by Janet J. Seahorn

       It is such a privilege to write our blogs and then hear back from some of our readers. The blog on “Tears of a Mother” brought many wonderful comments. One such reader sent this message which made me smile. He wrote:

                    
A SHORT STORY. MY WIFE AND I HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR 40 YEARS. WE ARE HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEARTS AND WHEN I GOT HOME FROM MY LAST HOSP STAY FOR A PANIC ATTACK, I ASKED HER WHY SHE HAS STAYED WITH ME FOR SO LONG. HER EXACT WORDS WERE. “I KNEW YOU WERE A CHANGED PERSON WHEN YOU GOT HOME. HER FRIENDS AND FAMILY SAID I WAS DAMAGED. SHE TOLD THEM THAT THE MAN IS SCARED OF EVERYTHING AROUND HIM. AND THAT SHE LOVED ME”. I DO NOT TRAVEL TOO FAR WITHOUT MY WIFE. I CALL HER MY HANDLER.

            Isn’t that just the sweetest compliment he gave his wife, “my handler”, which, as you can see, he stated with genuine love and gratitude.  His message reminded me of a very endearing commercial for “shelter” dogs we have here in Colorado. It starts out, “Don’t pity a shelter dog — honor him. Shelter dogs aren’t broken, they’ve just experienced a little more of life. In many ancient times they would be considered wise.  They are the ones with tales to tell and stories to write.  They have faced life’s challenges with courage and pride, and survived with honor and dignity”. 

           Sounds like many of our amazing vets. Just like these shelter dogs who have experienced a bit more than their canine siblings, veterans aren’t broken, damaged, or to be pitied. Most have gathered a deeper wisdom regarding life. And, yes, they have tales to tell and stories to write. With courage and pride they continue to live every day of their lives with honor and dignity.  

Shelter dogs and vets. Golly, what a wonderful way to view the  challenges of life…and PTSD.

by Janet J. Seahorn

“Out of the Darkness, into the Light”. These short seven words explain unmistakably the effects of healing the wounds of PTSD. While reading my daily inspirational “quotes”, I came across this one. We see and hear it often in religious sermons. For the many whose lives have been relentlessly challenged by life’s experiences and survived only by the grace of a higher power or some special intervention, we have an intimate understanding of going from darkness to light. 

Sometimes we may reflect on how exactly we got to a “lighter” place:  lighter by the brilliance of radiance in our days, lighter in our spirits that carry a heavy burden, unseen, unfelt, and often times misunderstood, and lighter in our physical bodies that endured the trauma from our past. 

The answer to how we got to the light may not be as important as the blessing, we are here. In reality, we don’t remain in this space of lightness every moment. Yet, when we experience these twinkles of happiness, we feel a profound sense of peace. A peace that lets us know we are not alone in our battles. A peace that validates we are loved and cared for during our conflicts. A peace that leaves us with the hope that when we are thrown back into the abyss, we CAN and WILL be able to climb back up to the light. Just trusting this inner knowing is what gets us through the dark days and nights. It is what enables us to wake each morning with new expectations for the day.  Without such trust it would be impossible to continue the journey, for the path is too unpredictable.

Healing Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is built on the trust that through inner strength and outer resources we can not only survive and mend, we can thrive. Trauma can cause immense changes in our brains and bodies. It is not merely a matter of  ’sucking it up’  that will move us toward better physical and emotional health; it is taking action to get that help needed for healing. For most physical illnesses this is obvious. If one has a life-threatening disease, he/she would get outside, professional help. She would endure the devastating effects of chemo and radiation to survive. He would go through open heart surgery to repair the damaged organ expecting months of rehabilitation and physical therapy. However, with emotional trauma, some in society still seem to attach a stigma.  The only weapon for dissolving the stigma is knowledge. And the only way knowledge blossoms is through openness, education, and courage. 

You see it will take each of us to continue to share our insights with others. Truthfully, it is far easier to remain silent, hiding our wounds from the eyes of world. Yet, knowledge does not grow in such darkness. It requires light, nourishment, and valor. So it is up to each of us to contribute to the understanding of PTSD and how one can move “out of the darkness, into the light.”

Blessings and continue mending.

by Janet J. Seahorn

 

This weekend I heard an experienced angler talk about the joys of being in a stream or lake fishing for Snotty Fish.  Snotty Fish, he thoughtfully explained, were those fish that were not easy to catch.  They were fish that could not be tricked by some ordinary fly or enticing lure. More than likely, such fish had, in some earlier time, been caught before and managed to escape through sheer luck, tenacity, or down right determination. After going through such a traumatic encounter, they were more cautious than most of their finned friends. They understood the consequences of impulsively taking the enticing lure.  Therefore, the fisherman who caught (and released) such a Snotty Fish had to be incredibly patient, knowledgeable, and persistent.  This particular angler made it clear that catching Snotty Fish was the best and most rewarding way to angle.

 

Listening to this person talk, I began to comparing how similar Snotty Fish were to veterans who are living with Post-Traumatic Stress.  Many of our troops have experienced the traumas of combat.  Men and women who have seen and participated in some of humanities worst deeds; deeds that stay etched on the mind and heart.  Vets, who when they return to the mainstreams of society, may be unable to trust others, their governments, and even themselves.  Yep, Snotty Vets! 

 

Snotty Vets, like Snotty Fish, are often hard to play out. They have experienced lessons in life that few of their fellow countrymen have ever imagined. Such knowledge often makes them wary of their surroundings, including trusting in their own abilities and worthiness.  For family and friends, this knowledge can make these Snotty Vets difficult to live with and understand. 

 

Yet, here is the beauty of being in streams with Snotty Vets—they are worth the time and effort to catch and reel back to wellbeing.  Health care professionals recognize this fact.  Families, friends and communities who walk the path through appropriate support, timely information and love come to empathize with the journey and value the internal strength, courage, and effort that each of them must live out in order to heal. 

 

So you see, Snotty Vets like Snotty Fish are well worth such effort. Simply swimming in their waters help us have greater gratitude for their sacrifice. 

 

Here’s a toast to all of you Snotty Vets, and to all the spouses, children, and siblings of Snotty Vets:  “May your new streams be filled with an abundance of peace, joy, and good vigor. May your days bring you fulfillment, and your nights quiet rest.  And may you continue to embrace your Snotty strength and leave behind the sorrows of the battlefield.  For you are our precious Snotty Vets.  We love you.  We honor you.  And, most of all, we need you to become whole again.”

by Janet J. Seahorn

Some people may have a difficult time understanding what in this world would be worth giving one’s life.  The courage to go into battle knowing the possibilities.  Watching while others die or are severely wounded, and still continue to fight.  Many poets and philosophers have written how significant it is to live life for something beyond oneself.  To live for a cause greater than yourself.   This short video was sent to me by my brother.  While I listened to the music and watched the screen, it was abundantly obvious why America is definitely worth fighting for.  Beyond any political agenda, beyond any religious belief, beyond the love of family and friends, America has given us bountiful blessings with such amazing beauty.  Yes, America is not only beautiful; it is worth living and dying for in our lifetime.

http://sagebrushpatriot.com/america.htm

by Janet J. Seahorn

Some days life is a real challenge.  It tests us in many ways.  Ways to be smarter.  Ways to be braver.  Ways to be more thoughtful.  Ways to be kinder and more compassionate.  And some days, ways to just keep getting up every morning, breathing through each minute and making it through some dark and lonely nights.  Living with Post-Traumatic Stress compounds all of these “tests”.  At times it may even seem that the journey is too long or too brutal; that the suffering is unending and the battle unachievable.  It is during such times that we must remember we are not alone in our ordeals.  Reminding that someone, something (for me it is my faith) is walking beside us telling us quietly that we will be OK.  Urging us, “Don’t Quit”.  We do not know what tomorrow may bring.  But if we Don’t Quit, I do believe in the appearance of a brighter, happier day.  Believe you have what it takes to pass any test.  And whatever comes your way –Don’t Quit!

Don’t Quit

Anonymous

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill, When the funds are low and the debts are high, And you want to smile, but you have to sigh, When care is pressing you down a bit Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.Life is queer with its twists and its turns, As everyone of us sometimes learns, And many a failure turns about When they might have won, had they stuck it out. Don’t give up though the pace seems slow, You may succeed with another blow.Often the goal is nearer than, It seems to a faint and faltering man, Often the struggler has given up When he might have captured the victor’s cup; And he learned too late when the night came down, How close he was to the golden crown.Success is failure turned inside out The silver tint of the clouds of doubt And you never can tell how close you are, It may be near when it seems so far; So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit, It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit!

By Janet J. Seahorn

Last year at this time, Tony and I were in Vietnam and Cambodia.  It was a humbling, yet inspiring excursion.  As Tony stated many times, he did not go there to heal or recreate the war. He wanted to visit, only to see how things had changed, with hopes that the people and the country were mending. 

By all outward appearances hope seemed to be occurring. Yet, what keep coming back to me, were the faces of the old women.  We did not see the same number of older men, perhaps because many of this age were killed in the war.  The women’s faces were not happy.  Their features lined with rivers of anger.  It was the eyes that held the emotions, and for many, their emotions were tortuous and hate-filled.  What haunts me now are the faces I glimpse in the newspapers of civilians in Iraq and Afghanistan; similar looks living in human bodies experiencing similar horrors of war.

As we continue to read of the escalation of suicides of returning military men and women, I wonder if such unforgettable faces are haunting them.  Faces of the enemy, faces of their comrades, faces of the children?  In the first few blogs of this New Year, I wrote of Peace.  Can it be attained in a person’s mind and heart after experiencing so much?  I very much want to believe such a peace is possible. For others, the hideous experiences continue to dig deeper ravines into the soul.  To heal, even a bit, these gorges must be filled in gradually. 

Perhaps not fully, but even building up the crevasses a little keeps one from falling into the yawning depths of depression, anxiety, and hopelessness.  As long as one can look up and see the sky, hope is present.  It is when one’s existence is swallowed in darkness that even the tiniest light is diminished.  Finding ways to keep the sunlight accessible for our returning vets will be the work of everyone: the nation, its people, families, friends, communities, and most importantly, the veteran.

We have troops leaving daily for the war zone, and others returning. A 2008 Rand Corporation study revealed that 300,000 troops who served in Iraq and Afghanistan had Post-Traumatic Stress, while 320,000 reported probable traumatic brain injuries. Both conditions greatly increase the likelihood of attempted suicide. “According to a Congressional Quarterly compilation in late November 2009, 334 active-duty military service men and women have taken their own lives in 2009″ (Edward Pages, 2009: The Year of Soldier’s Suicide), and this does not include those military individuals who have been discharged.

Let us all be sure to look into these eyes of freedom and not dismiss the signs of their sacrifice.  Peace and healing is everyone’s work; everyone’s answerability.  As a nation, it must be our core mission to mend and heal all those that fought in lands where few of us ever think to venture. 

I doubt if many of our returning military personnel have rational thoughts of wanting to return to the combat zone. It took almost forty years for us to do so. 

One of our favorite veterans, Michael MacDonald, wrote us the other day relating his response to those who frequently ask him if he ever wants to return to Vietnam for a visit.  His reply, “Why, I was just there last night.” 

And, for many, this statement is all too true.  It is those nights without returning that we pray for in our sleep and dreams.  It is those nights without revisiting the nightmares that keep us healing.

by Michael Marks

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed and he said “Its really all right,

I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.”
“It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘ Pearl on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘ Nam ‘,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue… an American flag.

“I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you’ve done, For
being away from your wife and your son.”
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret, “
Just tell us you love us, and never forget.

To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.

Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,

That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.

 

Please, would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can? Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities. Let’s try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe. Make people stop and think of our heroes, living and dead, who sacrificed themselves for us.

LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN

30th Naval Construction Regiment

OIC, Logistics Cell One

 

 

 

Hard to believe that another Christmas season is now upon us.  The beautiful lights and carols, the festive decorations, the fun of being with family and friends, and the craziness of shopping that can be more NO, NO, NO, than HO, HO, HO.

With all of the splendor and frenzied activities of the holidays, PTSD and dealing with other wounds of war can be a daunting challenge for many vets. 

There is this incredible Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde phenomenon that occurs for many this time of year.  The joy of being home with loved ones along with the constant struggle to breathe through the nightmares and panic attacks. 

Crowded shopping centers, constant bustle everywhere, and traffic jams that defy the patience of the calmest celestial being are not so wonderful for frayed and fragile nerves.

Perhaps the only gift many of our wounded warriors pray for is Peace.  Peace on Earth, Peace across all continents, and most of all, Peace within oneself. 

It is for this reason that we created a special tribute to our veterans and their families.  During this blessed Holiday Season, let us take a few moments to remember the sacrifice of our military - both past and current - and their families. 

May each night truly be a peaceful Silent, Holy Night. 

Click on the link below to view our special Christmas tribute.

by Stars and Stripes

He’s a businessman now. He has leisure time. He reads his law books, looks for a house to buy. He sleeps on clean sheets, and takes Hawaiian cruises with his family.

But a part of Dave Johnson is still in Iraq.

A couple of times a week, he wakes up there - “in the middle of a giant explosion,” he said, like the one on his second tour that took out his patrol base, killed one colleague, maimed another and injured a dozen more.

The former sergeant, who enlisted after getting a law degree to do his duty for his country - then was stop-lossed for 18 months - revisits the battleground in his waking life, too.

Every now and then, he says, he’ll have a flashback - “a very, very vivid memory” - of one among six or so events during his first Iraq tour.

A certain suicide bombing in a market, for instance.

“It was the last one I ever went to. We were the first responders,” Johnson, 30, said. “I felt the concussion. The blast wasn’t as big so there were much larger body parts, an arm here, a leg …

“It was me and Capt. [Matt] Lee and a member of the British Parliament. The entire market burned to the ground,” he said.

The memories creep in without warning, he said, and the acute flashback, including increased pulse and perspiration rate and a pounding heart, lasts about 30 seconds. Johnson’s twin brother, who spends a lot of time with him teaching him the family roofing business, can tell when it happens.

“He says, ‘You’re twitching again, dude.’

So Johnson wasn’t surprised to be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. The nightmares, the residual feelings of terror, the loss of sleep - all of it “affects you all day,” he said. And to have a flashback in the courtroom would not be good, he said.

Experts estimate that fully 20 percent of Iraq-deployed troops have developed PTSD and that nearly all show some post-combat anxiety. Yet despite a Defense Department effort to remove the stigma surrounding such psychological impacts of combat, many soldiers are still hesitant to admit they may be having problems and seek help.

Now Johnson spends his days learning the family roofing business from his brother. He’s looking for a starter house. Evenings he reads up on civil law so he can assist with the firm’s legal work.

Life is good, he said.

Yet as glad as he is to be out, he has few regrets about having been a grunt.

“Riding in a helo, staying up for 50-some hours straight, carrying a machine gun … I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.”

by Janet Seahorn 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you ever heard a song a hundred times and never thought much about it? 

Then one day, you are driving down the road with nothing to obscure your mind; you hear this very same song and it suddenly hits a new note, a new way of thinking about the words, and you wonder why did I never recognize the amazing connection? 

Such an incident came to me a week ago while I was steering down the highway.  I heard a song from Josh Groban’s album, Awake, called “Weeping”.  What took me by surprise was how closely the words seemed to describe the silent torment of trauma. 

 How experiencing a truly shocking event, the mind, body, and spirit continues to relive the disturbing details as if they were happening in present time. 

How, no matter what you try, how much you do to contain or remove the frightening thoughts, they still seem to remain.

The words from the song “Weeping” is another way to describe those living with Post Traumatic Stress.  See if you agree - I only wrote down a verse and the poignant chorus.

 

I knew a man, who lived in fear,

It was huge, it was angry, it was drawing near.

Behind his house a secret place

Was the shadow of a demon he could never face.

He built a wall of steal and flame

And men with guns to keep it tamed…

 

It doesn’t matter now,
it’s over anyhow,

He tells the world that it’s sleeping.

But as the night came out

I heard a lonely sound

It wasn’t roaring, it was sleeping.

 

So where are those “secret” places where the demons hide?  And, even more important, how many sufferers are strong and courageous enough to face them, deal with them, and move forward? 

 

For there are no walls high enough, no amount of men with guns that will be able to tame one’s internal demons. 

 

 In the end, perhaps the residue of trauma isn’t fueled by fear and anger at all; perhaps what remains is fueled by a sense of deep sorrow.  A sorrow provoked by dreams of what could have been.  Sorrow from what was lost and the silent weeping formed from loneliness and regret. 

 

And perhaps, with enough time, enough support, and enough courage even the weeping will cease and be replaced with hope and joy.