Picture this: A combat veteran is getting publicly shamed. Their service is spat upon; various media outlets perpetuate misinformation about them; veterans’ charities and nonprofits exploit them; and the general public doesn't seem to accept them either. They are criticized, scrutinized, and are often spoken about with disdain, question, and shame. The combat veteran faces constant antagonization and, as a result, experiences a failure to reintegrate after war and is vulnerable to homelessness, domestic violence, substance abuse, incarceration, and suicide. No, this isn't 1968. This is the beginning of the 21st century. And that combat veteran is a woman. I found myself returning from Iraq in late 2005 without any support, whether in-home or in my community. I survived a year of extreme violence in urban warfare in the streets of Ramadi and facing persecution at the hands of my command for the color of my skin. Nothing, not even my former passion for art, inspired me. The zest for life I once had prior to deploying to Iraq had vanished. Since I was a child, drawing, writing, painting, and even sculpting were my passions – but so was psychology. My dream as a military brat finishing high school in the East Bay of Northern California in the late 90s was to become an art therapist. And since I was growing up in government housing facing the Port of Oakland, Army recruiters knew that the combination of my family’s military history and my desire to move on up the socioeconomic ladder made for a great case to enlist. At age 17, I enlisted as both a medic and a mental health specialist, hoping to work my way up the ranks in the Army to become the best clinician I could be. They did not, of course, explain to me how I’d be working 60 hours a week while trying to accomplish my educational objectives. I did it anyway, bleary-eyed and coffee-soaked to the bone. By the time I received orders for Iraq, I was halfway through college and upon my return, I changed my major from psychology to political science/international relations. After all, how can one make a difference in botched Middle Eastern policy when many of our elected officials – like most Americans – have never left the country? I have, twenty-two times and counting. I was a force to be reckoned with in foreign policy debates throughout my upper-level undergraduate courses, but inside, I was empty. After some thorough introspection, I decided to paint again. After such a gruesome experience, I had lost my interest in art, as I did all other passions and dreams. I felt numb, but I knew art always had a way of unlocking a door into new ideas and plans. Even if I didn't want to, I painted, wrote, sketched, and even took part in Middle Eastern dance as a hobby and side gig. While I made every effort I could to feel something, anything, again, I felt as though the wind was blowing right through me. Nothing was helping, and inside I knew I needed help. The War on Women Veterans One doesn't have to look very hard to see not just the war on women, but the war on women veterans. Men are writing books protesting integrating women not just into combat arms, but the military all together. Women are willfully defending misogyny and are utilized as puppets for publicly disgracing women's abilities, accomplishments, and honorable service. This, in turn, served as yet another barrier to reintegration and contributed to feelings of emptiness. Women of color in particular are one of the fastest growing subpopulations of veterans. According to VA statistics in 2014, there are 2,020,077 million women veterans out of the total veterans population 21,999,108, making up 9.2% of today’s veterans population. 214,098 currently serve on Active Duty, 118,781 in the Reserve, and 72,790 in the National Guard. Challenging negative stereotypes, facing barriers to care, and fighting for equality all take its toll on the psyche in addition to struggling to readjust to the civilian world. As a female combat veteran, I have spoken up quite a bit about this and have been pushed aside and silenced. I've been there, done that. Yet I get a clear view of a nonstop circus shredding my service apart quite vividly. In these boots, one struggles in finding any real reasons to continue living in such an environment with no apparent and attainable way out. According to the US Department of Veteran Affairs (2014), women veterans under the age of 30 commit suicide at nearly 12 times the rate of nonveterans. With all the misogyny women face in general, in addition to being ostracized for combat service, is it any surprise that women veterans are committing suicide at alarming rates? Los Veteranos de Arizona After a nasty divorce that left me stranded in Central Massachusetts, I made a solemn vow to live my life for me and no one else. After a workshop in Arizona that allowed me to briefly escape the bitter winter weather of New England, I decided I would find a way to move to Phoenix and start anew. Knowing no one in Arizona meant I would start with a new canvas in life and I would select the colors for a happier, brighter chapter – much like the jaw-dropping, beautiful Arizona sunset. The Arizona State Women Veterans Coordinator at the time, Gabe Forsberg, reached out to me and helped me secure a position in Phoenix. A few weeks later, I packed clothes and books into my tiny silver Kia Spectra, gave away all my other belongings and furniture and got on the road to the rest of my life. From Massachusetts to Arizona, this road trip changed my life and opened my eyes to the beauty of the picturesque American West. The dramatic colors, the craggy purple mountains kissed by turquoise and orange skies enveloped me and urged me to get back to painting ASAP. Upon my arrival Gabe welcomed me with open arms and introduced me to an arts group after catching sight of some of my drawings I carried in my notebook. The arts group, Los Veteranos de Arizona, was led by a Vietnam Veteran named Jim Covarrubias of Ariztlan Studios in downtown Phoenix. Los Veteranos de Arizona was comprised of predominantly male Native American and Latino combat veterans of the Vietnam War era. At first I was apprehensive about joining any veterans group. After all, so many white male-dominated veterans’ groups and nonprofits basically blew me off, spied on me, or slandered me to keep voices like mine away while holding onto submissive women with pretty faces and low self-esteem. Gabe intervened and talked with Jim Covarrubias in hopes of getting a positive response and proving my pessimism wrong. Gabe suggested I give it another chance, and for this group in particular. “What makes you so confident that they’d accept a female combat veteran whose heritage is from a remote Pacific Island? I’m not ready for more bullshit or political games,” I sneered. “I’m confident – especially after their response. They said you are fully welcome, because while they don’t know what it’s like to walk in your boots as a woman, they know what it’s like to come home and have your military service shamed or ignored, and how lonely it can be especially due to the color of your skin,” she said. That was probably the best response I’ve ever heard from a male group in regard to women veterans. Los Veteranos de Arizona members were original, sincere, and best of all, they were passionate artists too. They were incredibly supportive to the point where they convinced me to show my work for a Veterans Day exhibit, and show art which I had held onto for years, in a public setting. No pissing contest of 'who did what and when' that you often see with the OIF/OEF crowd. While Iraq and Afghanistan Veterans groups snubbed me to maintain their boys' club status quo, Vietnam veterans groups, especially those of color, took me in. They just allowed me to be me and did not judge me. And really, that's all I ever wanted. The Colors of Trauma Upon entry into Los Veteranos de Arizona, Jim proposed a challenge to all artists. We were not expected to make “safe” art. What this meant was that we were challenged to do more than draw or paint bald eagles, American flags, or any other predictable patriotic symbols. No. Jim wanted us to artistically address the memories that bothered us most in addition to parts of our heritage that helped us survive. Taking the challenge seriously, I drew the memories that haunted me the most: the faces of children in the midst of war. It wasn’t whirring helicopter blades, rocket-propelled grenades, bloodied corpses, or IEDs that kept me awake through the early morning hours. It was the petrified expressions of children, even their joyous expressions while standing in rubble playing with trash like surrogate toys, that haunted me. So I drew and painted them. I lost days of sleep as I finished the works of art. I cried every night. I looked at photos of Ramadi, filled with remorse and guilt that I could have done more to help or save lives. However, upon completion, something strange happened. I feel lighter. It felt like I had taken off a layer of armor, psychological Kevlar that weighed me down. These memories of children suffering were now on paper, validated, and no longer owned me. I owned these memories and had control of them. In accepting Jim’s challenge, I arranged my traumatic thoughts like artwork in a portfolio. While trauma from war was part of the journey through PTSD, so was toxic leadership. Throughout my time in Ramadi, Iraq, I was also harassed, threatened, and falsely accused of a crime I didn’t commit. After turning in my predominantly white supremacist command in Baghdad’s Green Zone to the Inspector General, they were permitted to retaliate against me. In the end, I was able to save myself through photos and documentation and charges of Mutiny were reduced to an Article 15, a slap on the wrist for disrespecting an officer after she stranded one of my soldiers in the middle of a medical evacuation. While the military has enlisted individuals from many races and cultures, through all the wars the United States was involved in, people of color have also experienced discrimination. Whether it was all-Black units starting from the Revolutionary War, Tuskegee Airmen, Navajo Codetalkers, Japanese “Nisei” in WWII who fought in 442D Regiment in European theater, or Puerto Rican Borinqueneers, racial persecution is nothing new in the military. When I enlisted, drill sergeants told us all that we were simply varied shades of camouflage, brothers and sisters – but Iraq proved that this was simply not a shared sentiment in the ranks. There has been one study of racism experienced in the military and the relationship to war-related PTSD. Asian American Vietnam veterans (Loo et al., 2001) were examined with the Race-Related Stressor Scale (RRSS), a questionnaire that assesses exposure to race-related stressors in the military and in war zones. The findings concluded that experiencing racism from fellow service members while deployed to a combat zone was the most significant stressor associated with the development of PTSD— even more so than exposure to combat stressors; hence revealing how damaging racism committed by fellow American service members has been to date. Minority Vietnam veterans around me knew not only of being shunned and judged upon return to the United States, but also the discrimination faced due to their race. In addition to a group of women scattered across the country who never stop caring for women veterans like me, Vietnam veterans of color have been one of the most supportive groups of me as a female combat veteran. They not only served in severely traumatic environments, they were treated as outcasts - and dealt with everything female combat veterans have been experiencing outside of gender-bashing. While people nowadays are far more supportive of "the troops" in general, it still tends to be male-centric. Just take a look at your local community resources and what's really there for women. Give those resources a call and put them to the test if they offer anything for women. You're in for a real treat. Despite studies that show that women perform effectively in combat and that there is no real difference in handling PTSD when it comes to gender, we're still slammed quite openly, even in this flag-waving, yellow ribbon-wearing environment. Vietnam veterans I've worked with seem to get that and see history repeating itself under a different banner. It's not just about resources and emergency services, it's about addressing the problem with long-term solutions. Not just waving the flag and slapping on bumper stickers, but offering chances to improve, develop, and contribute to society with pride and dignity without dealing with current judgment and public humiliation. However, in order to establish adequate resources for women, we must address everything that involves root causes of our problems first. Throughout Scottsdale, Phoenix, and Chandler, Los Veteranos de Arizona held art shows that attracted not only veterans, but curious civilians, actors, protestors, and people of all walks of life. One Vietnam veteran emerged from the art-devouring herd and approached me, inquiring about my artwork. He had also apparently heard from the Veteranos that I had trouble with other veterans’ groups from my era. "Do you think those people care about you? Those shiny Iraq veteran groups and the VA? People who pretend to be your allies and hate you as much as you now hate them?" he asked, seeming to have an idea of the answer already. I smirked, and shook my head. No, they don’t. "Do you think they'd band together and give back all those medals that your Army officers stole from you? Would it be enough to remind you of your integrity and courage?" I looked at him with a hardened gaze, with the bitterness in my heart pouring through my dry eyes. "You don't need their validation to see your worth, soldier. Just take a good long look in the mirror, and that's all you'll ever need to know. No lip service or ignorant bullshit is going to erase what you did, even when no one was looking or appreciated you," he said. Looking into his eyes, I smiled in confirmation, and nodded. "Welcome back, dear. It's a long, gray road and we're all lost in this desert in search of home," he sighed, patted me on the shoulder and walked away. He apparently knew what road I was on – we were both traveling it together, unbeknownst to me until meeting the Veteranos. I took this rediscovery of my love for art and ran with it through the desert of Arizona. Being part of this group challenged me to confront the void within, the memories that twisted my spirit and the traumas that left me emotionally amputated. The Power of the Paintbrush Shortly after these therapeutic art shows, I took a position in Tucson at a place called Art Awakenings as an Artistic Behavioral Health Specialist. They were specifically recruiting artists who also had mental health training and certification. This sounded like a dream job. At work in the Art Awakenings studio, I felt fortunate to be in a position to work in both mental health and fine arts. The combination of the two made sense to me. I watched as my clients painted, chiseled, and created; some to simply avoid crying or breaking down. Some of them in a Zen-like state. Just happy. “You must feel great about not being one of us, and being an instructor,” one of my clients stated, with what appeared to be a smile covering shame. “The line that seemingly separates you and I in this place is very thin. You could easily be wearing my badge, and I your client file. I am no better, and you are no worse. It’s a matter of regaining control of one’s life and if I didn’t believe in any of you and your ability to move on well beyond my means, I wouldn’t be here,” I responded. “Well, when you put it like that, I sound like less of a patient and quite possibly normal!” she laughed. “You are normal. What happened to you wasn’t and you responded accordingly and made mistakes. We all have to find ways to not let trauma or illness define us as people.” “Look at this, Michelle. Can you really call what I do fine art? I don’t know all the rules of art,” she replied. “Fine art is the discipline of breaking rules. Pay no mind to those artists you’ve learned from in school. You have to find your own way through art as through trauma, and uncover your personal truth. That is where you uncover the beauty that has been within you all along,” I said. She smiled, and returned to her project. Artistic Release of Pain Many great artists experienced harsh life experiences, ranging from deaths in the family, disability, or social ostracization. This sense of post-traumatic growth implied to me that while some of my fellow veterans were falling apart and, in turn, committing suicide, I was here creating. Creating in a group of other hurt people from all walks of life who were piecing their lives back together at various ages, and recovering from abuse, sexual assault, drug use, or other forms of ailments and unfair hand of cards dealt to them. Among them, I didn’t feel as though I was above them, but walking with them side-by-side. In many ways, I was engaged in the act of support, a form of support that I had craved since returning from Iraq and didn’t find. I didn’t want anyone to feel the loneliness and isolation I felt. I was in the act of dealing the prescription I believed in most: art. Innovative art and adversity seemed to go hand-in-hand, and the trauma that was previously eating me alive was now continually transforming into my muse. Before moving to Arizona, I had winced at taking hold of my past experiences for fear of them becoming overwhelming and owning me. Yet wielding a brush against a blank canvas, I was owning my trauma right back and taking ownership of everything that had transpired as moments in time that occurred but did not possess the best of me. The events that occurred in my life, events in which I had no consent and for which others were not held accountable, were not my fault. Yet, I corralled all such horror and pushed them onto canvas, like toxins leaving the body through activated charcoal. A purging via art was ongoing and the days where I cringed at Army mental health clinicians handing out psychotropic meds like candy, with no regard for tardive dyskinesia, suicidal tendencies, or other harmful side effects on patients, were no longer my reality. While I had no doubt that DOD and VA mental health were persistently peddling drugs, I was pushing creative healing. I finally had results within my grasp that not only worked for me personally, but was working for the dozens in my care on a daily basis. Any naysayers suckling from the teat of pharmaceutical giants were instantly regarded with the same smug grin I received for questioning their practices. Stigma & Silence Discussing mental illness, or even such treatments, often came with stigma. Stigma's power lies in silence. There is the silence that persists when discussion and action should be taking place. The silence one imposes on another for speaking up on a taboo subject, branding them with a label until they are rendered mute or preferably unheard. I encouraged my group of artists to find their voice, to speak in spite of stigma, so that others may be invited to do the same in a safe space. Getting past the stigma was, more often than not, the first hurdle to artistic block. The pressure of judgment and the need for acceptance needed to be addressed. In the presence of pressure, some people focus and some people fold. The perception of opportunity in the midst of chaos is a habit that was being instilled within my studio. Not every light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train, as some of my clients joked. Developing an open-mind to both trauma and creativity was key to ensuring that this habit of persistence remained. In order to love oneself again is to embrace all the oddities that make us unique individuals. To my clients, I wasn’t merely the war veteran or the psychosocial rehab arts instructor; I was Michelle, the sarcastic surrealist who played “Closing Time” when it was time to clean up art supplies and go home. I was a unique person telling them it was okay for them to be unique people too. I was more than the war, and they were more than their war within. Uniqueness is a launch pad into other creative ventures and one no longer needs to search far for inspiration when one trusts their intuition and instincts. There is plenty in the world that inspires awe, disgust, happiness, and melancholy. Trauma has a way of taking a hammer to reality and smashing it to bits, along with one’s sense of identity and the world as one once knew it. The Hammer
Everyone in this clinic was well-acquainted with the hammer, but it was our job as behavioral health art instructors not to drone on about the hammer or wax poetic about the shards of glass. Our job was to hand them the Modge Podge and glue, sans judgment, in order to piece themselves back together and tell them it was okay to have been broken; only to find oneself as a marvelous creation again. Trauma doesn’t always equal artistic inspiration, but the shaking of anyone’s foundation, plus the confident embrace of one’s identity, can surely lead to outstanding, innovative work that is both healing and gratifying. Trauma may often indicate symptoms of mental illness or worse, but it can also indicate a form of cognitive flexibility taking place in the creation of art. The ability to see things differently, and to solve problems severe enough to potentially lead to suicidal ideations, was an amazing feat. Art is a powerful instrument when it comes to communicating the aftermath of trauma, whether it’s physical or psychological. For me, it was combat and imperial prejudice. As a female combat veteran, it was especially difficult to make the transition back into the US after spending a year in one of Iraq’s most dangerous cities, Ar Ramadi. Upon returning from a year of deaths, injuries, seeing some of the most glorious and hideous aspects of humankind in an uncensored montage, many judged me for what I had done (in their minds) without even asking me, as well as insulted me using gender-related or racial remarks. I knew the hammer as well as my clients, but it was my responsibility to help them put more tools in their coping skills toolbox. To paraphrase Abraham Maslow, "If the only tool you have is a hammer, you treat everything as if it were a nail." Survivors of trauma may be tempted to use any hammer-like weapon to combat any threats, real or perceived, but it’s important to learn that there are other more effective tools to solve problems and to communicate. Locating the Pressure Valve Looking back on my return, I realized that the tremendous amount of pressure in my homecoming was much like a powder keg. For the first few years, I was going through the motions, not processing what I felt, dangerously nearing a breaking point. However, I was fortunate that I was aware that art was my personal pressure valve. Slowly, I felt warmth return to my veins via creativity. Art was giving me a transfusion. Eventually, since following my dream of moving to the Southwest, my artistic talents truly blossomed. Before I knew it, I was creating depictions of the most painful memories, which reignited a state of insomnia, but launched into a new level of artistic fervor. Then my art turned from wartime trauma to politics, which have been laced with both humorous satire as well as sharp criticism. Now, I’m also focused on the surreal beauty of the desert. With military veteran friends and former colleagues suffering from mental illness and turning to over-medicating practices provided by the Department of Veterans Affairs and Department of Defense, doling out a litany psychotropic medications and narcotic painkillers to anyone who asked, I was deeply troubled. This wasn't natural. While I have stared into combat’s abyss, I can proudly say that I took the road less traveled. I followed my heart back to art where I could both express myself and ease my pain, venting my troubles through pens, paintbrushes, and clay, validating my experiences on my own terms with a finished masterpiece in the end. Art truly saved my life. Expressive Arts & Coping Although expressive arts therapy or artistic psychosocial rehabilitation lacks extensive research, it certainly has demonstrated a variety of creative and effective means for approaching and treating PTSD-related symptoms – combat-related or not (Spiegel, Malchiodi, Backos, & Collie, 2006). Instead of masking the pain with psychotropic medication, art as a therapeutic intervention aims to address the underlying psychological trauma and related symptoms. Much like this article, writing can also prove to be cathartic and is another creative outlet to utilize as a positive coping mechanism in symptom management. According to Judith Pizarro (2011) in The Efficacy of Art and Writing Therapy: Increasing Positive Mental Health Outcomes and Participant Retention After Exposure to Traumatic Experience, studies have shown that writing decreased social dysfunction whereas art improved overall mood in psychosocial rehabilitative settings. The combination of both writing and illustrating appear to be promising for not only processing trauma, but elevating mood, motivation, and greater likelihood for recovery. After working with other veterans as well as severely mentally ill clients, and encouraging them to express themselves through artistic, literary, culinary, musical, and other creative means, I've seen the most dramatic, positive changes in well-being. Such transformations could not be accomplished through prescription drugs or any other poisonous substances, which are designed to further numb the senses and keep one from embracing personal truths and ultimately discovering one’s own path to healing. As a result of continuing on this creative path, I have reclaimed my life one artistic step at a time, and found my way out of a personal abyss by refusing to be a victim of trauma. Instead, I am an artist – who happens to be a survivor. This piece is an excerpt from M.B. Dallocchio’s forthcoming book, “The Desert Warrior.” Artwork featured in this article are productions by M.B. Dallocchio and are available on the Art tab. References:
4 Comments
11/4/2016 19:52:10
Greetings Michelle, I believe you to be the person who accepted me into your group page that represented your tribe of warriors, in it's early years on FB. I will not assume that you are familiar with my posts, much less myself, suffice to say that I'm a veteran's son, nephew, brother, father & friend. The "nephew" label is what I wanted share with you briefly. Aunt Gloria, was many things to her younger siblings, my father & uncle Max. She was a theatrical, dancer, singer. poet & patriot of the Scots-Irish vein. Tall, strong in mind, will & body she accepted little quarter from anyone with few exceptions but gave unconditional love to those she considered worthy of her/our clan.
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Michelle
11/4/2016 20:00:16
Many thanks to you and your family, David! We all appreciate you and your support of our Tribe of Lionesses :-)
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11/12/2016 09:54:33
Michelle,
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MB Dallocchio
12/12/2016 06:20:09
Thank you for sharing Serbennia, and sorry for the delayed reply. I also experienced the bulk of the wprst racist experience in the military from a unit from Indiana, who also trained at Camp Atterbury. Focusing on art is indeed life-saving, and I'm glad you've survived such an experience. Please feel free to share any links to your work :-)
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AuthorM.B. Dallocchio is an artist, author, Iraq war veteran, and social worker based in London. Her latest book, “The Desert Warrior,” covers post-traumatic growth, resilience, and redefining one’s own personal meaning of “home.” Archives
August 2020
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