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Suffering in Silence: Psychological Disorders and Soldiers in the American Civil War

Angelo Crapsey, 1861

Angelo Crapsey, 1861

By SARAH A. M. FORD
Kutztown University of Pennsylvania

Did soldiers of the American Civil War suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder and other psychological disorders? It has only been several decades since mental illness attributed to war conditions was clinically recognized. Recent research has shown a strong positive correlation between war time events such as witnessing the death of comrades, friendly fire or IED explosions and post-traumatic stress disorder.1 With a conflict as devastating as the American Civil War, it would be logical to hypothesize that Civil War soldiers were subjected to events that put them at risk similar to today’s soldiers. There is a strong relationship between attributing events during the Civil War and psychological affects; for instance revolutionary weaponry developments, medical procedures, psychological warfare, and hand to hand combat could have invoked psychological ailments. Data compiled from diaries and letters will affirm the presence of psychological disorders in soldiers who fought in the war. From this body of evidence, it is clear that soldiers of the American Civil War did indeed suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder and other psychological disorders.

Soldiers facing death, 1861
Photo: Library of Congress
The most common disorder that results from exposure to combat is called post-traumatic stress disorder or more commonly known as PTSD. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, there are several categories of symptoms for PTSD. The symptoms include the experience of actual harm or threats to be harmed physically and or emotionally, intrusive symptoms that include flashbacks, disturbing dreams or memories, negative changes in cognition, the avoidance of stimuli associated with the event and changes in arousal levels. In order for there to be a diagnosis, symptoms must be present for over a month and the level of stress has to be significant enough where everyday activities are negatively affected.2

Another common and relatively novel disorder is Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI). This is a neurological disorder that inhibits cognitive functioning as a result of an injury to the head. Symptoms include moderate to severe amnesia, headaches, changes in personality and accumulating more sleep than normal.3 This disorder is becoming widely recognized and diagnosed more frequently in veterans today. Over 30 percent of all casualties in Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF) and Enduring Freedom (EF) were associated with the head or neck area.4 As many as ten to twenty percent of OIF/EF veterans have been diagnosed with TBI.5 It is plausible to assume that Civil War soldiers, who were not provided helmets, would have suffered from TBI if they experienced in injury to the head or neck region. General Anxiety Disorder and Depression are both common psychological disorders that plague many veterans today. Soldiers who experience traumatic events, such as the death of a comrade or innocent civilians, may experience depression as a result. It is logical that countless men of the Civil War era may have suffered from depression or general anxiety disorder.

The first mentions of symptoms correlated with PTSD dates back three thousand years ago; four thousand years before it would be clinically recognized. Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphics depicted the emotions and fears soldiers felt while in combat. The Greek historian Herodotus wrote, in 480 B.C, of a Spartan soldier who was taken off the front lines due to his trembling and later took his own life in shame.6 In the seventeenth century any disorder associated with depression or changes in personality was termed melancholy or nostalgia. Symptoms similar to PTSD were called Soldier’s Heart and Da Costa Syndrome during the mid and late nineteenth century.7 The catalyst for the recognition of PTSD was the outbreak of World War One. The Great War had some of the worst casualties in human history as a result of revolutionary weaponry that redefined warfare. The psychological effects of this war were often seen in the returning veterans as many experienced involuntary ticks and shook unaccountably.8 This later would be termed Shell Shock.

While not to the extent of the First World War, The Civil War had revolutionary weapon and technological developments that negatively affected soldiers physically and mentally. This included the Minie Ball, a cylinder shape bullet that was more aerodynamic, making it more precise and effective. Instead of a round bullet that would break the bone, the Minie Ball would completely shatter it.9 Another technological development that changed the world as well as warfare was the railroad. For the first time in human history, mankind would not have to rely on horses or their own two feet to transport them. This drastically changed warfare by allowing supplies and troops to move into the most remote areas at record speeds. This meant that more soldiers were exposed to significantly more carnage than past wars. A soldier was no longer confined to a specific geographical location allowing them to fight in more battles. Witnessing this novel amount of gore would have been a severe trauma that could have produced anxiety and other psychological symptoms associated with PTSD.

Wounded soldiers in a Union hospital
Photo of Library of Congress
The Civil War is unique in that it took place during a time of great weaponry and technological developments but it was only decades shy of medical advancements that could have saved countless lives. Disease rather than bullets proved to be a significant factor in the death toll of the Civil War. For every one death in combat, there were two deaths caused by disease. The lifesaving technique of sterilization was a foreign concept to Civil War physicians and as a result thousands of soldiers succumbed to infections.10 The omnipresence of decay and death of thousands of sick men only added to the carnage witnessed not only by soldiers but nurses and doctors. On a daily basis, medical teams witnessed horrific wounds, ghastly amputations and men succumbing to their injuries and illnesses. Procedures and surgeries performed by army surgeons and physicians also left Civil War veterans literally scarred for life. The survival rate for a man going into surgery was roughly eighty percent depending on the location of the wound. The fatality rate was directly related to the proximity of the injury to the core of the body.11 Anesthetics, like ether and chloroform, were used for many surgeries which made the procedures much more humane.Though the fear of having to endure surgery invoked great anxiety, the fear of life after surgery was an even greater anxiety to face.

In a society that relied on physical labor for maintaining a livelihood, living without a limb meant a lifetime of unemployment. Farmers, mill workers, railroad workers or dock workers were all required to be physically able to complete the tasks required of them. An amputee could not continue working in the physical labor market. To make matters worse, majority of the men who fought in the Civil War were from lower economic classes. The socioeconomic status of an amputee would have been lowest amongst the ranks partly because there would be very few jobs that could accommodate their special needs. The anticipation of failure to provide for themselves and their families conjured major stress and anxiety.

The biological needs of humans are crucial for both physical and mental health. If humans are bereaved of biological necessities then they are at greater risk of psychological ailments. In war, especially the American Civil War, even the most basic of human essentials, such as food, water and shelter, are unavailable to soldiers putting them at an elevated risk of psychological danger.

Food supplies were frequently limited and insufficient for the amount of calories a soldier would expel. The water was often contaminated with germs making soldiers sick. Septic water is especially dangerous because it carries many diseases like cholera and dysentery. A diary entry by Union soldier Henry Tisdale implies that he got sick from drinking the water at his camp “Unwell today for diarrhea, causing me to feel weak. Think it caused by drinking too much of the aqueduct water we have here.”12 Not only were the soldiers on alert for enemy attacks but also had to worry if their next drink or meal was going to make them ill. Due to the insufficient and inadequate food and water, many soldiers did not have the caloric intake needed to support straining activities. Union soldier Cornelius Platter wrote “3 mile to our right and went into camp 8 mile South East of Jonesboro at 8 oclock — This has been the hardest days march we have had. Distance marched 22 mile.”13 A malnourished soldier would have had difficulties executing long endurance orders like this and would have been pushed to the brink of exhaustion. On top of malnutrition, each soldier was subjected to the weather and its unforgiving nature. Evolutionary instinct would be to seek shelter from the elements, but this cannot be done in war. Joseph Waddell from the Indiana Volunteer Division wrote “Off early and marched to Black River a hard rain late in the evening two men killed on the road with lightning.”14 Soldiers had very little protection, which would have affected their sense of safety. With unavailable resources and basic needs going unmet, these men were at an elevated risk of developing psychological disorders.

Arguably one of the most intense contributing factors to psychological effects and disorders were the prisoner of war (P.O.W) camps. Some of the most detestable incidences in the war occurred inside these camps. Psychologically, people are put in situations with numerous traumas, such as ubiquitous death, fighting and abuse, making P.O.W camps a minefield for psychological disorders. Camps like Salisbury, Libby, Douglas and the most notorious Andersonville were overpopulated and did not have proper supplies for the number of prisoners it contained. At one point, Andersonville detained thirty-two thousand men but the original capacity was for only ten thousand men. When Sherman’s soldiers liberated Andersonville, they found some prisoners completely emaciated. At the end of the war when supplies were scarce, rations were withheld. “No rations issued yesterday to any of the prisoners and a third of all here are on the very point of starvation…” Prisoners would fight, even kill, other prisoners for whatever they might have in their possession that could aid in their survival. “Have just seen a big fight among the prisoners; just like so many snarly dogs, cross and peevish.” The fight to survive in hellish places like Andersonville, Libby, Salisbury and Douglas was exceedingly stressful. Witnessing the intense trauma of death on a daily basis was more than enough to produce PTSD.

A unique factor of the Civil War was that units were very often created by geographical location. A town’s entire male population, brothers, friends and neighbors, would fight together. A Union soldier from Michigan found the body of his best friend who was shot and killed. During the chaos of battle, the soldier kneeled down to clear the blood off his friend’s face, while bullets and shells exploded around him. He had lost his sense of urgency and experienced heightened arousal level, which put him in physical danger. This is an example of a soldier’s psychological state putting them at physical risk. This psychological state would be even more compromised when a soldier fought their own kin. The famous motto of the Civil War was Brothers Fighting Brothers. Families were torn apart by this war as brothers would often fight on opposing sides. James and Alex Campbell were two brothers who fought on opposing side. When war broke out, James went to the Confederate Army with the Union Light Infantry also called the 42nd Highlanders and Alex went to the Union 79th Highlander Regiment. At the Battle of Secessionville in eighteen sixty-two, the two brothers were fighting against each other. Not only would losing the support system of a family member be stressful but the thought of intentionally killing a relative would be a severe psychological trauma that could generate PTSD.

Psychological warfare has been a vital part of combat for thousands of years. Biblical writings of Gideon portrayed of soldiers blowing horns, let out a fierce cry and breaking objects as a result the Mindianite soldiers were so beside themselves with fear that they committed suicide. (Judges 7:1-22) The Civil War was no stranger to these psychological tactics. The phrase “Rebel Yell” originates from the Civil War and was a weapon used to instill fear in the Union soldiers. Similar to the battle cries of the Native Americans, Confederate soldiers would yell, shout or chant certain phrases or noises to invoke fear in their enemies and many times it did its job. The sounds were described anywhere from Indian wooping noises to the shrieks of a wild animal and these yells implored great fear into the Federal soldiers. “….the Union troops were startled by the most hideous of modern war cries, known as the ‘rebel yell’…This was the first time the Vermont boys had heard that fiendish sound, and it is not too much to say that they were appalled by it for a moment, and thought their time had come to be ‘wiped out.” Fear is a great weapon in combat; unfortunately this great weapon is lethal to a soldier’s psyche.

Witnessing an event is just as catastrophic to the psyche as being a victim of a trauma. Many soldiers did not have to experience combat to receive the full effect of war. Thomas Smiley, a confederate soldier, described the horrifying event that he witnessed at the Battle of Chancellorsville to his aunt. “The large brick house at Chancellorsville took fire and burnt up with about two hundred wounded Yankees who were so badly hurt that they could not move and their own soldiers did not help them any. Later in the day the woods took fire and a great many more helpless men perished.”15 At the battle of Seven Pines, a Confederate soldier was horrified not by fighting but from what he heard on that day. The soldier, lying wounded on the ground, described the cries and screams for help from the Union soldiers as they lay in the ditches too wounded to move. A heavy rain came and the water had accumulated in the ditches and the wounded men were slowly starting to drown.16 Stories like this would find their way back to the small towns and cities, terrifying the men who were eligible for enlistment or conscription. Joseph Waddell wrote of a young man who was sobbing because he was called up by the draft. “I heard a sound of lamentation…. A negro woman informed me that it was a soldier crying because he had to go to the war!… Several men and women stood in the street, some laughing and others denouncing the recruit”.17 Severe anxiety plagued the prospective soldiers as the news of the bloodshed and atrocious fighting trickled from the battlefield to home.

The amount of hand to hand combat in the Civil War left soldiers particularly vulnerable to PTSD, depression or any battery of psychological illnesses. This is the last major American war and one of the last major wars in the world to significantly utilize hand to hand combat. After the twentieth century, the technologies gained in World War One, such as planes, bombs and machine guns, did most of the heavy labor. While linear warfare was the fighting style of choice in the Civil War, almost every battle had some form of hand to hand combat . Union Naval Officer William Ferguson testified to Major-General Hurlbut as to what he witnessed when he arrived at Fort Pillow after the massacre “[There were] Bodies with gaping wounds, some bayoneted through the eyes, some with skulls beaten through, others with hideous wounds as if their bowels had been ripped open with bowie-knives…”18 This archaic style of fighting is tremendously personal and has exceedingly negative effects on a person’s psyche. To defeat the enemy, one must look into their eyes and take their life. Hand to hand combat is arguably one of the leading causes in the development of PTSD.

The evidence of psychological effects and disorders as a result of combat is clearly illustrated in the suicides of the soldiers. Numerous soldiers took their own lives rather than live to see another fight. Many men wrote home telling their loved ones about the unfortunate souls that would rather die by their own hand then fight for a chance of survival. Jacob Stouffer wrote about his friend Absolam Shetter saying, “he had been in trouble and at times in a State of despondency-this with the troubles and Excitements around us-deranged his mind and on yesterday morning ended his existence by hanging.” Newell Gleason, a lieutenant colonel, was described as a fearless leader but had experienced nervousness and anxiety after the Atlanta Campaign. Gleason had difficulty sleeping and battled with depression. In eighteen eighty-six, Gleason committed suicide as a result of his time spent in the Union Army. A majority of the suicide victims were Confederate veterans. Besides the fact that they lost the war, the South lost twenty percent of its population. Families were torn apart by this war. Fathers and mothers lost sons, brothers lost brothers and wives lost husbands. The men that were lucky enough returned from war found their homes and lands destroyed. They lost everything. The war and its surrounding events could have thrown the soldiers into a depressive state leading to psychological ailments.

Understanding events and conditions that contribute to PTSD and psychological disorders help to create a mental picture of the soldier’s experiences. These events are correlated to psychological disorders but neither confirm or deny a conclusion. Examining individual soldiers provides insight into the effects of the war. It also makes the connection personal and the event feel real instead of words on a paper. The next three case studies are the smoking gun evidence that there were indeed psychological disorders as a result of the Civil War. More importantly, they were all real people who were once very much alive and they were all victims of something far greater than themselves.

Albert Frank was a soldier in the Union Army. At the Battle of Bermuda Hundred near Richmond, Frank was off the front line and sitting on top of a trench. He offered a drink from his canteen to a fellow soldier sitting next to him. While the soldier was taking his drink, a shell exploded and decapitated the man, covering Frank with blood and pieces of brain. Frank experienced a complete loss of cognitive functioning being unable to speak, communicate or understand his fellow soldiers. He was later found on the floor shaking and making bomb noises. The only thing he would say was “Frank is killed.”19 He was taken to the Government Hospital for the Insane in Washington D.C and declared mentally insane. Witnessing such an intense trauma had affected Frank greatly. He was re-experiencing and reenacting the event and he associated himself to the trauma in a negative way saying he was the one killed. These are indicators of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Angelo Crapsey from Potter County, Pennsylvania eagerly enlisted in the Union army in 1861. Early in his military career, a sergeant in his unit committed suicide by placing his rifle between his knees and putting the muzzle in his mouth. This event would have a profound impact on Crapsey. As Crapsey started to engage in combat, his glorified perception of war began to fade away. “Rebels charged on us & we had to run, run for [our] lives…through an open field & we had showers of bullets sent after us.”

Crapsey became more withdrawn and the radiant spirit he possessed prior to the war disappeared. At the Battle of Fredericksburg Crapsey was taken prisoner and he spent time in at Libby Prison. While contained, Crapsey developed a case of lice infestation and frequently tried to rid himself of the pest even after they had subsided. After his release he fought at the bloodiest battle of the Civil War, Gettysburg. Upon his discharged, he returned back home to Pennsylvania were he experienced illusions, involuntary ticks and violent fits. On August 4, 1864, Crapsey said he was going out to hunt but instead stuck a gun in his mouth and shot himself; the same way the sergeant had done three years prior. Major General Thomas Kane said that he “loved no one of his men more than Angelo. He came up to his ideal of the youthful patriot, a heroic American soldier.” Crapsey embodied the image of the ideal soldier and possessed a luminous spirit that was contagious. Unfortunately, he lost himself in the tremendous force that was the Civil War.

Just like the soldiers in the Great War, Angelo had experienced involuntary ticks and violent fits. World War One soldier’s ticks and fit were attributed to constant bombardment at battles like Verdun and Somme. Angelo fought at Gettysburg, the sight of the largest artillery bombardment in North American History. While the bombs never physically harmed him, they drove him to insanity. Angelo experienced a change in personality, diminished personal relationships, a loss of previous interest, flashbacks, disturbing memories, negative emotions and he associated the negative trauma to himself which created a sense of self hatred. It got to the point where Angelo could not find a way out of his own prison and the only solution was death. Angelo displayed numerous symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Did soldiers in the American Civil War suffer from psychological effects and disorders? Through revolutionary weaponry developments, horrific medical procedures, psychological warfare, and the great deal of ferocious hand to hand combat, there appears to be a great deal of evidence for psychological effects in civil war soldiers. The Crapsey, Minor and Frank case studies provide significant evidence of psychological disorders as a result of Civil War combat. With this body of evidence the question can be definitively answered; psychological disorders are present in soldiers of the Civil War as a result of combat and or its attributing factors. Without a shadow of a doubt the Civil War psychologically scarred and damaged its soldiers. Those brave men put their “sacrifices upon the altar of freedom” and endured a fate worse than death by living their lives in silent suffering. The presence of psychological effects and disorders are evident in the soldiers of the American Civil War.

 

Vet Launches Suicide Prevention Campaign: ‘I Am A Suicide Survivor … And I Am Not Embarrassed By It’

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Out on a mission one day in northern Iraq in 2009, a convoy of gun trucks grinds through rising dust. In the turret of the lead truck, Spc. Andrew O’Brien, 21, crouches behind his .50-caliber machine gun. His job: to watch for IEDs, improvised explosive devices. He swivels anxiously to watch the passing landscape for the deadly bombs hidden in trash bags, squashed cartons, dog carcasses, maybe that discarded truck tire.

From up ahead, another convoy approaches: U.S. military police in heavily armored vehicles known as MRAPS, supposedly invulnerable to bomb blasts. As they squeeze past, O’Brien and the gunner in the lead MRAP rotate their guns away from each other. Anonymous under their helmets, goggles and dust scarves, they nod to each other in a silent salute.

Not long after, they hear a ka-rump and there goes the slow-rising column of black smoke. O’Brien knows that other convoy got hit.

Back at Forward Operating Base Summerall that evening, O’Brien and his crew are lined up for formation. They cast sideways glances at a wrecked MRAP, the one whose gunner had nodded to O’Brien. A bomb dangling from a tree had detonated into the gunner’s hatch. What’s left of the MRAP is partially covered with a tarpaulin, and the sergeant is telling O’Brien and his guys not to look under that tarp; it’s off-limits.

He couldn’t help himself. Until then, the war had seemed almost distant. He wanted to know the worst. That could have been his truck, his guys. He thought seeing the worst would make him hyper-aware, help him spot IEDs and keep his own crew safe. After formation, he snuck around and lifted the tarp and peered inside. The wreckage hadn’t yet been cleaned of human remains.

O’Brien, now 25, is a lean, good-looking young man; his chiseled features and quick grin give little hint of the torment that moment created, of the nightmares that crushed his spirit and drove him toward suicide. “It was the worst thing I’d ever seen in my life,” he told me.

 

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Andrew O’Brien, second from right, seen here with his fellow soldiers in Iraq.

 

His outfit, the 3rd Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division, went home to Schofield Barracks in Hawaii that spring and the nightmares that had begun in Iraq followed him. Inside the wrecked MRAP he would see the bodies of his crew, guys he’d grown as close to as brothers. “It was like the worst thing you experienced in your whole life, happening over and over again, every night,” he said. “It became exhausting.”

Guilt, shame and anger boiled inside him. He felt guilty for disobeying his sergeant’s order not to look at the wrecked MRAP, ashamed that he had damaged himself and ended up diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. “I hated civilians because they didn’t know what I’d been through and … you just come back angry at the whole world,” he said.

Back then, he felt he couldn’t talk to anyone about what was going on, not even to an Army psychiatrist. “I felt I was alone,” he said. “I thought everybody else was fine and I was just the weak guy who couldn’t handle it.”

So in November 2010, just over a year after returning from Iraq, he went home, scooped up four bottles of prescription pills and washed them all down with a few beers. Then he went around punching holes in the walls with his fists. “All of a sudden I felt the pills kicking in and felt myself dying and quickly realized I had made a mistake,” he wrote later in a post online. His consciousness fading, he shakily dialed 911.

When he woke up in intensive care, his older brother, a soldier who’d served in Afghanistan for 15 months, was on the phone. “He told me how much he loved me. He said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said, ‘You’ve seen much worse, I don’t have a right to feel this way.’”

His brother’s answer, O’Brien said, “changed my whole life. I was hearing it from another veteran. He said that the worst thing you saw was the worst thing you saw, you don’t need to compare that to anybody else. You should be proud of what you did.”

After he was released, O’Brien felt he had an entirely new perspective on PTSD, suicide and how to handle emotional turmoil. He asked the base chaplain if he could brief soldiers, in order to pass on what he’d learned. “The suicide briefings we had were a joke — guys would just be laughing,” he explained. “I wanted to show them like it really was.” But the answer was no.

O’Brien soon left the Army when his contract ran out on Feb. 13, 2011, and for two years he bounced around, working at this and that, unsure of what he wanted to do with his life. Then he happened to see the latest statistics on military suicides, and his idea of briefings hardened into resolve, and then a plan.

Unofficially, on his own, he began arranging to speak with groups of soldiers, parents, veterans — anybody — about PTSD and suicide, telling them what he’d learned about navigating the tricky and sometimes dangerous transition from the battlefield to civilian America. These talks turned into a national campaign to spread his message: If you are suffering from war trauma, you are not alone. And it’s not a sign of weakness to get help.

In his brother’s words, the worst thing you saw was the worst thing you saw.

Too many don’t get that advice, with tragic results.

“I am a suicide survivor from PTSD and I am not embarrassed by it,” O’Brien says in a video posted on his website. Suicide “is hard to talk about. But it needs to be talked about. By me not being embarrassed by it and sharing my suicide attempt, I am helping other servicemen and women understand that it’s okay to be affected by the war. It is war and it comes with being in war.”

He backs up to explain. “Soldiers go through three transformations: The first is becoming a soldier, which is easy — they break you down and build you back up. The second is coming back from war and trying to become the person you were before.” That’s where people can get stuck, he said, short of the third transformation: “Realizing that’s not gonna happen and you have to be the person you are now.”

Everywhere he speaks with troops — most recently in August at Hawaii’s Schofield Barracks, where he attempted suicide almost three years ago — he says he meets people who admit that they, too, have gotten stuck and considered or even attempted suicide but were reluctant to get help.

“This stigma, this thought that if you have PTSD you are weak, the thought if you have issues you are weak,” O’Brien says, “that is what is killing our troops.”

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This article is part of a special Huffington Post series, “Invisible Casualties,” in which we shine a spotlight on suicide-prevention efforts within the military. As part of the series, The Huffington Post contacted military service members and veterans who have considered suicide to learn what saved them from that irrevocable step.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/21/suicide-prevention-campaign_n_3866633.html?utm_hp_ref=tw

$250K awarded to help Alabama Veterans suffering from PTSD

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David Lynch Foundation Announces $250,000 Grant to Teach Transcendental Meditation to Alabama Vets with PTSD.

Birmingham, Alabama, The David Lynch Foundation (DLF) has announced a $250,000 grant to provide Alabama veterans suffering from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Syndrome  (PTSD) an opportunity to learn Transcendental Meditation (TM).

The DLF was established by the film-maker David Lynch in 2005 to fund the implementation of scientifically proven stress-reducing techniques for those in need including, veterans with PTSD and their families;

John Harrod, Executive Director of the Alabama Transcendental Meditation Program and a full-time TM teacher, will host a presentation at the Hoover Library – Main Branch Wednesday evening March 5th at 6:30 P.M. P.M. to introduce the Alabama PTSD project and discuss the tremendous benefits TM brings to veterans with PTSD. Veterans who attend the events will be eligible to learn Transcendental Meditation at no cost.

“”Thousands of veterans with PTSD have already learned TM and it has been transformative” says Harrod.  “The U.S Government now spends between $ 4-6 billion dollars a year trying to help vets, but no treatment has proven widely effective.  Transcendental Meditation is extremely effective, and brings immediate and ongoing relief and benefits.”

A recent study published in the July 2013 issue of Military Magazine found the twice-daily practice of the Transcendental Meditation among vets with PTSD at Fort Gordon, Georgia markedly reduced symptoms of PTSD, some by as much as 50% in the first few weeks.

Last week, the Journal of Traumatic Stress announced the publication of a new scientific study showing that African war refugees who learned Transcendental Meditation experienced an immediate and dramatic reduction in PTS symptoms by as much as 90%.

Significant Reductions in Posttraumatic Stress Symptoms in Congolese Refugees Within 10 days of Transcendental Meditation Practice

And the U.S. Department of Defense and the U.S. Veterans Administration is currently conducting a $2.4 million research study on TM as a treatment. The results of that research will be announced later this year.

“There are thousands of Alabama veterans who suffer with PTSD”, says Harrod. Meditation has come to the forefront as a something that works..  Vets say they get their lives back.  It’s simple to learn and to practice and all any vet has to do learn is to come to this presentation.

Anyone interested or wanting more information can also contact John Harrod at jharrod@tm.org or by phone at 250-979-7073.

Anyone wanting to learn more about TM and PTSD can go to www.tm.org and www.davidlynchfoundation.org

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The Marlboro Marine: 2004 and Today

marlboroTwo lives blurred together by a photo.

By Luis Sinco, Times Staff Photographer

Times photographer Luis Sinco made James Blake Miller an emblem of the war. The image would change both of their lives and connect them in ways neither imagined.

The young marine lighted a cigarette and let it dangle. White smoke wafted around his helmet. His face was smeared with war paint. Blood trickled from his right ear and the bridge of his nose.

Momentarily deafened by cannon blasts, he didn’t know the shooting had stopped. He stared at the sunrise.

His expression caught my eye. To me, it said: terrified, exhausted and glad just to be alive. I recognized that look because that’s how I felt too.

I raised my camera and snapped a few shots.

With the click of a shutter, Marine Lance Cpl. James Blake Miller, a country boy from Kentucky, became an emblem of the war in Iraq. The resulting image would change two lives — his and mine.

I was embedded with Charlie Company of the 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, as it entered Fallouja, an insurgent stronghold in Iraq’s Sunni Triangle, on Nov. 8, 2004. We encountered heavy fire almost immediately. We were pinned down all night at a traffic circle, where a 6-inch curb offered the only protection.

I hunkered down in the gutter that endless night, praying for daylight, trying hard to make myself small. A cold rain came down. I cursed the Marines’ illumination flares that wafted slowly earthward, making us wait an eternity for darkness to return.

At dawn, the gunfire and explosions subsided. A white phosphorus artillery round burst overhead, showering blazing-hot tendrils. We came across three insurgents lying in the street, two of them dead, their blood mixing with rainwater.

The third, a wiry Arab youth, tried to mouth a few words. All I could think was: “Buddy, you’re already dead.”

We rounded a corner and again came under heavy fire, forcing us to scramble for cover. I ran behind a Marine as we crossed the street, the bullets ricocheting at our feet.

Gunfire poured down, and it seemed incredible that no one was hit. A pair of tanks rumbled down the road to shield us. The Marines kicked open the door of a house, and we all piled in.

Miller and other Marines took positions on the rooftop; I set up my satellite phone to transmit photos. But as I worked downstairs in the kitchen, a deep rumble almost blew the room apart.

Two cannon rounds had slammed into a nearby house. Miller, the platoon’s radioman, had called in the tanks, pinpointed the targets and shouted “Fire!”

I ran to the roof and saw smoldering ruins across a large vacant lot. Beneath a heap of bricks, men lay dead or dying. I sat down and collected my wits. Miller propped himself against a wall and lighted his cigarette. I transmitted the picture that night. Power in Fallouja had been cut in advance of the assault, forcing me to be judicious with my batteries. I considered not even sending Miller’s picture, thinking my editors would prefer images of fierce combat.

The photo of Miller was the last of 11 that I sent that day.

On the second day of the battle, I called my wife by satellite phone to tell her I was OK. She told me my photo had ended up on the front page of more than 150 newspapers. Dan Rather had gushed over it on the evening news. Friends and family had called her to say they had seen the photo — my photo.

Soon, my editors called and asked me to find the “Marlboro Marine” for a follow-up story. Who was this brave young hero? Women wanted to marry him. Mothers wanted to know whether he was their son.

I didn’t even know his name. Shell-shocked and exhausted, I had simply identified Miller as “A Marine” and clicked “send.”

I found Miller four days later in an auditorium after a dangerous dash across an open parade ground in the city’s civic center. Miller’s unit was taking a break, eating military rations.

Clean-shaven and without war paint, Miller, 20, looked much younger than the battle-stressed warrior in the picture — young enough to be my son.

He was cooperative, but he was embarrassed about the photo’s impact back home.

Once our story identified him, the national fascination grew stronger. People shipped care packages, making sure Miller had more than enough smokes. President Bush sent cigars, candy and memorabilia from the White House.

Then Maj. Gen. Richard F. Natonski, head of the 1st Marine Division, made a special trip to see the Marlboro Marine.

I was in the forward command center, which by then featured a large blowup of the photo. “You might want to see this,” an officer said, nudging me to follow.

To talk to Miller, Natonski had to weave between earthen berms, run through bombed-out buildings and make a mad sprint across a wide street to avoid sniper fire before diving into a shattered storefront.

“Miller, get your ass up here,” a first sergeant barked on the radio.

Miller had no idea what was going on as he ran through the rubble. He snapped to attention when he saw the general.

Natonski shook Miller’s hand. Americans had “connected” with his photo, the general said, and nobody wanted to see him wounded or dead.

“We can have you home tomorrow,” he said.

Miller hesitated, then shook his head. He did not want to leave his buddies behind. “It just wasn’t right,” he told me later.

The tall, lanky general towered over the grunt. “Your father raised one hell of a young man,” he said, looking Miller in the eye. They said goodbye, and Natonski scrambled back to the command post.

For his loyalty, Miller was rewarded with horror. The assault on Fallouja raged on, leaving nearly 100 Americans dead and 450 wounded. The bodies of some 1,200 insurgents littered the streets.

As the fighting dragged on for a month, the story fell off the front page. I joined the exodus of journalists heading home or moving to the next story.

More than a year and a half would pass before I saw Miller again.

Back home, I immersed myself in other assignments, trying to put Fallouja behind me. Yet not a day went by that I didn’t think about Miller and what we experienced in Iraq.

National Public Radio interviewed me. Much to my embarrassment, the Los Angeles City Council adopted a resolution in my honor. I became a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Bloggers riffed on the photo’s meaning. Requests for prints kept coming.

In January 2006, I was on assignment along the U.S.-Mexico border when my wife called. “Your boy is on TV. He has PTSD,” she said. “They kicked him out of the Marines.”

I’d spoken with Miller by phone twice, but the conversations were short and superficial. I knew post-traumatic stress disorder was a complicated diagnosis. So once again, I dug up his number. Again, I offered simple words: Life is sweet. We survived. Everything else is gravy.

As the third anniversary of the U.S.-led invasion approached, my editors wanted another follow-up story.

So in spring 2006, I traveled to Miller’s hometown of Jonancy, Ky., in the hollows of Appalachia. I drove east from Lexington along Interstate 64, part of the nationwide Purple Heart Trail honoring dead and wounded veterans, before turning south.

Mobile homes and battered cars dot the rugged ranges. Marijuana is a major cash crop. Addiction to methamphetamine and prescription drugs is rampant.

Kids marry young, and boys go to work mining the black seams of coal. Heavy trucks rumble day and night.

Miller showed me around. At an abandoned mine, he walked carefully around a large, shallow pool of standing water that mirrored the green wilderness and springtime sky. He picked up a chunk of coal.

“Around here, this is what it’s all about,” he said. “Nothing else.

“It was this or the Marines.”

Often brooding and sullen, Miller joked about being “21 going on 70,” the result, he said, of humping heavy armor and gear on a 6-foot, 160-pound frame.

Before he was allowed to leave Iraq, he attended a mandatory “warrior transitioning” session about PTSD and adjusting to home life.

Each Marine received a questionnaire. Were they having trouble sleeping? Did they have thoughts of suicide? Did they feel guilt about their actions?

Everybody knew the drill. Answer yes and be evaluated further. Say no and go home.

Miller said he didn’t want to miss his flight. He answered no to every question.

He returned to Camp Lejeune, N.C. His high school sweetheart, Jessica Holbrooks, joined him there, and they were married in a civil ceremony.

Then came the nightmares and hallucinations. He imagined shadowy figures outside the windows. Faces of the dead haunted his sleep.

Once, while cleaning a shotgun, he blacked out. He regained consciousness when Jessica screamed out his name. Snapping back to reality, he realized he was pointing the gun at her.

He reported the problems to superiors, who promised to get him help.

Then came a single violent episode, which put an end to his days as a Marine.

It happened in the storm-tossed Gulf of Mexico in September 2005. His unit had been sent to New Orleans to assist with Hurricane Katrina relief efforts. Now a second giant storm, Hurricane Rita, was moving in, and the Marines were ordered to seek safety out at sea.

In the claustrophobic innards of a rolling Navy ship, someone whistled. The sound reminded Miller of a rocket- propelled grenade. He attacked the sailor who had whistled. He came to in the boat’s brig. He was medically discharged with a “personality disorder” on Nov. 10, 2005 — exactly one year after his picture made worldwide news.

Back home in Kentucky, the Millers settled into a sparsely furnished second-story apartment. Four small windows afforded little light. The TV was always on.

Miller bought a motorcycle and went for long rides. He and Jessica drank all night and slept all day. He started collecting a monthly disability benefit of about $2,500. The couple spent hours watching movies on DVD, Coronas and bourbon cocktails in hand. Friends and family gave them space.

Miller had hoped to pursue a career in law enforcement. But the PTSD and abrupt discharge killed that dream. No one would trust him with a weapon.

But at least he didn’t have to go back to Iraq. He started to realize he wasn’t the only one traumatized by war.

“There’s a word for it around here,” Jessica said. “It’s called ‘vets.’ ” She talked of Miller’s grandfather, forever changed by the Korean War and dead by age 35. Her Uncle Hargis, a Vietnam veteran, had it too. He experienced mood swings for years.

Sometimes, Miller’s stories about Iraq unnerved his young bride. He sensed it and talked less. Nobody really understands, he said, unless they’ve been there.

On June 3, 2006, the Millers renewed their vows at a hilltop clubhouse overlooking the forests and strip mines. It was a lavish ceremony paid for by donors from across the country who had read about Miller’s travails or seen him on television. Local businesses pitched in as well.

His father and two younger brothers were supposed to be groomsmen but didn’t show up. His estranged mother wasn’t invited.

Miller looked sharp in his Marine Corps dress uniform of dark-blue cloth and red piping. Jessica was lovely in white, her long hair gathered high.

Instead of a honeymoon, the young couple traveled to Washington, D.C., at the invitation of the National Mental Health Assn. The group wanted to honor Miller for his courage in going public about his PTSD. Its leaders also wanted him to visit key lawmakers to share his experience.

As a boy, Miller confided, he had embraced religion, even going so far as to become an ordained minister by mail order. He knew the Bible verses, felt the passion for preaching.

That’s how he found his new mission: to tell people what it was like to come home from war with a broken mind.

Three days after their wedding, I tagged along as the young couple flew to the nation’s capital. Easily distracted by the offer of free drinks for an all-American hero, Miller stayed out until 3 a.m. He was hung over when he met with House members a few hours later.

Miller chatted up GOP Rep. Harold Rogers, the congressman from his district. He smoked and frequently cursed while recounting his combat experiences. I cringed but stayed on the sidelines, snapping photos.

Miller shuffled from one congressional office to the next, passing displays filled with photos of Marines killed in Iraq. As he told his story over and again, the politicians listened politely and thanked Miller for his service. One congressman sent an aide to tell Miller he was too busy to meet. No one promised to take up his cause.

After Miller picked up his award, he took a whirlwind tour past the White House and Lincoln Memorial, but his mind was elsewhere. At a bar the night before, free booze had flowed in honor of the Marlboro Marine. Miller wanted more.

“Let’s get drunk,” he said.

I returned to Los Angeles the next morning, thinking I would catch up with Miller in a couple of months.

A week later, Jessica called. After they got home, Miller’s mood had become volatile. He was OK one minute and in a deep funk the next, she told me. Then he’d disappeared. She hadn’t seen him for days.

Could I come to Kentucky and help?

Why me? I thought. I am not Miller’s brother. Or his father. I could feel the line between journalist and subject blurring. Was I covering the story or becoming part of it?

I traveled all night to get to Pikeville, Ky., and soon found myself with Jessica, making the rounds of all the places Miller might have gone. I wanted to be somewhere else — anywhere else.

Finally, the next morning, Jessica saw her husband driving in the opposite direction. She did a U-turn, hit the gas and caught up with him down the road.

He got out of his truck. A woman sat in the passenger seat.

“Who is that, Blake?” Jessica demanded. “Who is she?”

He said her name was Sherry. They had just met, and he was helping her move. Jessica didn’t believe him.

I thought: Didn’t I attend this young couple’s fairy tale wedding just 10 days ago? Now, here they were, in a gas station parking lot, creating a spectacle.

Jessica grilled Miller. He bobbed and weaved. He appeared sober and sullen. Then he dropped a bomb. He didn’t want her anymore and had filed for divorce.

“You guys might want to go home and talk,” I suggested.

There, the tortured dialogue escalated.

Jessica pleaded with Blake to stop and think. They could quit drinking, she said. They’d get help for him and as a couple. Maybe they could move away — anything to work it out.

Miller slumped on the couch. I sensed his unease and feared he would become violent, so I stayed for a while even though I felt intrusive. But he remained strangely calm, albeit brooding and distant.

I returned the next morning. He called his attorney and put the phone on speaker. If uncontested, the lawyer said, the divorce would become final in 60 days. Jessica went to the fire escape to gather herself.

Miller remained unmoved, chain-smoking. The local newspaper had been calling him about rumors that he was getting divorced. It was a major local story. Finally, he wrote a statement. He asked for compassion and respect for their privacy.

The next day, I found Miller in a back bedroom at his uncle’s house. He told me that he had come close to committing suicide the night before. He had thought about driving his motorcycle off the edge of a mountain road.

He showed me the morning newspaper. His divorce was the lead story.

I felt torn. I didn’t want to get involved. I desperately wanted to close the book on Iraq. But if I hadn’t taken Miller’s picture, this very personal drama wouldn’t be front-page news. I felt responsible.

Sometimes, when things get hard to witness, I use my camera as a shield. It creates a space for me to work — and distance to keep my eyes open and my feelings in check. But Miller had no use for a photojournalist. He needed a helping hand.

I flashed back to the chaos of combat in Fallouja. In the rattle and thunder, brick walls separated me from the world coming to an end. In the tight spaces, we were scared mindless. Everybody dragged deeply on cigarettes.

Above the din, I heard what everybody was thinking: This is the end.

I’ve never felt so completely alone.

I snapped back to the present, and before I knew it, the words spilled out.

“I have to ask you something, Blake,” I said. “If I’d gone down in Fallouja, would you have carried me out?”

“Damn straight,” he said, without hesitation.

“OK then,” I said. “I think you’re wounded pretty badly. I want to help you.”

He looked at me for a moment. “All right,” he said.

luis.sinco@latimes.com

http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-marlboroman11nov11-blurb,0,5435312.blurb

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