Transcriber: Zou Yijia Reviewer: David DeRuwe
After formation, the platoon sergeant met with Private Smith.
The sergeant knew that Smith was a loner, didn’t have a battle buddy.
He knew Smith had marriage problems.
Smith didn't have a best friend, somebody watching his back.
“Private, why don’t you reach out and connect with the chaplain?”
“Nah, Sarge, I don’t need to talk with the chaplain; I’m an airborne ranger.
I’m tough, not a sissy pouring out my heart.”
“OK Private, but I’m here for you if you want to talk.”
Two days later, Private Smith sat at home alone with a loaded rifle.
His only companion was a note of apology.
It said, “I’m sorry. I can’t take the pain any longer.”
He put the rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Private Smith was a father of two, husband, son, brother, and friend to many.
He joined over 300 men on active duty in the U.S. military
who die by suicide annually,
just a fraction of the 33,000 men
who die by suicide each year in the US
Tough guys like Private Smith are an endangered species.
Like Private Smith, I was a tough guy.
I was a colonel and had been an army physician for 25 years.
I spent a year and a half in combat zones, and I was a national wrestling champion.
Yet we don’t need to be in the military or be a veteran or a first responder,
or hang out with tough guys
to understand the importance of dealing with our feelings.
And when we fail to do so, it can be deadly.
Is it any surprise that men die by suicide almost four times as often as women?
We need to help tough guys to understand it’s OK to share.
It’s OK to reach out. It’s OK to connect.
Private Smith wasn't the only one who had trouble connecting.
I saw asking for help as a sign of weakness.
I suffered in silence with mental health issues.
I stuffed my feelings down, just like Private Smith.
I did not reach out and connect. I struggled. Until ...
until I couldn’t stand it any longer.
In 2013, problems started in my department,
the Department of Medicine at Eisenhower Army Medical Center
on Fort Gordon, Georgia.
As department chief, I fixated on these problems.
Negative thinking and insomnia became my constant companions.
At first, it took an hour to fall asleep, then two hours, then three hours.
I longed for sleep. I became indecisive. I lost my confidence.
My mood became progressively blue.
Like other tough guys I’d seen before me, I withdrew.
Amateur wrestling, one of my greatest passions, no longer interested me.
My shaking hands reflected the trembling I felt in my chest.
My sex drive was gone; talk about kicking a guy when he’s down.
The joy and peace I once had were gone.
God ...
seemed distant.
Concentrating to read the Bible was hard.
I felt like my prayers were bouncing off the ceiling.
Thursday, April 17, 2014, seemed like a normal day.
I was up at 5:15 a.m., groomed and dressed quickly,
and had my devotions.
At 6:15 a.m., I set off for Eisenhower Army Medical Center.
I walked down the empty hallway leading to the Department of Medicine,
unlocked my office, and stepped inside.
And the weight of the events of the past nine months came crashing down upon me.
I felt like I’d hit the rock bottom.
I couldn’t deal with any more problems.
I had had it.
I was beat up, beaten down, and broken.
I locked the door behind me, turned off the lights, drew the blinds,
turned off the phones, and I crawled under the desk in my office
and curled up in a fetal position on the musty carpet.
Over and over, I asked myself:
“Skip, what are you doing? Skip.
So how did you get here?
You’re a tough guy, a colonel, a national wrestling champion.
You spent a year and a half in combat zones.
What, what happened?”
Over the next four hours, multiple scenes and feelings collided:
childhood trauma, devastating teen experiences, and family deaths;
memories of treating dying and mangled soldiers;
and years of separation from my family while deployed.
Memories of death, destruction, and disappointments washed over me.
Slowly, I began to put the pieces together.
I’d experienced blue mood, loss of pleasure and passion,
loss of that confidence, indecision, impaired cognition,
blue mood,
and withdrawal.
Then, I heard a voice in my head say:
“Skip, you”re depressed!
Go get help.”
I crawled out from under that desk, and I had a flicker of hope.
Later that day, a clinical psychologist diagnosed me with major depression.
During my recovery, nobody looked down on me,
nobody called me a wimp,
nobody shunned me.
Professionals, family, and friends
treated me with kindness, compassion, and acceptance.
As I stepped out of that tough guy image,
I received a deep sense of knowing I was one of the lucky ones.
Private Smith was not.
I realized I had to share my story and the lessons learned along the way.
These were life-transforming intuitive insights.
It was like, “God, give me a kick in the pants.”
God was telling me to help other tough guys
who were struggling with depression.
God was telling me to help other tough guys
to learn to connect with their own feelings.
God was telling me to help other tough guys
to reach out and connect with professionals and other men.
I took my medical knowledge and recent frontline experience
and designed a recovery program.
Four years later, Brian came into my life.
Brian was a tough guy, an all-American athlete,
and he owned a business.
Brian was forced to close his business.
He worried about money, and his life began to unravel.
Brian began to drink.
His drinking spiraled down into alcoholism.
Like me and so many other tough guys, Brian suffered in silence for months.
Brian was beaten up, beaten down, and broken.
Brian knew my history, and he asked me for help.
I became Brian’s battle buddy,
his lifeline.
With my support and guidance, Brian took four brave steps:
First, Brian learned to connect with his own feelings - no more denial.
He faced the good, the bad, and the ugly head on.
Journaling and meditation became part of his daily routine
to help connect with his feelings.
Second, Brian, began to step out of that tough guy role
and not feel like a wimp for doing so.
He began to openly share when he was in emotional pain and struggling.
Third, Brian reached out for professional help.
He accepted he couldn't get better on his own.
Brian received compassionate care from his professionals,
his family and his friends.
And four, Brian sought out opportunities to connect with other men.
He began to open up a recovery groups and accepted invitations with friends.
Brian and I have been walking this journey together.
It’s been rocky at times. Slowly, he’s rebuilding his life.
Recently, Brian told me, “It takes a team to rebuild a broken man.”
We can't do this on our own.
We don’t need to be in the military or a veteran or a first responder
to understand we can’t do this alone,
and when we try to do so, men,
we’re an endangered species.
It’s dangerous to our mental health to be the strong, silent type.
Leaders of tough guys - help your tough guys.
All of them need a battle buddy.
Leaders, help your tough guys to reach out -
reach out and connect.
(Applause)
(Cheers)