine Craig Newmark, Speier and Healing Combat Trauma connected this week over Speier's interest in bringing the Politiku work to combat veterans.

Speier has a lovely and appealing presentation she's been working on, but as we discussed it further, one particularly timely theme -- it being July Fourth and all -- leapt into Speier's mind. "Fireworks" would make a perfect theme. To most Americans, celebrating with their families on the Fourth, fireworks represent one gigantic surge of pyrotechnic patriotism, awing small children and grownups alike as they soar into the air and explode with fabulous colors and ear-popping, ground-shaking reverberations. It's America's birthday, after all, but in place of the cake and candles we get...concerts, barbecues, parades and FIREWORKS!

For the combat veteran, however...and only approximately 11% of our population has served in the military...fireworks can remind them a little too much of the sights and sounds of combat. Many combat veterans, especially those with PTSD, find themselves dreading the Fourth and the fireworks in particular; and often find themselves unable to explain this (satisfactorily) to family and friends. Quite a few vets make plans beforehand to "head to their bunkers," and not come out until it's over. Others talk about how their own veteran dads, growing up, spent the holiday every year, in a haze of drugs or alcohol, waiting out the celebration. Some veterans feel bad about not being able to join in the celebration, but they can't; and some families of affected combat veterans wonder whether to leave their veteran home while they go enjoy the show...or miss the celebration themselves while not being able to bridge the gap with what their loved one is experiencing.  

So into this mix comes Speier, Politiku, and the idea of having combat veterans write a haiku, with 5/7/5 syllabication, to express their feelings around fireworks, and what it reminds them of, or what it causes them to miss. We put the post out on Facebook, on the Healing Combat Trauma fan page, as well as my personal page, and got some interesting results. Speier is collecting more over at her site and in the comment section of the Huffington Post article, and assures that the combat veteran/haiku author's anonymity will be protected, if desired.

Here's a sample haiku to get you started, written by, erm, Healing Combat Trauma: 

Blue night red rockets

White sparklers Percussion blasts

Vets feel more than Fourth

And here's a better one, written by Angela Peacock, U.S. Army veteran, who served in Baghdad during the early days of the Iraq war, and who has allowed her name to be used:

Fire lights up the sky

Like old memories burning

Too much for my nerves

If you'd like to be part of this project, go here and read the FAQs on what Politiku is and how to write them; or just dive in and send your Politiku/Haiku in as a "comment" in any of the threads listed above, and we'll make sure to get your poem(s) headed in the right direction. Also add whether you'd like your name on or off the submission, if it's used. (Be wise about whether you want to have your name and PTSD associated in the same subject on future web searches, if you're thinking about employment prospects...)

And, if you'd just like to think more about poetry in general, and war poetry or combat veterans and poetry in particular, there are two sources right here on this site. One is the collection of articles on poetry, linked here; and the other is the list of "war poetry" books, which can be found along the upper right hand side of this website. Enjoy!

A Veteran's Journey from Suffering and Despair to a "Happy and Productive Life..."

Had this conversation just now with a Vietnam combat veteran, who struggled for decades with severe and chronic PTSD. (Read about him in the "Eyewitness to Combat" section. It's gripping...)

It's been almost two years now since we first started talking, and I was looking back on how very much he'd changed. The most noticeable thing to me is how consistent he is now, along with the much lower intensity of the darkness and despair. Back then, when he was suicidal, it was a constant feature. I never knew from one conversation to the next whether that would be our last talk, so close to the edge he was. But that was a phase...and the phase changed, and the "mood" of that phase "lifted," and now I can look back and think how very long ago that seems, even though it was "just" two years ago.

In trying to find words to convey how much I'd seen him changed, I found the analogy of a staircase, maybe one with gigantic stone steps. It seemed that though he was still climbing -- we all are, of course -- he'd cleared those gigantic steps found at the absolute bottom and walked up a few more as well. Now when he slides back down, as we all do, also to some degree -- he no longer hits rock bottom --- so it might still be low, but it's much farther up from where he was, and that progress he made, he gets to keep.

He agreed, and said that it wasn't so much that the demon of despair wasn't there anymore, as that it was something he could now overcome. "Healing," he said, "is when you're able to use what you've been taught" from all those hard experiences. And one of the most key, is not to give up, but to do what you know to do. Whether it's to stay on the lowest dosage of the medications that keep you functional; or the healing techniques you know can help -- whether by going to a practitioner, or even the ones you can practice yourself. And ideally both: appropriate medication AND healing work. Together: an excellent, therapeutic combination. Singly? Not so much. It's like there's something missing...and there is. Synergy, for one thing.

St. Patrick's Day is this vet's "Alive Day," or as he used to call it, his "Kill Day." The day that everyone else was shot or killed, and he was shot and almost died, and barely didn't. Not a major celebration in his life; one with a whole lot of guilt for surviving, and one guy in particular who died who was a short-timer, and went into the fight with him because of their friendship.

St. Patrick's Day last year, this vet was doing great. On his medication AND doing healing work. Pleasant, engaged, out in public (even in crowded places), managing, letting his whole personality out, the bad as well as the substantial good. Major progress.

This year, St. Patrick's Day, not so much. Kinda "backslid," as the old churches would say. Had abruptly stopped his medication, because he wanted to "feel again," or "feel more." And what he felt wasn't so pleasant for him or anyone he was around. His personality was coming out then too: but it was the dark side, with only glimmers of the light.

That was a learning experience, for everyone. Get back on the meds, but don't stop the healing work either. They're BOTH important. They both produce the synergy necessary. With both, he says, he's able to stabilize; see the triggers and the red flags for what they are, but not react in the same way. Without the medication? As he describes it, "I'm looking for the switch..." to turn off the triggers "but there is no switch." Together, it works. And together with support from others: WE all work better too :-)

(Interestingly, though, he was still able to do one major thing THIS St. Patrick's Day. He told the story, in a powerful, moving and very public way, of the last seven days of his friend's life, leading up to his tragic death on that infamous "Kill Day." He said he'd never before had the strength to tell that story, and this time he did. Fellow combat vets eyed him nervously, preparing for the big crash...that never came. How well did he make it through? With an enormous sigh of relief. He went to bed and slept deeply, finally able to lay that burden down that had dogged him for 43 years. He was able to let the haunting memory go, without giving up the love of his friend. And that's what you'd call...healing. Bonus points were when the dead friend came to him in a dream that night, and they saluted one another. As though it were safe to let that memory go...but let the love remain.)

---

"Life for me ain't been no crystal stair," the great American poet Langston Hughes wrote in his poem, "Mother to Son."

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor --

Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So, boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps.

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

-- "Mother to Son," by Langston Hughes.

The same could be said by so many veterans who suffer. But yet there is still hope, and it's in the climbing, not the "setting" down :-)

Returning to the conversation with the Vietnam vet, I told him how much I appreciate the consistency since he's been back on the low dose of medication he takes. Failing to find a better word, I said how much I appreciated getting to see his "charming" personality again, instead of the roller-coaster of pain, frustration, anger and despair. "ALL of these guys have charming personalities," he reminded me; "That's why their wives married them...And that's what we've got to help them return to."

Quotable Quotes -- e.e. cummings on Unbracketing Death

In honor of April being "National Poetry Month," a wonderful excerpt from American poet e.e. cummings (1894-1962) about the continuity of life beyond life. Cummings was no stranger to war and its aftermath: he's one of several famous writers and poets who served as ambulance drivers, in his case, in World War I. This snippet of his poem, "since feeling is first," (Cummings was a big fan of unusual capitalization and punctuation) neatly conveys the impact of a life that goes on past its close, in the memory of the survivors left behind. In the right context, these words offer some small comfort, whether you're thinking about your own legacy, or remembering those you love who've gone before you:

"For life's not a paragraph And death I think is no parenthesis."

More Vietnam Veteran Suicides Than Combat Deaths -- Poem

Miles of Bones

"58,000 suicides
is a lot of bullets

wrecked car's
ruined veins

dead bottles
kids without fathers

American flags

& miles of dirt dug

58,000
the number of Vietnam

veteran suicides...
it equals the names

on the Wall
today: 7/09/91 8:10 p.m.

tomorrow
we'll exceed it

more suicide
than combat death

If you can't feel
this pain

you're already
dead

all these
bodies

floating
home."

-- by Bill Shields.  Anthologized in "From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of the Vietnam War and Its Aftermath," Edited by Philip Mahony.

Editor's note: Sadly, of course, since the time this poem was written, many more Vietnam veterans and other combat veterans have taken their own lives.

Barrenness of Survival

"I'd sooner be a fallen pine cone this winter
In a cradle of cold New England rock,
Less hurt in it than nineteen years.
What an exit! Stage left, fronds waving,
Cut down running my ass off at a tree line.
I'm thinking, as I hear my chest
Sucking air through its brand new nipple,
I bought the ticket, I hope I drown fast,
The pain is all in living."

-- Excerpt from "Morning -- A Death," by Basil T. Paquet. Anthologized in "Carrying the Darkness: American Indochina -- The Poetry of the Vietnam War," edited by W.D. Ehrhart.

In the Meantime: Between Combat and Death

"Listen:

Death is a goddamned disgrace.

It has no respect

for beauty or for wit

or for a lifetime

of survivor’s experience –

so why should I show

any respect for it?

          Death will catch me

          in due time,

          but until then

          the time is mine."

-- from "The Peace Monument," by Jan Barry. Anthologized in "From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of the Vietnam War and Its Aftermath," Edited by Philip Mahony.

Wry Reminscence of Combat Vet on His Peer Group

Peer Group

"me & the boys got the highest rate

of alcoholism & drug abuse & divorce

& mental illness & suicide

than any other group

in America.

It’s good to see us win

for a change."

-- by Bill Shields. Anthologized in "From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of the Vietnam War and Its Aftermath," Edited by Philip Mahony.

Trust and Mistrust -- One Combat Veteran (and Poet's) Point of View

"On all sides of the issues
on both sides of the ocean,
veterans mistrust anyone in a position to lie;
Wives, girlfriends, government officials,
salesmen, lawyers, and the rich.

Veterans trust dogs,
children under twelve,
masturbation,
the chair facing the door
and any weapon in the dark."

-- From "In Victory or Defeat," a poem by Steve Mason, Vietnam combat veteran, former Army captain, former "poet laureate" of the Vietnam Veterans of America. Mason passed away in May of 2005. (His obituary from the L.A. Times is linked here.)

"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.