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“I need to know my pain can be used to help someone else”. (This post was written at the request, and with the permission, of a patient I’d seen some years after they’d returned from Afghanistan.)
As had happened many times before, this combat veteran came to see me for issues that seemed to have nothing in common with combat. Their transition from military to civilian life was seemingly smooth after being able to obtain certifications that led to jobs enabling a healthy livelihood. Yet, being referred to my office by an employer because of an “aggressive” style of leadership in the civilian job would soon lead to discussion surrounding how that style was reinforced by time of service to our country.
With all veterans or citizen soldiers (National Guard) I see in my practice, I ask about service-related history. This includes inquiry about their military occupations, their leadership status and stresses, and deployment or training history. For this particular patient, deployment included two tours in Afghanistan with the second having ended nearly ten years prior to stepping into my office. The quick turn our conversation took from rather benign to being charged by strong and painful emotion stunned even me. Up to that point, the initial interview was progressing in a rather perfunctory fashion. Within seconds of mentioning the deployments, my patient’s face turned red and silenced ensued. That’s what happens when you’re too busy choking back tears. For purpose of this writing, I’ll skip the gruesome details about war that were shared with me and move straight into describing the impact of two particular incidents. In both, my client had walked away physically unscathed though witnessed the loss of battle buddies and had taken full ownership for the fate of those comrades flanking to the right and left. It’s no wonder warriors perceive having failed at being able to save all lives in war. It’s because many warriors own that mission from basic training all the way into the battlefield.
The chaos experienced when being ambushed in war is incomprehensible to most of us. Noises of weaponry flying within inches of one’s head, cries of fellow warriors as they fall prey to wounds being inflicted and death coming upon them is insurmountable. With head in hands and bent over knees, my patient became overwhelmed by memories. Describing the desperation of trying to yell out guidance to the younger fighters, realizing they were unable to hear or unwilling to heed orders being given (perhaps frozen by an immense fear that surely engulfed them), the scene apparently gave way to moments few of us could survive. My patient explained that this is when a decision between two belief systems had to be made. Either offer a guiding voice that did not matter or let that voice be bellowed more intensely in hopes it led to lives being saved. My patient chose the latter and came home from war, albeit with fewer living battle buddies than before. With that belief buried in a footlocker of the mind this warrior’s mission of becoming a civilian once again continued.
That’s where my patient learned that what we bury doesn’t disappear. It just waits until an unannounced and random time to return. Fast forward to having a leadership role in the civilian workplace. The frustration of watching a supervisee ignore warnings for safety on a worksite coupled with the weight of unwanted, intrusive memories of war turned into an aggressive leadership style in a setting that wasn’t accustomed to the barreling presence of a sergeant “wired for life”. Hence, a gentle nudge from a boss that “maybe you should talk to someone about that” led to my meetings with this warrior. The presenting issue over the phone was a minimized claim of “I just need to figure out why I’m a tad bit aggressive in giving guidance to others”. That the voice scheduling an initial session with me seemed truly perplexed. After all, the vocal tone and intensity to ensure safety for others was not out of place in a combat zone, so why would civilian coworkers take issue on a construction site?
For many veterans-turned-psychotherapy-clients in my office, the storytelling of deployments end as abruptly as they start. The sudden unleashing of emotions gives way to the Oscar-worthy performance of staunch and unaffected countenance otherwise know as compartmentalizing. After this rather unexpected disclosure that day in my office, lifting head out of hands and sitting up abruptly, I hear “well, I guess I’m not over it after all”. Flashing a sheepish grin that prompted a mirroring from me, we agreed that perhaps my patient’s boss was right. Maybe “talking to someone about that” was warranted. I also made sure to point out that still being affected by such powerful moments didn’t mean a person isn’t “over it”. It just meant they’re human. We talked a bit about how the body and mind record such egregious stories as war and that we would do the work of unpacking the stories as needed. We combed through the chapters of these war stories looking for moral injury that was lurking unidentified and for any grief that was demanding to be heard.
Being relieved to know it was not unusual to still be affected by combat so many years after the fact, my patient decided becoming intimately connected to their pain could turn into a repurposing for helping others who might be suffering the same invisible wounds. The request to use this story in hopes it helps someone else didn’t come as a surprise to me. The proclamation,“I need to know my pain can be used to help someone else” seemed more like a plea. It was a testimony to the leader that resides in many warriors who’ve survived fateful battles and been charged with the safety of buddies flanking left and right.
Any fear about appearing weak for acknowledging emotional pain gave way to a fervor for learning more about mental health and wellness.
I took note as a reminder to myself of how powerful our bodies and minds are in serving as vessels for such important events. In my continued work with this patient I remained in awe of the willingness to study everything possible about trauma, psychological injury, and mental health. Any fear about appearing weak for acknowledging emotional pain gave way to a fervor for learning more about mental health and wellness. Every Veteran’s Day I recall the work we did towards my patient’s goals. From conquering beliefs that were no longer of service and adopting new ones that served in turning trauma into triumph, the work of a warrior intent on finding purpose in pain is a work I will gladly join again and again.
While it is rare (as it should be) that a therapist might share details about a specific client publicly, it was the insistence of my patient and a determination that part of their healing be in helping others that led to my agreement about this piece. I’ve done my best to disguise the identity of my patient in order to protect their privacy while at the same time honoring a sincere request. Any similarities a reader might find between their own story and the elements of this writing are purely coincidental. As with all posts here at thedustoffproject.com, efforts are made to change identifying details (rank, time period, campaign served, gender, etc.).