Why People Like Me Commit Suicide

A few days ago I received the message below from a former NCO.  I had no idea the impact I had in his life simply by being there for him when he needed it.  I am sharing this with his permission…

My name is Steve Meyers and I would like to start a discussion about, why people like me commit suicide. You see, I am a combat veteran with PTSD. I am no longer close with my family and I don’t have a lot of friends. Which means, I have almost nobody to talk to.

I have been depressed more than once in my life. Each time, it gets harder to pull myself out of it. When you are depressed it is easy to think nobody cares, maybe nobody would notice you were gone, and the worst, maybe they are better off without me. Those are the thoughts that hurt the most and they kill people like me. I wanted to talk about that. The number one reason people like me commit suicide, is relationships or more specifically their lack of relationships.

People like to think the loss of a single relationship is the reason someone commits suicide. No, it was just the last relationship that was worth living for. We rarely like to ask, what happened to all of the other deep and meaningful relationships? We know the answer. We neglected them and we let the relationship die.

We didn’t do it all at once. It wasn’t an immediate break-up. It happened slowly over time. It starts when you are away from each other. You see the other person less, so you talk with them less. As the amount of interaction time decreases, so does the number of things you share. Which means you have less of those bonding moments. Those shared experiences and the things that kept you emotionally close. This is how you grow apart.

When I was living in Germany, nobody told me my grandmother had died. They all thought someone else had told me. I found out she was gone when I was home on leave after I said I was going to go visit her. Finding out that way, meant I was forced to grieve all on my own, at a memorial attended by only one person, me.

Over time, the emotional distance with my family has increased. We have less frequent deep and meaningful conversations. So, I want people to learn from my story. I want everyone to know the secret to maintaining a close relationship is just staying in regular contact. When you stay in regular contact you have more opportunities to share, to have those shared experiences with each other. The ability to confide in one another and to know what’s going on. If you find yourself going down the lonely path of isolation, and you want to revitalize those dying relationships, you need to be in regular contact.

People in general tend to trust people with what they think those people can handle. So, if I can trust you with a small secret, there is a chance I can trust you with a medium- sized secret. However, if I cannot trust you with a medium-sized secret, then I definitely will not tell you about the big secrets.

This is why most people self-censor while serving in a combat zone. I did it and now, I am paying the cost of my actions. I thought I was protecting my family by not telling them I was doing dangerous missions. I knew they would have a hard time knowing I was in mortal danger on a regular basis. So, I didn’t tell them. I pretended everything was okay. Now, I can’t talk to them about things like that. If you are not going to trust them with small pieces of bad news, you will never feel okay with trusting them with the stuff of your nightmares.

I was raised by a single mother. I grew up on welfare and lived in subsidized low- income housing. My mom worries about the family every day. I have seen her blank stare while she spins the ring on her finger. While she runs through all of the terrible scenarios in her head. I have seen her become racked with anxiety over bad news. Which is why I do not talk to her about the really bad things. I don’t know if she can handle it.

I got to know my father when I was in high school. I love my dad even though him and I have never really been close. He has always been a sensitive person, who tends to insulate himself from others. It is how he protects himself. Half of the time when I call he chooses to let the phone ring. When I manage to get him on the phone he almost always says he is in the middle of something and I get the impression he wants to end the call quickly. We don’t talk about the really bad stuff.

I am the eldest of 5. When I left home at age 20 I told myself that I was going to help my family escape poverty. I was going to learn how to be successful and come home and teach my family how to become successful. Over the last 20+ years my siblings and I invested very little time into our relationship and we have grown apart. Today, I am now little more than a stranger to them. I have reached out to them several times in hopes of rebuilding a relationship, but my reality today is so different than theirs. So, our conversations are awkward. Sometimes I think I should just quit trying.

I was really close with my uncle and used to seek his opinion on most things. He was the executor of my estate. He was one of the few people I trusted with the full truth. Last year his wife posted something on Facebook and I called her out for it. Now, him and I only seem to talk when she is not around.

Last week I was in Washington staying in someone’s guest room. My girlfriend was sleeping on the air mattress next to me. I cried for over an hour, until I finally fell asleep. It took me a week to tell her why, and I took a big risk telling her. You see, when a man is vulnerable and weak around a woman, she loses respect for him. Women that lose respect for their man leave. They leave. I really don’t want to be more isolated that I already am, but I need to talk to someone. So, I took the risk.

Opening up to people about PTSD is a very scary thing because it has such a harsh stigma. People automatically think you are a mad man, forever damaged, and a danger to society. They make fear-based decisions that change almost everything about how they interact with you, and you can tell.

When I was going through something emotionally heavy while in the military, my Army buddies were there for me. Now, that I am out of the military they are still the ones I can turn to them for things I cannot go to anyone else for. There is a reason why I can pick up the phone and talk with them and it will seem as if we were never far apart. There is a reason why it hits us so hard when we hear they died. It hurts even more when it was by their own hands. The reason is simple, we are a lot alike and if it can happen to them, it can happen to me.

Before you get too excited, I am not suicidal and I have no intention of harming myself, but there was a time after my wife died when I had plans to kill myself. Which is why I would like to publicly thank Louis Fernandez for being there when I was struggling to find a reason to live.

I have seen a lot of Facebook posts where people will say “call me if you need anything”. I would like them to stop. It’s a hollow phrase meant to ease your own personal guilt. If someone you care about needs help. Help them. Don’t wait for them to ask for help. Imagine you see someone hanging from the edge of a cliff. You don’t tell them to reach up and grab your hand. No. It’s too risky. There is a high likelihood they will fall. You reach down, grab them, and pull them up. You have to take action. That’s how you save them. Telling someone a hollow phrase doesn’t help. Stop doing it. Get involved.

If the things in this message resonate with you, join the discussion. Online comments and shares help to spread the message, but the offline conversations are what we really need. If you need to start it by sending a meme, a text message, or even a post card. Do it. Talk to them. Have those conversations. More than 20 veterans a day commit suicide. Just talk with them, it really is that simple. Just talk with them. That’s how you stop suicides.

I’d like to publicly thank Steve for his courage in posting this message.

-LJF

 

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I Almost Cried in an Interview

“What is your greatest career accomplishment? What are you most proud of?”

Before I even knew it, the words came out, “I brought all my guys home from Afghanistan.”

In an instant my brain flooded me with memories.  Memories of the deployments, memories of the firefights, memories of the years in preparation.  I remembered how seriously I took every event, every run, every class as though my life and the lives of my men depended on it; because they did.  I remembered clawing my way through ranger school, never quitting even though my body begged me to.  I remembered the phone call with Robert Kislow, when he cried that he had lost his leg, when he felt as though he had failed us.  I remembered how I felt that I didn’t do enough for him and years later he took his life.  I remembered all the phone calls I’ve gotten since I left the military and all the friends I’ve buried in the last 14 years.

A knot formed in my throat. My eyes got glassy.  I tried to push that emotion out.  I opened my mouth to speak.  My voice cracked again.  I stopped.

I looked at the perplexed faces of the people interviewing me. They simply didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand.

It was the first time this ever happened to me. I’ve had many interviews since I left the military, and I’ve always been able to talk about my years as an infantry officer with objective detachment.  A surgical approach to my military career, Situation, Task, Action, Result.  For some reason, this question was different.

“What are you most proud of?”

Well, I didn’t get the job.

Nowadays I answer that question very differently and I avoid answers that will stir up all those emotions. I focus on tasks, actions, and results.  I give the interviewer the answer that I know they are looking for.

I prepare.

I know I’m far enough removed from combat now that I can give plenty of examples while avoiding discussions about my 24 months in the desert. While those stories make for great content in a book, they haven’t really helped me stand out in a positive way in interviews.  Honestly, civilians don’t relate well to those experiences (no matter how much they try and say otherwise), and if I’m at risk of another emotional spat by talking about it, then it isn’t elevating my interview either.

If you’ve had a similar experience, or a polar opposite reaction, tell me about it. Send me an email, comment, like, share, whatever.  I want to know what you are going through and what your experiences are.

I never again want to feel like I could have done more.

-LJF

 

For more information on transition, get the highly rated book on Amazon:

For the love of sheep?

“Tend my sheep.”
-John 21

Ever wonder why there seems to be so much tension between veterans and civilians?

Just scroll through some of the comments posted on “when a civilian says” memes and you will see just how real and deep that tensions run.

I do NOT believe that veterans are the sole party to blame for the rift between veterans and civilians but I will say that I think it is mainly our fault.  Admittedly, I hold veterans to a higher standard.  Maybe I am old school when I think that being a “quiet professional” actually means first being a “professional” at something and you don’t “beat your own chest” and seek out favors, attention, or credit.

The purpose of this post is to challenge veterans to think differently about civilians in general so that you may live among them better and maybe even grow to respect them.  In order to that, I am going to revisit the popular analogy of Sheep, Sheepdogs, and Wolves by LTC Dave Grossman, U.S. Armed (ret), to help make my point.

LTC Grossman describes the average civilian as sheep, military personnel and police officers as sheepdogs, and those that threaten our way of life as wolves. His analogy has turned into a widely embraced description in the Law Enforcement and military communities. Police and Veterans wear the ‘sheepdog’ title like a badge of honor (most of the time, they deserve too).

In an era when ‘over valorizing’ veterans is a legit discussion, it is even more important for us to look a little deeper into this topic. Sheepdogs are, as we all know, a part of the canine family. Which means by simple genetic make up they are more like the wolves than the sheep. They are more like the attacker than they are with the ones they are defending!

So what would be the ‘thing’ that differentiates the two animals? I suggest that the only practical difference is “domestication.” Both dog and wolf might salivate at the sight of a grazing animal and see it as a potential meal but only one will act out on that instinct, the other will deny its carnal desire.

I left the service and went into agriculture as mentioned in earlier blogs. On my small family farm every animal has its place. Each animal serves a specific purpose or it is removed. So, for me, it is very simple. If I have a certain livestock, such as cattle or sheep, on my farm, they are the “producers” that everything else revolves around. Dogs (sheepdogs, canines, etc.) are additions to that “producing” endeavor.  They are a support element, not a ‘”pet.”  All the animals are fed, housed, and loved the same…..for doing different, particular, and necessary jobs.

Protective dogs are intended to watch over the livestock and run off any potential attacker to the herd, flock, or whatever. They are NOT superior in any way (despite my own endearment of them) and they do not have free reign to do as they wish. I am confident that any farmer or rancher would say that he or she would put down “any” dog on their farm that attacked their livestock. It is unacceptable behavior.

Thus, a well domesticated dog, understands its role and place on the farm. That particular dog or dogs has the discipline to resist certain instincts (the same that the wolf has) to harm the ‘sheep.’ To the point where that dog will do battle against the wolves or any other outside animal that threatens the herd.

Military personnel and police offers must realize that we are not above the sheep/civilians we protect. In fact, the opposite is true. They are the ‘thing’ of worth in our country. They are the ‘producers,’ not us. We have a role to play for sure and it is a noble one! We are intended to stop and remove threats so that they can go on producing. Respect their role as much as your own.

As for those of you who are like me, who have left the military or the police force to become civilians yourself; take a second longer to realize that you aren’t in your previous role anymore. Sure, you can talk about your glory days and how you ‘were’ different but your mental energy will probably be better spent getting to know your new family and communicating with them. It is time for you to ‘produce’ something other than ‘defense’ and if you want to do that efficiently then you might want to eat some humble pie and learn from those who have been doing it already.

I would challenge veterans and suggest that if you embrace your new fleece and understand the importance of their role and your new role in our ‘herd of countrymen’ you might actually grow to love them.

As for you civilians who are reading this: manage your expectations of veterans. We will always have a slightly different walk and attitude about us. We are all trying hard to be a part of the fold but it doesn’t always come so naturally for us.

I struggle with loving civilians myself sometimes. But reminding myself of little things like the fact that my wife, daughter, and son are civilians/sheep helps bring it home for me. My wife is tougher than I am in so many ways and I am still proudly learning how to be a better me, from her, to this day.

-CWS

 

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A Rangeriffic Thanksgiving

“I’m going to do you a favor, Ranger.”

The words of the Bravo Company 1SG in Mountain Phase of Ranger school hit me like a ton of bricks.  His “favor” was letting me re-do mountain phase to clear out the plethora of major minuses I had accrued in the three weeks prior.  Let’s face it, the moment I acquired my 4th major minus two days into the first field exercise, I knew I was going to recycle the phase.  I spent the next 15 days trying unsuccessfully to earn a major plus (my only hope to salvage my performance); it didn’t happen.

Somehow word of my demise had reached the boys coming to join us from Darby and my best friend Chad Shields flew off the bus with a smile calling out my name.  I was devastated when he recycled Darby, he was elated to find out about my failure.  I sat on his bunk for a few minutes laughing with him and vividly describing the pain that was to come:  the blueberry pancakes are awesome, the terrain is terrible, the RI’s are worse.  Chad shrugged it off, “eh, it could always be worse.”

We made it through most of the phase without incident, but as we stepped off to start our second field exercise, it began to rain…

It was November 2004 on the Appalachian trail and the rain did not quit.  We lived through Forrest Gump style “every kind of rain”.  At one point we came down from the mountain and were told to fall-in to formation.  I remember the rain was coming down violently and the Ranger Instructor (RI) was yelling some instructions that I couldn’t hear.  I leaned to my buddy and asked what we were being told.   “Change your socks.”  I laughed hard as I watched my boot fill with water and hail while i put on “fresh” socks.  Chad looked at me, “It could always be worse!”

The rain on it’s own wouldn’t have been that terrible, except that the temperature kept dropping.  It felt like it was just above freezing and soaking wet.  My body began to ache in places I didn’t even know I had.  My hands and feet went completely numb, and I could barely feel pressure.  It felt like my big toe was missing which actually made walking a bit tricky.  My hands swelled up and cracked open and the blood froze on my skin.  I had tons of frozen cuts and scratches.  We learned to work around the violent shivering as it was a sign that we weren’t hypothermic yet.  Chad smiled at me, “It could always be worse!”

Finally on the night before Thanksgiving, the rain stopped.

It was amazing.  I looked up at the clear night sky and let out a sigh of relief.  That would be very short lived though.  Once the rain clouds were gone, the cold really began to set in.  I could feel it crawling around my skin and penetrating my bones.  When I stretched out my arm, water would drip off my uniform onto my hands and it felt like little daggers, the only sensation coming from my hands was pain.  I looked around for my buddy.  Through his chattering moon-lit teeth, Chad forced a smile, “It could always be worse!”

I have never stared so expectantly at the horizon as I did that morning.  If my will would have had an effect, the sun would have risen hours earlier.  Instead I searched for the first ray of light that would bring at least some warmth as I reached the brink of giving up.

As the early morning light finally pierced the darkness and landed on me, I looked down to notice a sheen across my uniform that didn’t exist the day before.  I reached for my chest and the uniform began to crack.  That sheen was ice.  I stared down in disbelief and began to crack and sweep the ice off my body.  Then guys began to quit.

 

I smelled the new RI’s before I heard or saw them.

My nose picked up the scent of Pantene and Irish Spring coming from the base of the mountain.  It meant fresh instructors, and it also meant the “fuck-fuck” games were about to start.

The next hour is a blur.  Instructors were yelling, guys were quitting and dropping out; some had frostbite, some had frostnip, more yelling, it was pandemonium. We were ordered to start three warming fires and to change our uniforms and put on polypropylene and gortex. I was on a machine gun, so no warming fire for me.

As I began to undress I felt a wet drop on my face, then another, then another.  “You’ve got to be kidding me!  It’s way too fucking cold to be raining,” I yelled in the general direction of Chad’s position as I unbuckled my pants and dropped them to the ground.  I heard his distinct laugh and I looked up in a rage when I saw it.  I was right, it was too cold for rain…it was snowing.

So there I stood, completely naked in the snow wringing out my polypro when I made eye contact with Chad.  He was now in full on laughter and it was infectious. I wanted to be angry, I really did, but as I stood there hopping from one bare foot to the next dreading the thought of putting on this sopping wet clothes, I couldn’t help but join Chad in laughing at how ridiculous this whole thing was.  “It can always be worse?” I asked him.  “Oh no dude, it’s all downhill from here,” he bellowed with a deep and honest laugh.

I’m Thankful for…

I was excited to finally start our movement, and within the first hour my body heat had dried the uniform; I was thankful to get moving.  The sun somehow beamed through the near foot of snow and actually felt warm against my face; I was thankful for the sun.  As soon as the mission was over, we loaded up in trucks and started heading back to the base to get ready for our next phase; I was thankful it was over.  On the ride back I sat next to Chad, and together we laughed with the others that made it; I am thankful for my friend, nay, my brother.

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-LJF

 

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