Ranger Run with Team Red White and Blue

I was planning on delaying my second post for a few weeks, but I got the opportunity to support a good charity. This year I have purposely limited my schedule to spend more time advocating for veterans issues. I saw that my friend Mike Erwin (founder of Team Red White and Blue (TRWB) and psychology Instructor at West Point) was on a team of fundraisers and I wanted to contribute. The Ranger Run is a team of athletes that run a total of 565 miles in the month of February to raise money for veterans as well as awareness for veterans’ issues. TRWB has become so central to my own recovery and sense of pride. Without their emphasis on growth I have no idea where I would be right now.

In 2011 I was having a good year in the public eye, but not below the surface. My performance at my job would single me out for the U.S. Army ROTC Instructor of the Year, but I was hiding my problems. I used a full time job, a full load in graduate school, and a busy race schedule to avoid my own problems with PTSD. I became severely depressed, and began to have suicidal thoughts that overtime became an obsession. Only at this broken time in my life did I find the courage I needed to face my challenges. I had been exercising over four hours a day to manage the rage within me. I ran the Pineland Farms trail 50 miler and it broke me off something fierce. Yet I was so proud of the achievement. I found strength when I was broken. I began to realize that I had done nothing wrong, and was not morally or physically inferior because I had PTSD.

Overtime and after finishing more races, I found the courage to be more public about my own struggles with PTSD and mTBI. There is no Panacea for these conditions but TRWBs philosophy has changed my life. Do not get me wrong none of the symptoms of my medical conditions have alleviated, but I am happy. Like an Ultra Marathon I just keep pushing on with the Relentless Forward Progress necessary to grow with and not in spite of my medical conditions.

 In November I had the chance to meet Mike Erwin in person at the JFK 50 miler and had one of the best runs of my life. After running a Western States 100 qualifier despite struggling through a series of Panic Attacks at the outset of the race I began to have the courage to be public with my story. I wrote my first public account of my struggles with PTSD on TRWB’s blog. Days afterward some my friends thanked me for telling my story and, even better, others who struggled with panic attacks thanked me for my frank account. All of my own struggles to find growth were now so much more tangible because they were helping other people.

That’s TRWB’s philosophy. “Other People Matter. Period.” This Organization’s philosophy was better than therapy or treatment, and the running I was doing to manage my anger was now helping others. I proudly “Wear the Eagle” every chance I can. Trust me that you will never finish an Ultra Marathon if you focus on the whole event rather than taking one step at a time. TRWB is not just about healing but being proud of yourself and continuing to show the courage you have from the day you swore an oath to the Constitution. Its not about disability its about growth and pride. I am hooked this philosophy. Also it sponsors many more activities than 50 mile runs.

I know that not everyone can run races and that only crazy people like myself will ever try to run races longer than marathons, but it is so essential that we find ways to contribute to our communities. It is essential that we still place ourselves on teams dedicated to our value system. This who we are and why we joined the military, and when we stop doing this we lose key piece of ourselves. TRWB may not be the thing for you, but it has helped me so much. I only want to emphasize how much joining a team of veterans can help, and how fitness is “much cheaper than therapy.”

Military Sexual Trauma in Aberdeen, Part III

Warning:  This article contains graphic descriptions of Military Sexual Trauma. 

Molina walked me back to The Quiet Room and disappeared. I wanted to crawl into bed and go to sleep. I was still drunk and still trying to choke back what happened in the woods. A little while later, another group of people from base showed up to join the party. One guy in particular had heard I was there with Greg. John and I had gotten along, flirted and hung out together. He was possessive and didn’t like Greg much. The feeling was mutual, if I remember right. I was already anxious, drunk, and running on adrenaline. I talked to John in the hall and swore nothing was going on with Greg hoping John would go to the party room and stay there. He came to The Quiet Room instead. I thought I was keeping the peace by not sharing one of two beds with Greg, where I wanted to be, and laying on the floor with some blankets with John. During the night John wanted to have sex. Saying "No" didn’t work with Molina, so I kept my mouth shut and did what he wanted. The whole time, I figured it was best to go along with it, let him enjoy himself if it will keep the peace. No one takes "No" for an answer anyway. This is all I am worth. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be up in the bed next to Greg who I knew was sweet and nice and liked me and would never hurt me. Anyone else who might have helped me or kept me safe was thousands of miles at home and wouldn’t want me after that night.

The next morning, Chris was in the other bed next to Molina. She was sleeping on her stomach in her bra and shorts. The back strap had been undone. She accused Molina of trying something while she was asleep. I thought I might have an ally in Chris. I spoke up. "You too? He raped me last night after saying you were missing and I had to help find you."

I turned out that Chris had been in The Party Room the entire night until late when she came to The Quiet Room to sleep. Greg didn’t seem to believe it. I knew he knew what happened with John and me and he just wanted to get as far away from me as he could. He never spoke to me again. Verch, the platoon leader tried to sort things out. The unanimous decision was for everyone to keep their mouths shut so no one would get in trouble and Molina was suppose dot stay away from me and Chris. I wanted to forget the whole night.

We all tried to act like nothing happened. Chris invited me to the post pool and loaned me a swimsuit. While swimming around the pool, one of the guys from another platoon hit on me and started making out with me in the pool. I let him. Saying "no" means nothing. It was better to let them do what they wanted and pretend to like it because that is what they wanted. Another guy asked me to a movie and I went. He wanted to mess around too. I gave him a hand job in the dark. It was what he wanted and I didn’t care about anything.

Turning into that was a way from me to survive and be invisible to most but still find a way to get someone to give me attention/affection even if it wasn’t real. I could be close to another human being although still feeling very alone. Being close to someone even for a little while and for all the wrong reasons made me feel like I was still normal though I clearly wasn’t and really didn’t feel it. If I could immerse myself in someone or something, I could forget. If I could get through the rest of AIT, I’d never have to see any of these people again.

Those that did know what happened stopped talking to me within days. I went back to class and sat across the room form Molina who laughed and joked with his friends like nothing happened. Fewer people talked to me and when they did I snapped back. I fell further and further into a dark hole in my mind. I could pretend anything outside of class. I could be tough, mouthy, and aggressive. I could be forceful and assertive. In class was totally different. I had nothing to think about, no act to put on. Just listening to lectures of motor pool safety and reading wiring diagrams. And I thought. I thought about every second of that one night. I thought about what could happen if anyone found out. More than thinking, I was so totally consumed with anger and disgust. He was right there, not more than ten feet from me and I could do nothing. I didn’t want to go near him. I wanted him to disappear. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to be invisible and in class I was…at first.

Time weighed heavily. I had weeks left before his light-wheeled class split from my Fuel and Electrical class for MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) specific training. We were still in the basic classroom curriculum everyone had to take. I felt angry sometimes and sad much of the time. Most of all I felt numb. I discovered that if I cut myself, I hardly felt it and mostly didn’t feel anything. I had bought a camouflage watch with a compass that I wore with my uniform. It was a buckle style and the pin that fit through the holes in the band was quite sharp. One day in class, I was absent mindedly playing with my watch and started scratching my hand. I didn’t feel a thing as the pin scratched away layers of flesh. It didn’t bleed much, especially if I scraped the skin wider instead of deeper. When the first scratch on he back of my hand at the webbing of the thumb and first finger started bleeding, I moved on to another spot below the knuckle on my thumb. I was enthralled by cutting into my flesh without feeling more than a light sting.

When I looked across the room or the memory of that night came into my mind, I cut a new spot moving from my hand to my wrist. I cut several one inch slashes on the inside of my wrist. When one started to bleed more than the others, I pressed it to my uniform and started on my forearm. This has got to hurt. This is sensitive skin, I thought. I scraped two longer gashes into the inside of my forearm. It burned a little but for the most part was painless. I started to worry that I might cut too deep. Who cares. No one sees me anyway. When I bled I grew concerned someone might notice and I would get in trouble. I kept cutting anyway.

MST in South Korea and Combat PTSD in Baghdad Part I

Warning: This story contains explicit details concerning rape and Military Sexual Trauma.

By Angela Woytus-Peacock

In February 1998, I was 18-years old, fresh out of high school, with an M16 hanging from my shoulder and camouflage paint smeared on my face. I was excited and a little naïve as to just what I had gotten myself into.

No one told me that fifteen years later, I'd be tired, very broken, isolated, and damaged goods. Yes, I was assaulted and harassed while serving my country. No one warned me that joining the Army made me twice as likely to be sexually assaulted than my civilian counterparts. That's not what I was signing up for.

I come from a family where military service makes you a man (or a woman, in my case). Both of my grandparents served in the Army Air Corps in World War II and my father dreamed of being in the Navy. Plans changed for him when I was born and he broke his leg in a motorcycle accident. I wanted to travel to crazy places few people have ever heard of or even knew existed. I wanted to meet those people I would see in National Geographic commercials or the World Almanac my grandfather would show me when I was little. Most of all, I wanted to get out of St. Louis and experience life on this irresistible planet.

I wanted to declare my independence to everyone I knew, so I shaved my head and signed the dotted line. A little rebellious I guess, but I liked the excitement of it all!

I was born a leader, tough as a brick shithouse, and could knock boys over when I played soccer with them in the neighborhood. I played all the sports, ran faster than most guys I knew and could outwit anyone in intellectual debates in high school. I remember keenly, the Catholic, Republican in my Advanced English class senior year who would debate with me on issues such as abortion, the death penalty, and who would be President of the United States first: him or I.

In 1997, my senior year, GI Jane came out. I watched it the night before I left for the Army and dreamed of being just like Demi Moore, just as tough as the guys. I was ready, willing, and able to do anything a "man" could do.

Eleven years later, 2008 to be exact, I wound up 2100 miles from home, staying in a homeless veteran’s shelter, attending a three-month “Renew Program” for women veterans who have experienced Military Sexual Trauma with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. There were only five women in my group who were willing to face all the pain of their past to come out feeling better on the other side. Who says women aren't strong?

There, I met Amanda Spain, producer of "In Their Boots," an online documentary series showing the struggles of Iraq and Afghanistan vets when we come home. She asked me if I'd be willing to share my story with those that were willing to listen. Apprehensive, and shocked that someone finally cared enough to listen, I hesitatingly agreed.

It was the first time, ever, to share my story, from beginning to end.

One night in South Korea, I went out with some friends to the "Ville" which is all the little hole-in-the-wall bars and restaurants right outside the gates of Camp Carroll, Waegwan, South Korea. It was a dark, spring night and I had to work the next morning at 0730 hours to complete my yearly Common Tasks Training (CTT) with the unit. I went out for an hour or so, only had one small drink, as being drunk was not my cup of tea at the time. I went to leave an hour later and someone had stolen my keys. Nervous, I walked through the gate with a male, non-commissioned officer I had seen around but didn't know very well. We were taught to respect and trust the NCO's and I had no reason not to. You are not allowed in South Korea to walk through the streets alone as it is with Armed Forces Policy in most places overseas. My roommate was not in our room so I decided to stay in the NCO's room down the hall to wait for her to come home. I checked several times throughout the night but no answer from her from my knocks on our door, her boyfriend’s door, or her cell phone.

The male NCO asked me four times to have sex with him and I said no all four times. First, I tell him I don't know him, then I tell him I have a boyfriend in Germany, then I tell him again I don't know him. The final time, I tell him I am on my period and NO! Next thing I remember is my naked body being violently thrown all over the bed and I am unable to scream or stop it. It was if I was standing at the threshold of the room watching myself being raped, then being back in my body not knowing who was doing what to me. I don't know, to this day, if I was drugged or hit over the head.

I remember hearing his roommate, just on the other side of the room and I am trying to scream, but nothing comes out. It is as if I am out of my body watching from across the room and can do absolutely nothing to get back in my body and fight him off.

I wake up the next morning twenty minutes late for my 0730 formation. Shaken, not quite sure what happened that night and I am standing naked in his bathroom and cannot un-wedge the tampon that is shoved all the way up.

I report late, as fast as I can and my Platoon Leader asks me what's wrong and did I drink too much the night before? He smells my breath and concedes that that's not it, but what is it? I don't even know.

Three days later, I get flashes and cold chills as I am standing in Battalion Headquarters when I see him for the first time since. My body knew what happened before I could completely piece together what exactly happened. Somehow, I am told, the body always remembers. My hands are shaking and sweaty and now it's all clear. It's too late for a rape kit but I had to tell someone.

Article originally published at Huffington Post "To Hell and Back Again"

Angela Peacock  served in the Army from 1998 until medically retired as a Sergeant in 2006. In 2001 in South Korea, Angela was sexually assaulted. In 2003 she deployed to Iraq in the initial invasion of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Upon release from the Army, she battled addiction, homelessness and multiple suicide attempts. Today she lives with Combat related PTSD and MST, she is a Local Leader for IAVA, a Peer Mentor with WWP, and the Founder and President of St. Charles Community College’s Student Veterans Organization and the Missouri Community College Association’s Student Leadership award recipient and a member of Phi Theta Kappa.