Anniversaries

Story of CJ and how traumatic events can affect us later in our daily lives.

CJ Boyd November 17, 1987 - August 19, 2010. RIP brother.

“Let me go, I’ll even walk point for you!” Two insurgents lay dead in a nearby compound, victims of my buddy Manuel’s handy work. Outlaw platoon was preparing to patrol out to do a battle damage assessment. My sniper team just happened to be rotating out of Sangin that day, and for some strange reason my Barrett .50 Cal was locked up in the back of a truck. My team leader had the key and was of course, nowhere to be found! Which made me useless as a sniper.

As a result, I was looking for a way to get a little closer to the action. So, like I often did, I was trying to schmooze my way onto another patrol. My buddy C.J. was going to be walking point, sweeping for IEDs with a metal detector. It is not the most envious of positions, so I was trying to use that to my advantage by offering to do it for them.

Their platoon commander was all about me tagging along but in the chaos of our convoy leaving, and the FOB getting attacked, he couldn’t get the go ahead from my own team leader.

Disappointed, I sat pouting grumpily on tower 7 watching through binos with Manuel as CJ and the crew trolled over to investigate the compound where the insurgents lay.

As they cautiously approached the compound entrance, “KA-BOOM!” there was a massive explosion! To my complete and utter dismay, I watched as CJ turned into a pillar of smoke that reached high into the sky. All chaos broke loose. The radio started chattering away as an urgent surgical Close Air Support Casualty Evaction (CASEvac) request was sent up, guys were yelling and screaming. Manuel sat next to me rocking back and forth saying “I killed CJ, I killed CJ. . .” which seemed a little weird to me at the time. Shortly after the explosion, Outlaw platoon began taking intermittent small arms fire. It was too far for me to do anything from tower 7. All I could do was remain glued to my binoculars and look for distant targets to call in on the radio. I felt useless.

The chaos soon subsided into slow brooding. The question “Is C.J. okay?” was splintered into all of our brains.

The urgent surgical CASEvac was eventually switched to a routine MEDEvac. I was relatively new to combat so I didn’t quite know it yet at the time, but that downgrade is a very ominous sign. It usually means that your buddy is most likely going home in a body bag.

Later, as Outlaw solemnly patrolled back to the FOB. I saw one guy holding a blasted helmet, another with a mangled rifle. Nobody had said it aloud yet, but that’s when I knew C.J. was no longer with us

That was August 19, 2010.

Fast forward roughly ten years.

It was a beautiful, calm, sunny day. I was with my family at the park down the street from our house. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why, but I was feeling edgy and irritable. I was chilling under a shade tree but the heart rate monitor on my watch read 120bpm .  I was being more critical of my kids than necessary, and my wife was getting annoyed with me. The birds kept chirping and the butterflies kept fluttering. I felt amped, like something was about to go down.

Initially, it made no sense to me. “Why am I feeling this way?”I began asking myself “what happened in Afghanistan around this time of year?”. You see, living with a psychologist makes you ask weird questions like this from time to time.

The thing with PTSD and trauma responses is that the memories being brought up are often stored in the body. Meaning you might not necessarily be having flash backs or conscious thoughts or memories of events. Your heart might start racing, you might get randomly angry and irritable, noise sensitivity can kick in, etc. An example would be when your kids slam a door in the next room and you take cover behind a dresser. You’re thinking about the door slamming and how foolish you look behind the dresser, but your body is remembering something else entirely.

In his book, The Body Keeps the Score, psychiatrist Dr. Bessel van der Kolk explains how trauma is stored not just in the mind, but in the body. The nervous system remembers, even when the conscious mind does not. Many of the memories we have from traumatic events can be body based with no language to them.

And anniversaries (even when “forgotten”) can trigger us. So, if you ever find yourself feeling anxious, on edge, or inexplicably irritable, for no apparent reason; try asking yourself this:

“Is there something I might be remembering without realizing it?”

This does not just apply to combat veterans. It could be the loss of a loved one, an accident, abuse, a divorce, a betrayal—anything that left a mark.

When we got home, I pulled out my journals from Afghanistan. Sure enough, it was within days of C.J.’s death along with other tough anniversary days that had happened in Afghanistan during that time of year.

At the time, I was undergoing Somatic Experiencing (SE) therapy which is a type of body-based trauma therapy developed by psychologist Dr. Peter Levine. SE is a somatic therapy, meaning it is largely body based. I was working with a particularly skilled practitioner named Cvita Mamic, she had been trained directly by Dr. Levine. I brought up my experience at the park and we began working through the events surrounding CJ’s death.

In that particular session, I was revisiting these memories from Afghanistan then returning to the present moment to check in with my body and surroundings. A technique known as pendulating. You dip your toe into the sea of difficult thoughts, memories, and emotions then ground yourself back to the present moment where you are in a stable and safe place. Eventually you can dive in and take a swim if you wish.

She had me lean into the body sensations, the memories, and the emotions. I recalled the irony of my offer to walk point, I relived the explosion, I saw his mangled equipment being reverently carried back. I remembered our platoon Sergeant sitting us all down. Telling us that C.J. didn’t make it and to  “smoke em’ if you got em”. I don’t smoke, but I did that day.

As all these things churned around in my mind and body; she prompted me “now separate the good from the bad, what is important to hold onto from that event? Who was CJ?”.

 In an instant I was transported to a cold damp fighting hole during training at the Marine Corps School of Infantry. It was late at night, and I was huddled next to none other than C.J. I’d known him for my entire Marine Corps career. I recalled who C.J. was as a man. He had a wife and twin baby sons at home, yet he volunteered to walk point in Afghanistan and keep his brothers safe from Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). I remember him as always having a good sense of humor and a smile on his face.  He was a true badass.

Cvita prompted me again, I was back in the room. Only this time, it was the weirdest thing and it’s hard to put into words. I felt a presence there. It felt as though C.J. was right there with me. Read that however you want, but it’s what I felt, and it brings tears to my eyes just to recall it. Just know that on the other side of all the pain and agony, if you do the work, something happens. For me, on more than one occasion, I’ve gotten to hang with my fallen brothers again, if not just briefly. At least, that’s how it felt to me. You can “science” that sensation all you want but it is nonetheless a priceless and healing feeling when it comes.

For me, August can be a solemn month full of things that my body will not let me forget no matter how hard my mind tries to, consciously or unconsciously. It’s gotten much better over the years but to this day I have a hard time remembering the anniversary dates of tragic events like what happened to CJ. It’s like my mind tries to delete them from the calendar, tries to forget. It emphasizes to me the importance of days like Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day. However, each of us has our own days throughout the year where something difficult or solemn might need to be remembered and revisited. Mark them down! They’re just as important as the collective memorial days.

The “mental health” journey is the invisible war we fight after the physical war ends. It’s not about relaxation exercises and feeling good all the time. “Mental health” is about resilience and having the ability to live fully, even in the shadows of the hardest of moments. It’s learning to suffer well and being grateful for all of it when things get better. And they will!

The reason I write this is not to “trauma dump”, it’s a rallying cry! I share my experiences in hopes that others out there who have been through far worse than I might be encouraged to open up, seek support, and do the work needed to keep on fighting the good fight and living the good life. Remember: from your deepest suffering, comes your greatest enlightenment.

*Names have been changed or omitted entirely. Except for C.J.!

William A. Banner is a U.S. Marine Corps veteran who served with distinction in the Scout Sniper Platoon of 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines. Today, he is a dedicated advocate for veteran mental health, drawing on his own experiences to support others navigating life after service. While not a therapist himself, William works in close partnership with his wife, Dr. Angie Pulido-Banner, contributing to the mission of Equanimity Psychology Services, a private mental health practice committed to trauma-informed care and holistic mental wellness.