Yesterday I mentioned my old friend, “Brown Water Randy.” I met Randy in the early 1980′s, shortly after PTSD was identified but before American society understood anything about the syndrome. This was in the days when a lot of men still hid their service medals under the bed, and didn’t talk about Vietnam for fear of being branded a “baby killer.” In the public’s eye, very Vietnam vet was Rambo, who had a certain coolness, but also was very deeply disturbed and just a tad bit ridiculous.
Randy owned a shop near my house. He caught and sold his own fish. He was a friendly-gruff, in-your-face Vietnam veteran. Randy was proud of his military service. He displayed his flags and patches on the wall beside his cash register. He also suffered from PTSD, and he didn’t care who knew it. He laughed at the notion that he might “go Rambo” at a moment’s notice, but he openly talked about personal problems stemming from post-traumatic stress. “It’s something I have,” he said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
When I met Randy, I was editor of a small town weekly newspaper in Dixon, California. Randy knew I had served very briefly in the Women’s Army Corps, and that my then-boyfriend was a closeted Vietnam vet. So he thought I might be interested in hearing – and writing – about his newly formed outreach group for vets with PTSD.
Randy was not the only one working to help his fellows. At the time, the Vietnam Veterans Leadership Program was just getting off the ground. Its founders, many of whom went on to become national leaders in their own right, aimed to teach the public that the overwhelming majority of Vietnam veterans were well-integrated, successful men who were proud to have served their country.
But Randy had a different vision. He wanted to help the vets who were not so well integrated. He wanted to raise awareness of PTSD. He also wanted to offer fellowship and support to others who struggled with trauma-induced problems.
So Randy made his pitch for a newspaper story. He told me about his group while we sat on camp stools behind the fish store, eating a magnificent concoction of abalone and other sea delicacies. My questions probably seemed designed to deflate. Did the group meet with a psychologist? No. Did they have a formal structure? No. Charter? Plan? Twelve-step program? No on all counts. But, Randy said, the group helped in one significant way: It allowed the men to talk openly and without shame about PTSD.
“If nothing else,” he said, “it takes the pressure off.”
The members took solace from knowing they were not alone. They also learned from one another that they could expect certain ups and downs. They met in the nearby town of Woodland, where none of the members lived.
And so it was that I wound up not only writing about LZ Woodland, but also being a part of it. I had a good reason to go. My closeted veteran boyfriend, who never spoke about his service but who got awfully jumpy in war movies, reminded me in some ways of my dad. I brought him along to LZ Woodland.
The group met informally every week or so at a low-key watering hole. We drank beer, played pool, and “shot the breeze,” as my dad used to say. We talked a little about Vietnam; a fair amount about stress attacks; and, as time went by, a whole lot about corner shots and the merits of lager versus pilsner.
From time to time, an LZ Woodlander had a crisis. No one ever went Rambo, but some had romantic problems, or job issues, or – in one notable case – refused to get out of bed. Randy always was first to know, and either was first on the scene or burned up the phone lines to find someone to pay a visit, pronto.
During our time with LZ Woodland, I saw my boyfriend open up. It emerged that he had served with a storied unit, the Army’s First Cavalry Division. I saw the other men reach out to fellow vets, themselves. They always shook another veteran’s hand and thanked him for his service. They always spoke the words, welcome home.
Eventually, PTSD became a widely recognized syndrome. The VA got involved, and hosted its own support groups with trained counselors. The men of LZ Woodland drifted apart, either because they needed more help or less of it. I broke up with my boyfriend, moved to Washington, D.C., and lost touch with Brown Water Randy.
I will, however, never forget him. He opened my eyes to the fact that PTSD exists even in peacetime, and – more importantly – is nothing to be ashamed of. PTSD is a fact of many peoples’ lives, and it can be treated. It may not ever go away entirely, but it really can be treated. And, in my view, the best way to begin to treat PTSD is to recognize that it is real.
