June is PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) Awareness Month. A recent Facebook post on June 1 by a former student/now English teacher, Veronica Echols Garcia shows a picture of her late brother. Roni (as I called her when she was my student) shared that she will post a picture of him every day during the month of June. She wrote, “I am going to call out a military member I know and ask you to check on one of your battle buddies who has been on your mind.” Her first call out was to her husband asking him to reach out to someone he deployed with and really ask him how he is doing. And he did. He reached out to two people.
Roni recently lost her brother to military related PTSD. Her pain and guilt over not recognizing the signs eats at her daily. No matter how many times people might tell her that it is not her fault, that she couldn’t have known someone’s mindset, she will continue to bear the pain of thinking “what if?”. She is hoping to help others through her family’s tragedy by bringing awareness to PTSD.
PTSD
According to the US Department of Veterans Affairs National Center for PTSD website, “even though PTSD treatments work, most people who have PTSD don’t get the help they need.” PTSD does not affect just military personnel but civilians as well. The website explains, “Everyone with PTSD—whether they are Veterans or civilian survivors of sexual assault, serious accidents, natural disasters, or other traumatic events—needs to know that treatments really do work and can lead to a better quality of life.”
I know my Dad suffered from PTSD after returning from Vietnam (or even earlier after his time at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea in 1950, a survivor and member of the “Chosin Few” ). PTSD was not a diagnosed or recognized disorder when Dad returned from Vietnam. According to the article, “PTSD and Shell Shock”, “PTSD…leapt to the public’s consciousness when the American Psychiatric Association added the health issue to its diagnostic manual of mental disorders in the 1980s”. The article explains that PTSD is known to previous generations as shell shock, soldier’s heart, combat fatigue or war neurosis (“PTSD and Shell Shock”).
Reconnecting
In 1993, as I was reconnecting with my Dad after living out of state for many years, I wrote some pieces to help me recognize, explore, and understand why my Dad, and many like him, suffered from PTSD. When we moved back to Arkansas in the late 1980s, I began to get to know Dad again. Living here all these years, I became very close to him and my step-mom. I do not share my thoughts below to criticize him because he was a wonderful, kind, generous, caring man that saw unspeakable tragedy during war-time service. I miss him terribly (he died September 12, 2015). We are very grateful that he lived for 83 years and that we lived near him the last 32 years of his life. He was Papa (pa-paw) to my girls, the best most-caring, giving, loving Dad a girl could hope to have.
“Attached to the Past”
Part of the 1993 piece titled “Attached to the Past” with a few updates and notes follows:
For many years there has existed in my mind a shaded area which has been shrouded by a screen of unanswered questions and memories of childhood confusion. Memories that were never put to rest by explanations of unfolding events which began when I was five years old, my age when the U.S. Army called by Dad to go to work in Vietnam.
Before Dad left we moved to Grand Junction, Colorado. I cannot remember the exact date of his departure. All I remember about the move is eating potato soup that my sister had made. We (my three older sisters and I) sat down on the floor among the boxes and ate our soup around an old footlocker. The potato soup tasted thick, mushy, and bland. It might as well have been paste as it stuck in my mouth and throat and would not go down.
When Dad left for Vietnam he was a 34-year-old career army man, a Platoon Sergeant. As a little girl I loved seeing him in his green army fatigues. He was tall, strong, and stood proudly in uniform. Dad would come in the door at night, dressed in uniform, and greet me with his smile and big open arms. I would run to him, and as he held me I would run my fingers over the insignia pins and ribbons if he was wearing his dress uniform. I marvelled at the shine and smoothness of the pins.
My heart would swell with love for this man as he placed his hat upon my head and set me down. Most days he wore his army fatigues. It was always my honor (rather than my sister’s) to unlace his big black combat boots every night when he came home, and I would try with all my might to pull them off. He was my security. My world was at peace when Dad was around.
During His Tour of Duty
Dad went to Vietnam for a year. His military records indicate his foreign service in Vietnam from 6 October 1967 to 5 October 1968. That Christmas brought a lot of activity, yet the atmosphere was dismal. I couldn’t understand the concern and anxiety that permeated the house like a silent gas.
I remember a lot of drinking and laughing, but it was the nervous kind of laugh you hear when things are not right or when people are nervous. The usually joyful sounds of Christmas were solemn and quiet. My brother made some jokes to lighten the mood, but no one laughed. As I stared into the candle flame of the centerpiece on the table, all was quiet. The usual clinking of the dishes was nonexistent.
I felt sad because I missed my Dad. No words could be spoken to ease the moment. My Mom left the table in tears. The lump in my throat would not go away, and my own tears fell into my plate. (Years later I learned that Dad had been missing in action for a period of time. Was this what was going on? Or was it because my brother was soon to be sent to Vietnam, too?)
I could not comprehend what was happening. No one even tried to explain to me why Dad was gone and why my little life was being filled with unhappiness. I felt in the dark, isolated, and confused. Why wouldn’t anyone talk to me and ease my mind?
My birthday came in April. Dad was still gone. There was no party, no fun. My sisters and I sat at the table with presents and cake. The candles burned on my cake, and I blew them out as part of the ritual I had come to learn in my six long years. The cake was tasteless. The presents set aside. I wanted Dad. Would he ever come home?
Dad’s Return
Yes, Dad came home. I remember distinctly the day he came back to us. I sat in our kitchen with two of my sisters, dressed, ready for school, and eating our breakfast. Our back door opened and in came this man in his olive green fatigues, hat, and his big black combat boots. We ran to him shouting, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”
My Mom was still in bed and didn’t believe us because so many times in teasing, as little kids do when they don’t understand things, we had shouted it before. This time it was true. Once again, when he sat down, it was my privilege to unlace his big black combat boots and pull them off with all the strength my six-year-old arms could find. To me he had not come home from a war, he had just come home to me. Now things could get back to normal, and, finally, someone would explain all of this to me. What was Vietnam anyway, and why was Dad gone so long?
The explanation never came. The subject of Vietnam became like an outcast relative who is never spoken of but is somehow always there. I would lie in bed at night after Dad came home and awake to screaming and shouting. The scream would sound in terror. The shouting would sound in desperation. Dad would be having a nightmare, and all I knew to do was hold my pillow and tremble. I never asked the next morning what had happened. The fear was never put to rest. I walked about my world recognizing that things were not the same as they had been before he left.
PTSD
After his return, Dad became depressed and withdrew from the family. Through the eyes of a little girl it only enhanced the confusion and fear. About six months after Dad’s return, I snuck out of my bed one night and peeked out the hallway door. A single light was shining from the kitchen into the dining room. The light enveloped an image that would otherwise be in darkness. I saw a bent man sitting at the table with his forehead resting in his hand. In that same hand he held a cigarette. As the smoke curled above his head, I saw him breathe deep and heavy, not the image of a proud soldier, but a hurting man.
He was not the man who had left me, and things were the way they were because of Vietnam. A place that meant nothing to me, and yet it touched my life. The war altered my Dad, and therefore it affected my future from then on.
As I grew up, the mystery of Vietnam continued to grow in my mind as explanations for Dad’s changed behavior never surfaced. Dad drank heavily during the rest of my childhood. I instinctively never approached him about anything, let alone ask him why he was so different from the man I had known before he left for Vietnam. So I grew up concealing my hurt and avoiding confrontation, knowing that someday I would have to find my own answers if I was ever to be at peace with Dad or myself. My answers would only come as I learned more about the Vietnam War. The search has been a slow and sometimes painful process.
To be continued: The rest of this piece will be shared in my next post. It does have a good ending.
Dedication
Even when I wrote this, I was not aware of PTSD because few talked about it. I always loved my Dad and am very proud of his service to our country. Not until adulthood could I begin the search for answers to help me understand some of the things my family experienced. We did have happy occasions throughout my childhood, and I do have some good memories. It was just those unanswered questions that haunted me.
I dedicate this post to Dad, to veterans in our family, to veterans across this nation, to all who have been on the front lines of the COVID-19 pandemic, to all first responders, and lastly, to Veronica Echols Garcia and her brother, Nick. The US Department of Veterans Affairs National Center for PTSD website urges, “During PTSD Awareness Month, and throughout the entire year, help raise awareness about the many different PTSD treatment options. You can make a difference in the lives of Veterans and others who have experienced trauma. Everyone can help” (“Help Raise PTSD Awareness”).
“Help Raise PTSD Awareness.” PTSD: National Center for PTSD, VA.gov: Veterans Affairs, 31 May 2018, www.ptsd.va.gov/understand/awareness/index.asp.
History.com Editors. “PTSD and Shell Shock.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 2 Oct. 2017, www.history.com/topics/inventions/history-of-ptsd-and-shell-shock.
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