The Good Old Days

A lot of people send out emails talking about the good old days…mostly about the 50s and 60s. After several years of reading these selective memory, partially fictionalized notes-- here is my response.

I grew up in the 50s and 60s, and I can tell you without a doubt – they were not great. Many women were slaves to their kids and husbands, many of them were physically and mentally abused with zero recourse because divorce was frowned upon and the law didn’t care. Parents could beat their kids bloody without consequence. (Save for the doctor bills and psychiatric care later.)  War veterans suffered in silence because it wasn’t manly to wake up screaming from nightmares or the have the shakes every time they were in a crowd. Black people still couldn’t vote or go to the same schools as whites, and were hung for sport, and just forget about being gay—you would have to go live in Europe if you were out of the closet gay. Our president was assassinated, we lived in constant fear of war, the McCarthy Era was born and stomped all over the rights of many Americans who dared to have an opinion about anything.  The Cold War, the Korean Conflict, Vietnam War ; inequality on myriad levels, all served to make the 50s and 60s a blight on America’s history.  “Leave it to Beaver” was a ridiculous delusion.

Mom, me, Bama, baby Johnny & Linda 1955 Alemany Blvd. San Francisco

I have some warm memories. I remembering visiting my Great Grandmother, my BaMa, in Santa Rosa on Sundays, feeding the chickens and looking for their eggs, and her teaching me to sew on her Singer sewing machine, and bake the best German butter cookies in the world. Watching the birds in the aviary while sitting in the sun-drenched kitchen, the German canaries singing their glorious songs, and the homemade jams spread on the homemade breads. Papa Carl playing solitaire for hours on end and not saying much of anything but letting me sit on his lap and help. We’d sit outside in the shade under the grape vines that grew over a trellis, and sometimes pick berries to make jam.

In the fall, we would gather walnuts from the giant walnut tree and spend what felt like hours, cracking the shells, then baking chocolate chip cookies and warming her house and filling it up with the smell of fresh cookies coming from the old Wedgwood oven.

Easter 1960ish  in San Bruno @ Uncle Pete Scanlon's house

I was lucky to have those memories. My innocence was lost long before my innocence was lost. My parents, until their divorce when I was four, had knockout, drag down fights that left my older sister and I trying to be invisible, curled up in our beds, often huddled together – a temporary peace treaty between water and oil. Still, she remembers the 50s with more kindness than me. I have a steel-trap memory—with amazing clarity, sometimes it's a curse, but for the most part I'm glad I remember what's real.

Kids were kidnapped, molested and murdered—just like today. The difference between then and now is there are more people now, and we now receive news from every city in the nation.  In 1960 you read your local paper, which had local news, unless it was about the President or a war. In the early 1950s 25,000 cases of polio were reported a year, killing many people and crippling even more. If you had cancer, leukemia or heart disease—you probably died. In the 1950’s-60s, if one was born premature, they probably died or were severely brain damaged and the doctors would tell the devastated parents to put the child in state or private care. If you had any kind of mental illness, you would have been institutionalized and/ or forcibly treated with electro-shock therapy or worse, a lobotomy, which would render you semi-comatose for life. Menopause was treated as mental illness.  Teenagers (some I went to school with) were forced to give up their babies or marry if they got pregnant out of wedlock. (Often ruining lives.)

Add caption

We have our problems now; there is no doubt. We have been at war for well over 10 years. We have a multitude of veterans suffering from PTSD and TBI. We have gang violence, too many guns on the streets, homelessness, untreated mental illness and the economy, while improving is not quite there and many people are jobless and living far below the poverty level. We have many diseases yet to be cured; global poverty, the War on Terror. Yes, we have our problems.

But, I will take now over then anytime. We have vaccinations if not cures, for polio, chicken pox, measles, mumps, pertussis and more. We have prosthetic devices that look and feel like part of your own body. We have heart, lung, kidney and liver transplants. We have face transplants. We have medication for schizophrenia. Breast cancer is not a death warrant. People are living longer and healthier than they ever have before. Life expectancy is 10+ years more than in was in 1950.

The 50s and 60s may have had some bright spots but none that out weigh the repulsive bigotry, the disgusting lack of respect for the Constitution of the United States and the people’s right to privacy and the overall head in the sand denial of the nation.

As I age, I hope to remember the unabridged past and not the one made up for email forwards, Facebook posts and chain letters. If there was innocence in the 50s and 60s it was self induced. I don’t think we should make that mistake again. I would rather face a hard truth than live an easy lie. The truth is… drinking water from a garden hose is not a good idea.

Happy Mother's Day 2013

Mom 1964

I wasn’t going to write about Mother’s Day this year. It’s all been said—a million times. Then, this week I received a call from my best friend Renee, whose mom has been very sick since having heart surgery. There were times that Renee thought she would lose her. But this week, after six long months, she turned the proverbial corner and announced to the world, that she was going to stick around for a while. When I talked to Renee's mom, Elsie, who I have always considered a second mom, she didn’t sound like a frail 80 something woman, but her old sassy pants self, at forty. This alone was newsworthy and Mother’s Day writing material.

Then today, I found out my mom’s best friend, Gloria, passed away. She was a statuesque beauty with a quick wit, and a no nonsense personality. Her daughter is one of my older sister’s best friends. We lived two houses down from them when I was little, and Gloria and my mom were like Mutt and Jeff. Tall and short, two beauties, always laughing about something and I can still see them in the kitchen of our home, taking a hacksaw to my mother’s cast, (that she was wearing because she kicked my Dad and broke her toe.) They were laughing so hard I thought they were crazy.

My first thought upon hearing the news was that now she would be with my mom, and her husband and all of her loved ones that passed before her. I don’t believe in heaven (or hell) but I do believe that souls find each other.The yin and yang is not lost on me with one gain and one loss, and somehow gives me comfort, that there is balance in life.

The natural order of things is that our parents should die before us. My parents died young, and of course, every Mother’s Day, and many other days I miss my mom. She was a little crazy, and not always a stellar parent, but she was a force to reckon with and I think she may have passed that gene to me. I mostly remember the good stuff. That is how it should be.

On this Mother’s Day I want to give a special shout out to my Marine Mom’s. You have all endured my rants and craziness when it comes to supporting our troops and now our veterans and many of you have encouraged me to keep up the fight. I will. I always will. We may not always see eye to eye on politics, but our common denominator is troop/veteran support and that will always be paramount.

There are all kinds of mom’s in the world; birth moms, adopted moms, surrogate moms, step moms, friend’s moms, auntie moms, dog moms, kitty moms, harried moms, mellow moms, sick moms, health nut moms, Marine moms, Navy moms, Army moms, Air Force Moms, helicopter moms, crazy moms, quiet moms, saintly moms and what my son once called me (and I have no clue why) exciting moms. 

I salute them all – Happy Mother’s Day

A Prepaid Cremation

Last weekend I inadvertently poisoned myself. I wanted to poison the weeds, so I went to Pini Hardware, mine and Toshi’s favorite store, he for treats, me for good customer service, and bought two of the giant size Ortho concentrate and one of those doohickeys you attach to the hose.  Usually in the directions for the poison, it will say what number to put the doohickey on, but I couldn’t find the number so I guessed. I think I used #6.

Well, halfway through, I started to feel a weird sensation on my lips and tongue. I actually did know this was not right, but I continued to spray because I am just plain out of steam for that backyard and the never-ending weeds coming out of the gravel --which I can’t see anymore until the weed-whacker kicks it up and it hits me in the head, the leg, the face... wherever. I do wear sunglasses to protect my eyes.

Anyway, I decided to look at those instructions again and when I still couldn’t find the magic number I took the remaining bottle back to Pini and asked one of the supremely knowledgeable customer service people if I was missing something.

“Oh, that’s not for spraying with a hose, that’s for a sprinkler. It’s way too toxic to spray with a hose.” He said.

“Well I guess that is why I felt like I was killing myself.” I replied and then laughed.

I’m sure he thought I was some kind of nut because who jokes about this kind of thing?  (Especially in Marin County) But really when you think about it, of all the crap I have put in my body, this is probably not the worst.

I’ve had enough booze, cigarettes, McDonalds and more than enough raw cookie dough to drop an elephant. I’ve consumed more sugar than some countries have total and I have ingested a variety of medications meant to kill something.

What is a little poison, really?

Now, because I’m a good mom, I did keep Toshi out of the back. And, when I told Nick the story he was laughing his butt off (he does have my sense of humor) because he pictured the whole thing having witnessed this behavior his whole life. His mom on a mission, doggedly spraying against the wind, lips slightly blue; nothing will stop her, especially not some stupid poison, not Ortho, not Black Flag, not anything.

But here is the sad thing. I still have weeds. Now they are dead weeds but they are there. The backyard looks even worse… if that is possible.

This weekend I took a break from the weeds, I decided to clean my office and the rest of the house instead. I breathed pledge, and Pinesol and just a bit of bleach. I breathed dust mites I’m sure, when I cleaned out the vacuum and dusted under the bed. I inhaled, God knows what, when I dusted the ceiling fans.

I cleaned up the garage and found a bit of mildew, which is always good on the lungs too. The stuff to clean that smells scarier than the Ortho. 

So really it’s no wonder I’m not dead already right?

Yesterday, I received an invite to win a prepaid cremation.  (With my name misspelled of course) Coincidence? I sure hope so.

There Are No Winners

Buddha said,  “Hatred is never ended by hatred but by love”. I can attest to that.

I was explaining to someone the other night, how it was that Nick’s father and I went from World War III to best friends. Well maybe not best friends- but certainly two people who were there for each other when needed.

Our hate ran deep, both of us vying for the love of a little boy. A boy, who was always his own little person, with his chameleon- like demeanor for the parent whose hand he held on any particular day. A boy, who always had a smile for everyone, until it turned to a frown and then later a grimace.  

I hated my son’s dad so much that I once picked poison mushrooms from my yard and planned his last meal, his favorite of course. A friend convinced me it would not be wise and assured me my son would not forgive me if he ever found out and he would find out.  I’m sure my son’s father had numerous conversations with people about my demise. Too bad for him—I was the one with connections.  

One day, after our war, and then our cold war, he sat in my kitchen and declared. “I don’t hate you anymore.”

I laughed at him and told him I didn’t hate him either, even though sometimes I still did. He was being magnanimous because he thought he was the winner. It was before we found out there are no winners.

Neville Chamberlain said, “In war whichever side may call itself victor. There are no winners. But all are losers.”

I understand this now. I think my son understood this when he was in Iraq. Or, maybe when he was ducking verbal bullets from his parents mouths.  I remember my letters from my son when he was in Iraq. He was there to do a job, but he didn’t attach hate to it. He didn’t hate all Iraqi’s or all Muslim. When I asked him what he needed in his care packages, he asked me for things that would help the Iraqi people, especially the kids. I wondered if he felt some camaraderie towards them?  They were stuck in the middle of a war, liking Americans because they brought toys and medicine, hating Americans because they blew up their homes. Just like divorce. Smiling for their photographs. Smiling for whoever held their hand on any particular day. 

Maybe the war at home gave my son a better perspective on the war in Iraq. Then at least something good would have come from it.

Last week my sister and I went to see my son where he works. As we sat at our table eating our sushi, I remarked that I miss his dad. “Do you?” She asked, astonished.

My eyes started to well with tears and I replied, “Yes, I do.” Then my son appeared over my right shoulder. “Hello Mother.” He said. For a second, I thought, maybe his dad nudged him from Nirvana. Go bail your mom out.  But, no I thought, he would like that I miss him, he would let this go on a little longer. 

People who don’t know me very well, which is just about everyone—may not believe in my capacity to forgive. I know now, that forgiving is the only way to move on. Being mired in hate and ill will towards anyone is not who I want to be. I’m not saying I can’t feel anger, because I can and do. My temper is quick and sometimes violent, my mouth volcanic venom if you cross me or mine. If you hurt a child or an animal, I will come down on you like a mountain of crazy and you will be sorry. But, I can forgive.

What I don’t understand is how can this country ever move forward if it stays in hate mode all the time. The left hates the right, the right hates the left; the gun reform people hate the guns for everyone people; people hate immigrants, Muslims, Christians, Catholics, Jews, Blacks, Mexicans, and vegetarians. People are full of hate.

My son’s father and I found out there are no winners when our son joined the Marine Corps. We both lost custody. He was always his own person—and we lost sight of that on numerous occasions. We put our own wants and needs before his because we were blind with our hate instead of enlightened with our love.

I think towards the end, the one we didn’t know was coming, we both saw that was not the answer. I wished him a Happy New Year seven days before he died.  “Thank you!” He said. “Happy New Year to you too!”

The Year of Me

Art.Com United Airlines: Disneyland In Anaheim, California, C. 1960& (Google Affiliate Ad)

The last ten years have been tough ones for me.  I managed to get through a cross -country move to North Carolina,where I knew no one — all by myself unless you count the two dogs and one cat.  I survived my son’s deployment to Iraq and his four years in the Marine Corps.  I started a new career at fifty-five years old, moved back to California (now with three dogs), the loss of my cat of fourteen years, another new job, the loss of two of the best dogs ever, the shocking loss of my son’s father at fifty-three years old, frozen shoulder, a horrible flu, several bouts of shingles — too many to count, and my already poor hearing has recently tanked. I’m not whining though, I’m glad I have lived to tell the story. 

Throughout all of these bumps in the road, I haven’t done much for myself in the pampering department. I get my toes done every few months when the weather is nice, my hair done once a year and I don’t buy myself much of anything, except books. No vacation since 2007 when Nick came home from Iraq and I spent nine days in Palm Springs, (waiting for him to step off that bus.)  at my Uncle’s house. The nine months leading up to that “vacation” was so stressful that the stay in Palm Springs didn’t really have the affect itshould have had on me.

Since I turned sixty-one in February, I have gotten my hair done, I’ve gotten a facial (a gift from my nieces) a pedicure and manicure, started taking Taiko (Japanese drum) lessons, and today I went for a reflexology massage.  Suddenly, I feel like I deserve to do something for me. I realize now, I need to take care of myself a little bit more than I have been.

(see link for
Taiko drum performance)

http://www.youtube.com/user/TAIKOPROJECT

Many moms are like me. They walk around with holey underwear and tattered bras while their kids are wearing 200.00 shoes and taking three trips a year to Disneyland or some other fun-filled place. My son was always better dressed than me, but that was mostly because his grandparents liked to take him shopping. 

Now at 61, I can do a few things for myself without the guilt. I’ve worked hard, really hard, in the last few years and I’m proud of myself for not falling apart when things got bad, not giving up on life, putting one foot in front of the other and staying remarkably hopeful. Sometimes, I didn’t know where that hope came from, but it always prevailed. 

In the past I have offered one piece of advice to new moms, (or dads) and that was always have a hobby, have a life outside your kids just for you, so you are not devastated the day they leave you.  

Now, I’m adding to that advise and hopefully taking awaysome of the guilt. Pamper yourself from time to time it’s okay, really.

PTSD AWARENESS DAY

I’m not sure why we have to have specific days, weeks or months of the year to raise awareness on any number of issues that we should all be aware of all the time. I'm declaring today the day we recognize combat related PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), and tomorrow too. And every day after that.

Combat PTSD has been front and center in the news for months. Maybe some people didn’t realize it though since not everyone calls a spade a shovel, like I do.

My awareness of combat related PTSD started long before it would personally affect me. Long before it was called PTSD. When I was about 10 years old, my mother told me that my favorite Great Uncle would “Never be the same after Iwo Jima.”  He never was.

Later, much later and shortly before his death at 89, he told me about piling the dead bodies and body parts and collecting their dog tags. He said he would never forget the carnage. There was no good war, he said.

Sixty –eight years after Iwo Jima (almost to the day) people are still in denial about Soldiers Heart, Shell Shock, Combat Fatigue, Post-Vietnam Syndrome and finally PTSD. It’s all the same – all these different names for the same thing.

The people in denial are the masses of Americans who may or may not read the news every day and for whatever reason are unable to connect the dots, the dots that are sometimes so blatant, so bright red, so screamingly apparent that I don’t know how anyone can miss them.  (I’m only talking about the US here- even though other countries have the same thing- some to such a degree the country as a whole may suffer.)

There are some military families that are in denial too. They think if their returning soldier or Marine just gets a job, just gets married, just has kids, just stops drinking, just comes out of their room, just acts normal, that everything will be fine. This is a stupid assumption and wishful thinking.

The more likely scenario is that these soldiers, sailors and Marines will come home from combat and try to assimilate but will not be able to relate to people who have not seen what they have seen nor done what they have had to do. They will drink too much, some will take medication (legal and illegal) some will take risks that no sane person would take, some will become sex addicts, some will become depressed and isolate, some will be angry, some will commit crimes and some will commit suicide. In fact, according to the US Department of Veterans Affairs, twenty–two veterans commit suicide a day. That is roughly one per 1.09 hours. Are you okay with that? I'm not.

Right now, there are approximately 21.5 Million Veterans in the United States. An estimated 62,619 are homeless. (I think that is a low estimate). The number of Veterans suffering from PTSD is almost impossible to figure since so often is it unreported and untreated and the Department of Veteran Affairs tracks it by conflict. Almost 50% of Vietnam vets suffered from PTSD. (They also had half the country hating them when they returned)  The Department of Veterans Affairs has quietly released a new report on post-traumatic stress disorder, showing that since 9/11, nearly 30 percent of the 834,463 Iraq and Afghanistan War veterans treated at V.A. hospitals and clinics have been diagnosed with PTSD. (I would imagine the unreported would bring it up to 50%)

Now, you may wonder why I think you should be aware of these alarming numbers.  This is why. They need our help. They need understanding- and we have to educate ourselves so we don’t make the same mistakes the generation before us did with the Vietnam vets. The men and women coming home with PTSD are not feeling the love from their fellow Americans and in some cases they feel like their branch of service has used them up and then thrown them away. Sometimes it takes years for them to be able to work in the civilian world. Some may never get there. Some are so broken down they can barely function and need caregivers to make sure they get up, get dressed, eat and go to the VA.

We are talking about 22 year olds, 25 year olds, 30-year-old men, and women who may look twice their age due the overwhelming load they carry.  We – and by we I mean every single American, should be helping them carry the load.

The murder of Chris Kyle was a horrendous event and in my mind brought to the forefront how horrible PTSD can be… if we don’t learn to recognize it and deal with it as a by product of war. Plan on it, budget for it, have the medical facilities and faculty ready for it and most importantly, make it easier for these people to get the help they need.  Eddie Ray Routh had recently been released from the hospital- his parents pleas to the psychiatric hospital to keep him, fell on deaf ears. I have to wonder why? Was it money?

Most PTSD is not going to elevate to a murderous level, and maybe anger is not always part of combat PTSD, but it is often enough. The following are just some of the symptoms of combat related PTSD.

• Irritability/ anger
• Sleep difficulties and constant fatigue
• Difficulty concentrating, remembering, thinking, making decisions
• Depression
• Guilt over killing a combatant or civilian
• Guilt over the death or injury of a fellow warrior (survivors guilt)
• Anxiety
• Exaggerated startle response
• Withdrawal from social activities and friends
• An increase in accidents
• An increase in taking unnecessary risks
• Physical complaints (chronic pain)  and medical illness or fear of medical illness
• A significant increase in the use of alcohol and other substances
• Domestic violence
• Misconduct issues or reprimands

The Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, and Sailors-  who volunteered to go into the service post 911 knew they could die. Of course, an 18 year old doesn’t really know what will happen to him if he lives to tell the story. In fact- few people will know what will happen. Parents themselves focus on one thing. Stay Alive. When they get home mom counts fingers and toes just like the day they were born. No visible damage and yay- everything is going to be fine.

For many of them, everything will be okay. For some, symptoms will not present for years. For others, the onset will be almost immediate- some before they are separated from the service.

The military has to do a better job. I was hopeful when General Shinseki the US Secretary of Veteran Affairs, was appointed to his position. Since that time, over four years ago, I have seen little progress in the area of combat related PTSD and the process that defeats many veterans 10 minutes after they walk through the VA doors.

There are civilians doing the job though. One such civilian is Dr.Bridget Cantrell. Dr. Cantrell is the founder of Hearts Toward Home International, which is a non profit organization dedicated to helping combat veterans and their family members. 

I first met Dr. Cantrell in 2006 at a Marines Parents Conference in Houston, Texas. My son, a Marine Corps Rifleman at the time, was getting ready to deploy to Iraq. Dr. Cantrell and her writing partner Chuck Dean, (a Vietnam vet) had just written Down Range, to Iraq and Back, A book that addresses PTSD our military personnel experience when returning from combat. After attending the panel discussion, I knew PTSD was something I had to fully understand. 

Since that time, Dr. Cantrell has helped me- help my son. She has written 3 more books Once a Warrior, Wired for Life, (with Chuck Dean)  Souls Under Siege: The Effects of Multiple Troop Deployments-and How to Weather the Storm and a workbook that accompanies Once a Warrior, and has two more coming out shortly.She devotes her life to helping these veterans.

There are other civilians doing their best to make a difference for our veterans. And together we can all make a difference.  First, though there has to be awareness, there has to be significant comprehension of what combat related PTSD is and what we as civilians can do to help. Removing the stigma is one way to help these men and women get the professional  help they need.

Let’s not wait for the PTSD Awareness Day (I think it's sometime in June) . Let’s not wait until another Soldier, Sailor, Airmen or Marine hurts someone or commits suicide. Let’s start today. Spread the word-tell, let your Representatives and Senators  that you want to see some help for our veterans. If you can, donate or volunteer your time to the organizations that make a difference in the lives of these men and women.

And if you notice someone needing help, call the VA Hotline at  1-800-273-8255 Press 1

They fought for us- and now we need to fight for them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Additional resources from (USC) University of Southern California -

Military Mental Health Resource Guide to Depression, TBI & PTSD

And if you are interested in a career in  Military Social Work

MSW@USC

 

This is my Marine (who joined the USMC in 2003 the minute he turned 18) in a house in Iraq. Those are pictures of the Twin Towers on both sides of the mirror in the background. He wasn’t there to make money, or see the world, or get his college paid for. He was there because he thought he could make a difference. I think he did, and I can only repay him by making sure he and his brothers-in-arms, are taken care of. 

  
 

A Hero You Won’t Hear About

Anyone can have PTSD, it’s not just a military issue. But combat veterans are suffering from PTSD at alarming numbers and there are simply not enough resources to help them- if indeed they are able to ask for help at all.

Dr.Linnerooth (on right) enjoying a cigar break.

Almost two weeks ago, the world lost another veteran to suicide. But he wasn’t just any veteran. He was a mental health professional who helped thousands of active duty and veterans make it to the next day. His first duty was to keep the troops from committing suicide.  Dr. Peter Linnerooth, a Bronze Star winning psychologist, a true hero, lost his battle with PTSD and took his own life five years after his active duty service to the Army.

The time he spent in Iraq was at the height of the war when the bloodiest battles took place and as an active duty member of the Army and a health professional, he would pitch in during mass causality events. It’s no wonder some of these events haunted him. Witnessing carnage of that magnitude would have an effect on the most grizzled warriors- let alone a lifesaver.

When Linnerooth returned to civilian life, he continued his work at Veterans Administration hospitals. First at the Santa Cruz County Vet Center in Capitola, then the Reno, Nevada Veterans Administration. He helped veterans suffering with mental health issues even while fighting his own demons.  

Dr. Linnerooth was extremely frustrated by the lack of  concern by the Army. A 2010 article titled Invisible Wounds: Mental Health and the Military, Time Magazine, quoted Dr. Linnerooth. “The Army has been criminally negligent," says Captain Peter Linnerooth, an Army psychologist for nearly five years until 2008, who notes that the service has had a difficult time finding psychiatrists to care for combat vets, which puts even more pressure--"and way too much burnout"--on those who stay.

We owe our active duty troops and our veterans more than this. Through November of this year, 177 active-duty soldiers had committed suicide compared to 165 during all of 2011 and 156 in 2010. In all of 2012, 176 soldiers were killed in action, all while serving in Operation Enduring Freedom, according to DOD.

These numbers are not going to get better. If the war(s) end tomorrow we will still have 21.8 million veterans – many of whom are homeless, jobless and some in dire need of mental health care. Even veterans that are seemingly doing well may be struggling with PTSD and trying to hide it. The military mindset makes it extremely difficult if not impossible to express a need for help. 

I have heard people say (stupidly) that WW2 Veterans just pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and carried on… but I can assure you that is not quite the way it was. My own Great Uncle helped pick up the bodies and body parts of Marines on Iwo Jima and into his 90’s and until his death at 91, shook when any war was mentioned. They suffered in silence, but they suffered greatly- and still to this day have flashbacks and nightmares.  According to one study, “The suicide rate among these (WW2) veterans is roughly double the rate of veterans under 35, those who are returning home from Iraq and Afghanistan.” 

Since my own son returned from Iraq, in 2007, I have tried to raise the awareness of Combat PTSD. Like most things – unless it affects you personally PTSD is not something people are interested in. Many of the people with little or no interest in this matter will be out on the July 4^th, in the parade, or on the sidelines, waving their flags, drinking their beers or pink lemonade and having a good time. So please remember when you are there, we are celebrating on the backs of these fine men and women who have sacrificed their lives, their limbs and in many cases their mental health for the sake of our country.

Try not to make assumptions about the homeless vet living under the bridge and drinking himself to death. A slow suicide is still a suicide and these men and women are everyone’s responsibility- we owe it to them to help- at the very least- we owe them some compassion and a huge thank you for their sacrifice.

If you are a veteran and thinking about suicide I beg you to check out this site and call the Suicide Hotline. You will be talking to people who understand your pain.

If you know someone that is suffering from combat related PTSD and would like to help them or understand what they are going through, I urge you to visit this website: Hearts Toward Home
Dr. Cantrell has helped thousands of active duty, veterans and their families work through their PTSD and related issues.  In my book, she is a hero too.