Reframing Veteran Suicide: Part I
Veterans are somewhat paradoxical;
while they are experienced, well resourced, and lauded by society, young veterans in particular lag behind their non-veteran peers in terms of employment, labor force participation, and suicide. Differences are most pronounced in post 9-11 veterans, despite being overrepresented in the middle 3 wealth quintiles and achieving greater aggregate levels of non-college education.
Most attempts to reduce veteran suicide begin with the assumption that suicide is an irrational choice, taken by people in moments of personal weakness, states of altercation, or some other form of damaged cognition. Survivors, shouldering both grief and frustration, ask “how could such a person do something so uncharacteristic, so non-sensical, so irrational?” We rarely ask, “what would I have to believe about the world, for suicide to make sense to me?” While unpalatable, I believe this question illuminates more problems worth addressing, like the survivor bias in senior leadership, rigid institutions, transition assistance, and others to be discovered.
When a service member dies, their chain of command must conduct an investigation to determine if the death occurred in the line of duty. This report is completed on a standard form, and on the first page is a section that must be filled out by a medical professional. It asks, “Was individual mentally sound, yes or no?” It is standard procedure to select “No” for any death declared a suicide. The logic is that it is not possible to be both suicidal and of sound mind. These investigations have important implications for entitlements and service characterizations. As far as I can tell, there is no clear benefit to changing this convention. However, setting aside bureaucratic necessity, there is a subtle yet consequential implication of this reasoning which potentially limits the range of possible interventions. If we—the military or society—characterize suicide as a lapse of mental faculties only, we give ourselves permission to ignore the risk factors under our control, like social isolation, toxic cultures, and the stigma of asking for help.
Some folks inherit star spangled eyes
Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord
And when you ask them, "How much should we give?"
Ooh, they only answer "More! More! More!"
-John C. Fogerty, Fortunate Son
Dan Hardin
was a big, soft-spoken kid in my first platoon. Like many infantrymen before him, he was the product of a working-class family in a blue-collar town. He joined the military out of high school and found basic training was no worse than two-a-days at the start of football season, and he thrived. On his first deployment, Dan volunteered to walk point, leading our formation through the fields along the north bank of the Arghandab River. For six months, we patrolled in single file through pomegranate orchards, elephant grass, and glades shaded by ancient mulberry trees. We climbed the earthen mounds covered in grapevines, and into deep wadis, avoiding choke points and the pressure plate IEDs they contained. Dan carried the mine-detector even after his mangled teammates were loaded onto the MEDEVAC helicopters. He carried extra gear to lighten everyone else’s load.
Our platoon redeployed with nine purple hearts and four fewer limbs, but we were grateful that everyone was alive. Our unit reorganized and I was reassigned. While I saw Dan around the company area, he eventually blended into the background. I forgot, maybe even suppressed, the intensity of our shared experience and the permanent way it shaped the platoon. Later, as I loaded a truck for the fourth military move in as many years, Dan was three states away, honorably separating from the military. Shortly after, he took his own life.
To be continued…
