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My father had shared with me over the years, and I had asked him, what he did in the war- World War II. He told me of his experience as an infantryman carrying a 40 lbs radio all over Europe, fighting at the Battle of the Bulge and being wounded. But I never had any idea that he had entered a Nazi concentration camp as a liberator and bore witness to its horrors. He never mentioned that he had helped to liberate Buchenwald, and how could I have thought to ask him that question?
But now that I know I have the ability to understand him better than I ever have. He now speaks more openly of the war than I can ever remember him doing, although this takes him right back there and he becomes choked up by his thoughts.
But it is remarkable that so many years after his experiences in Europe my father has finally found his voice, 60 years after the fact. Although it is painful for him, I think it is good and may help quiet those images that still reside within him.
I am the daughter of a Vietnam Vet. I was diagnosed with secondary PTSD about 20 years ago. My parents wanted to believe that I was just a difficult child and they couldn’t claim any responsibility for who I was. My psychiatrist was ahead of the times to say the least. My parents never tried to treat me or get me further help when I was a child. Unfortunately I grew into an adult who abused drugs and was very self destructive. In my late 20’s I decided I didn’t want to live anymore and attempted suicide. I was unsuccessful, obviously, but I did end up in a psych hospital where I finally got the help I needed so badly.
I can function now, without destroying myself. I had to accept that my dad would never apologize for all of the abuse. I had to accept responsibility for my life. I have to take a few pills everyday in order to appear “normal” but that’s okay, too.
I’m grateful that people may start to pay attention to the issues that families of vets face. My dad was turned into a killer at the age of 18 and then when he tried to re-up he was discharged because of “psychiatric issues”. So he raised a family instead of fighting in Vietnam, like he wanted.
I love my dad. I’ve heard stories about him before he went to ‘Nam and he sounds like he was a very gentle man. I wish I knew him then. The dad I love is a very damaged shell of a man who flinches every time a car backfires.
Help the families. I don’t want to see other kids of vets end up suicidal and self destructive like me.
God bless all of our men and women who put their lives on the line everyday to protect our freedom. Happy Vets Day!
My father came back from WWII in 1946. He was a broken and twisted alcoholic. He was a victim of war. They called it shell shock. Today we call it PTSD. He would line up the empty beer bottles and call them dead soldiers. As the line got longer he would begin to weep. Later, he would become a dangerous and violent warrior. Everyone became his enemy. That is when I fled from the house.
The pain of war ripples through the generations. He passed his wounds on to his family. In his wounded mind, he blamed us for abandoning him. His disease drove him to push away those who loved him. I was ten years old when he left us. As a child, I felt it was somehow my fault. His abuse was shameless. As an adult I had to forgive him. He was a victim of war. Otherwise, my soul would rot.
Through my childhood, my father moved our family many times. I went to over 20 grade schools. He was always restless. He would leave for months on end. My mother carried myself and my brother and sister. At one point my mother had to move to the city and work as a live in maid. My 14 year old sister had to look after my brother and I. When my father came home, we lived in terror. It was like living in a war Zone. Only for much longer than most wars.
I didn’t see him again until I was in my late 30’s. By then I was aware of my own PTSD. The first insight into my PTSD came when I watched a documentary about Vietnam vets and found myself weeping. I could see some of my symptoms in my father when we talked. He was like someone with a loose switch in his head. For awhile he was this normal intelligent person, and then, he would change. A few months later, obviously in one of his PTSD moods, he sent me a vitriolic letter. It really hurt at the time. I wrote a collection of poems as part of my recovery. I have learned to manage my symptoms. I have never been able to find any formal therapy for long term chronic PTSD. Here is one of those poems.
My father lived on skid row for 20 years, somehow surviving. Veterans Affairs finally provided him with an apartment in his old age. I have only found stability in my life in the last 20 years. In am 62. I pray the current children of war vets do not go through what I did.
Ken
TRAGEDY of WAR
The Families
Your letter arrived today
A precious little concoction
A slow growing creation
Steeped for months
In your vitriolic tea
Fermenting anger over those
Long, long years
Each portion
A seething heritage
Of hatred
Carefully brewed to a perfect
Stinging bouquet
Moiling anger over those
Long, long years
With its conferment
You reach out to me
With your visions and illusions
Gradually, slowly incubated
Into a lonely vinegar
Corked
Unable to tremble free
Smoldering anger over those
Long, long years
Wretched spores
Cast about to defile my essence
The unfailing resentment
Surges up in my throat
Gagging over a life of mistakes
In my eyes my tears weep
For a sweet baptism
Sweet wine of absolution
Coursing in my heart
Smoldering beatitudes over those
Long, long years
Very moving website. You should be very proud of yourself for creating this.
Leila,
Your story brought tears to my eyes. Though my own father fought in another war–Vietnam–the effects that he endured were so similar. My symptoms of generational PTSD paralleled yours as well. You said it so eloquently when you state that “these wounds leave imprints in our spirits.” I can also relate to what you said about being more comfortable with distance than intimacy. It feels like a burden has been lifted just to be able to share that with someone who understands.
Leila,
Just checking in and seeing how your Thanksgiving went. Mine was a quiet one and that’s just fine with me. Looking forward to Christmas and spending some time with my husband, this will be our first holiday together in 4 years since he always has to work on Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Hope you have a nice holiday season.
- Jodi
These are amazing comments from people who have been affected by your website Leila – you should be very proud. I am.
I am a viet nam vet. I was in a intellegence gathering job. This stuff was so classified that we were forbidden to speak about at all. I was involved with the “secret war”.in Laos and cambodia. I held this in for 40 years until 1997 when some ot it was declassified. I finally realized I had a problem in 2007. I got help in the VA system and am somewhat ok now.
My daughter was 6 when I left. After I returned life was never the same again. She was scared to be around me for all her teen years into adult years. Since I realized I did in fact have a problem and began to deal with it we as close as a father and daughter could ever be. She is now being treated for the same symptoms of depression.
Long story short, we understand each other, but I will never in a life timebe able to make amends for the heart ache and fright I put her through. But I’m sure going to work on it. Her and I have lost what could have been 30 wonderful years. I am so glad that we can sit and talk things out now. She is my life… Thank heaven I got finally got myself together. I am very very lucky to finally have this time with her.
Thanks for bearing with me.. Children of vets are the real heros.
Virgil
It is sad and comforting to read other peoples stories. None of my friends had vets for parents and none of my friends could comprehend my anxiety when my house could appear so “normal” when they were there. My brother and I both suffer from our fathers PTSD and my mother died for it. I take pills everyday to maintain “normalcy” and my brother struggles in his own ways. Now that we have somewhere to acknowledge the trauma that we have lived, as children of vietnam vets, where do we go? Is the VA going to help us heal the wounds on our souls?
Hi, Marie,
The pain you express is all to familiar to me. My mother was also a victim to my father’s PTSD. I lost her when I was five, and myfather could never even explain what happened to her. And I have 2 brothers who also suffer.
Where do you live? This summer there will be a retreat for all family members of vets in northern Colorado and there’s one in Feb in Georgia. I want to start a support group for children here in Denver. The more we speak our pain the better a chance there will be of healing. But know you are not alone.
My best,
Leila
My father also liberated one of the concentration camps. He would not tell us any details, only that he had been there. He could NEVER bring himself to watch any of the movies made about the holocaust. He had a drinking problem when I was growing up, but I never thought of attributing it to his concentration camp experience until I read an article about Leila’s work. He also seemed somewhat emotionally distant from me and also as described by Leila after her interviews–did not have faith—he considered himself an agnostic even though our family was Jewish. Perhaps what he saw affected him on an additional level because he was a Jewish American Soldier….
Leila,
I live near Buffalo. The idea of a retreat is a great one and I hope it can happen closer to my home at some point. It is so hard when the only one who understands is a sibling you are not close to because neither of you know how to be “family” to each other. To know that others understand the strain of appearing “normal” and having a big pink elephant following you around life is comforting.
marie
I am the daughter of a Vietnam Vet. I cannot begin to express the torment, anguish, pain and emotional instability and turmoil I endured while growing up. My father and I are estranged and haven’t spoken in four years. What’s funny is that I don’t even really know why we don’t speak. My father was a very abusive, controlling, angry and deficient parent who wanted no part of wanting to get to know me or what I was about. My father was just a paycheck and my mom was the one who raised us (I have a 40 year old brother.) I can tell you my father’s PTSD has significantly affected me and my ability to relate to or maintain connections with people, and that unfortunately includes my marriage.
Growing up I always felt different and isolated from other “kids” and if truth be told, I still feel that way as an adult. It is only until recently I have found I am not alone and there are hundreds of thousands of “us” out there. I find comfort in the fact that I can express how I feel and not be judged or told, “It happened a long time ago, move on with your life.” Thank you for allowing me to tell my story. There is strength in numbers and it’s about time the “children” start telling their stories and make an attempt at beginning to heal.
I am submitting this article on behalf of my Uncle Danny Aragon Ulibarri who writes about his dad, my grandfather, Maximiliano (Max) Ulibarri. It has been just over a week that his beloved wife and my grandma Carmelita Aragon Ulibarri went to join him. She was left at home with four small children during the war awaiting his return. They are now forever united.
Leila thank you for this lovely forum.
Peace,
Sabrina
War and Fathers Day
Daniel Aragon Ulibarri, Santa Fe New Mexican, Sunday, May 26, 2002
I remember how he was drafted with four children while working in a national defense industry. He was told that either of these two facts would exempt him from the draft. Nevertheless, he was drafted like thousands of other young men in the 1940’s. The church continued to help him and assured him it was only a matter of time.
He went through boot camp cooperating and paying attention only enough to keep out of trouble. He didn’t need war training. He only needed to wait for the call that would return him to his family.
Soon, he found himself on a ship forging its way across the Pacific Ocean towards Hawaii. He was just one of a multitude of American youth who took turns sleeping in bunks and cots, eating, exercising and showering.
He listened to others brag about what they were going to do. They were sure they would be heroes. Perhaps they would or perhaps they were just kidding themselves to hide their fear.
The trip was hell for so many—the war was being waged in their minds. Each night they relived future battles with the fear of dishonor. It was hard to discern which was the greater danger, cowardice or death.
Yet, he felt secure in the knowledge that his salvation would surely come in Hawaii. He comforted himself in the knowledge that there had been a mistake and he would return home. At the same time he felt guilty. The boys, perhaps only a year or two older than him and even those his own youthful age were innocent. Which ones would survive? Which ones would become warriors? And, which one’s would freeze like a deer caught in a headlight, or worse, run like a scared rabbit.
The ship finally lumbered into the island paradise. The men rushed to view their destination. Lush, green foliage greeted their eyes. It wasn’t just green. It was dense, thick, and it was every shade of green. Plants, flowers, vegetation everywhere, occasionally spotted by rich dark soil, brown huts, white concrete and tin buildings.
Suddenly the reality and metallic-gore of Pearl Harbor came into view. Quiet stillness took even the cockiest soldier by surprise. Men tried to hold back their emotions, their tears, and the heavy burden that perhaps it would not be as glorious as thought.
He was still, alone in himself, observing. Partly thankful and partly ashamed that he would escape this great war.
Later, he found himself in yet another training camp where GIs were prepared to do battle in the great South Pacific. But this one was real a jungle with sandy landing beaches.
It was only a week into the wet, sweaty jungle maneuvers when he realized that his savior wasn’t coming. Despite what everyone told him, he was going to war and he had better take his training seriously if wanted to survive.
He had come all the way from Las Vegas, New Mexico to spend two years of his life in bloody, combat where there was no collateral damage because you saw who was killing and who was being killed. He learned that making friends was a dangerous and painful habit.
He was a brown-skinned soldier who really fought for the American Dream—in deeds, not political rhetoric. He survived this hell called war, though it scarred his memory and his soul. He is my father and we should all take time to ponder Fathers Day, and the consequences of war for all fathers and husbands. He fought for nothing less.
I am the first son of a Korean vet. My dad always told us he was a clerk at “Headquarters” and never saw combat. After he drank himself to death, I learned that wasn’t true. My uncle told me he had been a ground pounder on the front lines. They had slept in 3 man tents, and my dad happened to be in the middle one morning… when he awoke to find his tent mates had had their throats cut during the night. My uncle said he was never the same after that.
He married my mom after the war – and I came along less than 9 months later. He couldn’t stand to hear me cry and shoveled abuse upon my mom until I was 4 months old…then he started in on me too. When I cried I got hit, spanked, and yelled at until finally, he would leave. By the time I was one, I could spell my name and count 10 pennies; because if I didn’t get it right, I’d get slapped. He was determined to make me “tough” – and “smart” – “even if it kills him”. The first thoughts I can recall from my childhood was that I wanted to die. Infractions or weakness were beaten out me then until I was 12, but I’d learned at 9 they were shorter if I didn’t cry, so I stopped. My mom left him when I was 12 too, however the consequences didn’t leave, they were a part of me.
I was 18 the first time I attempted suicide, and attempted many more times in the next 13 years, until I quit drinking myself and started to make amends. I had become him. In therapy, I learned that I acted out the survivor’s suicidal rage he had manifest as violence directed outward in his denial, yet he finally attained the unconscious, denied goal, of self destruction when his liver stopped working. He never allowed himself to know his demons.
I still struggle with depression at 55, and relationships are a challenge for me as I sometimes slip back into my old mindset when I’m under stress. I’m convinced I developed fibromyalgia from a lifetime of muscle tension that attacked the nerves in my myofacia, and I am further disabled from losing my right arm in my last attempt in 2004.
I’m encouraged to have found this website, and see an organized effort to help all of the wounded souls cut by wars and social misunderstanding of the consequences. Perhaps humanity will finally decide the cost of war is too great to bear any longer, and those of us with the unseen disease will stop passing on the sins of our fathers.
Hello again, Leila,
Some time ago, you referred me to Veteran’s Heart Georgia, and we corresponded a little. Sorry, I don’t think I wrote back after your last note, however, I may have some good news. Having sent a copy of my blog entry to my Senator, Jon Tester, (MT) his office has contacted me and wants ideas about how we as a society can help those who still struggle because of a parent’s war experience. Acknowledgement of the problem, referral to possible new 12 step groups, and opening up the VA system to children of vets even if they are not a vet or the parent is unable or unwilling to seek treatment are the three suggestions I have initially given them, I’m sure there are many more and better suggestions from you and others you know. Perhaps I am over reacting to this response from Sen. Tester – you may have many such experiences cataloged. Still, this may be an opportunity to help many others who till suffer.
Thanks,
Rod