Unfiltered

Margaret Suman

Description

This memoir shares one mothers compelling story of her veteran son’s combat wounds upon returning home from Iraq, shedding light on inadequate systems of care.
Margaret Suman’s nineteen-year-old son, Mark, was deployed overseas in 2003. He was gone fifteen months, with more than a year of that time spent in Iraq at the beginning of the war. When he returned, he landed a full-time job and bought a home. At first glance, it appeared he was ready to live a stable and secure life.
But sadly, that was not to be. In Unfiltered, Suman shares her son’s battle dealing with both visible and invisible combat-related wounds during the next seventeen years and the battle with the behemoth bureaucratic systems. Taking an unfiltered look beyond fanfares and parades, it tells the behind-the-scenes account that happens to millions of veterans and their families after war, speaking out toward a code of silence with hopes of bringing perspective and awareness as a catalyst for change.
This is not just a story about Suman’s veteran son and family. It’s a story of millions of veterans. A story, based on actual events, that every American should know. Unfiltered acknowledges that wars may never end, but how we deal with the aftermath must.

Sujets

• Santé et bien-être
• Développement personnel
• Personal Memoirs
• PTSD
• Biography
• Veteran
• Posttraumatic stress disorder
• Soldier
• Autobiography
• Trouble de stress post-traumatique

Informations

• Publié par: Balboa Press
• Date de parution: 20 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798765231722
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

UNFILTERED
AN IRAQ VETERAN AND FAMILY COMING HOME STORY





MARGARET SUMAN







Copyright © 2022 Margaret Suman.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.



Balboa Press
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions or your outcomes.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.



ISBN: 979-8-7652-3171-5 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-7652-3173-9 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-7652-3172-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022913290

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/05/2022



To all service members, veterans, and families who have lived, or are living, this story.



This book is a memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Names and characteristics have been changed to protect the innocent; some events have been compressed; some dialogue has been re-created; certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but no identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.



CONTENTS
Introduction
PART 1 Haze
Chapter 1 Dark Skies
Chapter 2 Storms
Chapter 3 Clearings
PART 2 Abyss
Chapter 4 Falling
Chapter 5 Landings
Chapter 6 Getting Up
PART 3 Life
Chapter 7 Horizons
Chapter 8 Dawn
A Personal Note From The Author



INTRODUCTION
This is a story of a nineteen-year-old veteran who deployed in 2003. He was gone fifteen months, with over a year of that time spent in Iraq at the beginning of the war. When he returned, he got a full-time job and bought a home.
But this story is told by the family and is based on actual events over the seventeen years following his return. It tells the behind-the-scenes account that happens to millions of veterans and their families after war.
It is almost beyond belief.
This is an unfiltered look beyond fanfare and parades, speaking out toward a code of silence with hopes of bringing perspective and awareness as a catalyst for change.
Sadly, it appears that wars never end, but how we deal with the aftermath must.



PART 1
Haze
I’m lost in the haze
Lost in my day
Losing my way
—Quincy Smith



ONE
Dark Skies
Altered State
The droning of the 2005 spring mandatory school meeting continued until the last scheduled “break” for the day.
Whew, I made it through another one , I thought. Until I was quickly approached by another employee who had an urgent message for me regarding my son. Someone had called the school number and was waiting to speak with me. They were on hold while the staff tracked me down. I looked at my husband, who was a teacher in the same school system in which I was a counselor, with wild, fearful eyes and asked where the closest phone was so we could receive the call.
How could this be possible?
Just six months earlier, attending a similar district meeting, I was asked how my son was doing from another mother, who was a friend and colleague and whose son had served in Afghanistan while mine was in Iraq. I proudly shared the amazing news that Mark had become employed in a full-time federal job with his home unit. With the money he had saved during his fifteen-month deployment and with his current earnings, he had purchased his own home and was making donations to veterans’ organizations. I couldn’t believe that he had accomplished this all by the age of twenty-one.
“How about your son?” I asked.
She responded with affirmation for my joy and the truth of her own experience. “He’s having a bit of trouble, but we are seeking some help. I’m so glad Mark is doing well.”
But now, at a similar district meeting, the world stood still. I was moving toward the phone, but everything around me was frozen. I knew my husband was following me, but I could not see him, could not wait for him to walk beside me, was almost running to the place and time that would forever change our lives—an altered state.
Robotically, I picked up the phone, and it was my son’s boss. I was able to ask if it was OK to put him on speaker (habit, I guess) so that my husband could also hear the news that something was wrong. Mark hadn’t been to work in three days. He had called in, but not today. None of this was like him, his boss said, only I already knew that. I went into high alert. “I am going to leave work right now and go to his house. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
My husband, Mark’s stepdad, who naturally displayed outward calm but an inward, churning ever-support, told me to “just leave,” with the understanding he would advise the appropriate people at work.
At fifty, I’d experienced a lot. As an inner-city school counselor working with high-risk populations, I had lots of tools for dealing with unexpected acts of violence and chaos … like the time I was sitting in my office with a heavily pierced young man with multicolored hair, and my windows shook madly from a massive explosion that took place in the city and whose black plumes I could see from my office.
Those kinds of things equip you for the unexpected. Except when it’s your own child.
An Army of Ghosts
Recently, I was watching a based-on-true-experiences movie. There was a phrase that caught my attention. When speaking of the aftermath of war on veterans, a fellow veteran had dubbed them “an army of ghosts.”
I knew exactly what that meant seventeen years later, although I could not call up the words at the time.
Racing from work to my son’s home was still at least a thirty-minute drive. As I reflect, I remember having dual attention. I paid close attention to the fastest route, the traffic signs, the seemingly endless journey while running through every possible scenario I might find when I got to my son’s house and determining how to quickly handle each one.
I pulled into his empty driveway. There was clutter on the side of the home he once took so much pride in, and it seemed eerily quiet. I knocked on the door. No answer, but it was open. I went in and called out. No answer. I went to his bedroom and knocked on the door, and there was finally acknowledgement to my call.
“Son, it’s Mom. Your boss called and said he was concerned about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Will you please open the door so we can talk?”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“I called your dad, and he is on his way too.” It was my last card to play to see if he would respond.
The door opened, and there he stood—an “army of one” ghost.
He was thin with glazed eyes, bearded and unkempt. I informed him that something was wrong and that we needed to go to the ER.
“I’m fine,” he said. (“Suck it up and drive on” had been heavily imprinted for war readiness.)
“No, something is not OK,” I said. “We need to go get help.”
Further rebuttal ensued. He was not disrespectful. He was just a ghost, and I needed what life was left in him to hear me.
Finally, he uttered, “Well, something’s not right,” and obediently followed me to my car as I called his dad to inform him which hospital we were headed to.
I did not drive to the closest hospital but to the one I had most confidence in for psych issues. When we got there, both my son and I were escorted to a room with a desk (I almost ran; he shuffled).
There, a kindly doctor went over the protocols for mental health that I knew so well but I have come to find are quite inadequate when speaking to someone who is a ghost. The clinician asks a series of questions that determine the level of severity of the issue. Sadly, those questions seem almost entirely inadequate to assess the whole and real picture, but they are done expediently and protect the health-care profession from liabilities. Somehow, somewhere, sometime, deeply attentive and fully present care has gotten pushed aside for efficiency, profit, and legal protection.
We left, armed wi