Vietnam traumas still haunt ex-SEAL

When he tried to say their names, he felt as if an explosion blasted in the frontal lobe of his brain.

He started to sob uncontrollably. It was the first time in nearly 30 years he had even tried to speak the names of the friends who he had seen killed in Vietnam.

David Morris left the Mekong Delta in 1968, but its horror stayed in his mind, at times seeming to cripple his life. He could never figure out why. But then, in the doctor's office at a veterans hospital in Charleston, Morris received an explanation -- post traumatic stress disorder.

The Beaufort native describes his years of dealing with PTSD in his book, "Coming Full Circle," released earlier this year. In Morris's case, his PTSD developed during his six months in Vietnam. He wasn't diagnosed until 1996. And now he's taking another major step, discussing it openly in the hopes it might help him and the millions of others who suffer from the effects of psychological trauma.

"It was something that I needed to get out," he said. "I still walk around with this big secret. It was something I felt like I had to do.

"It's a confession."

LIFE WITH PTSD

Morris and his wife, Becky Bradshaw, live in wooded seclusion on St. Helena Island. A dusty drive leads to two small houses on the property. One for Morris, and the other for his wife.

PTSD is an anxiety disorder. Morris has a severe case. He is almost always nervous. He cries frequently. He jumps when startled. Bradshaw has to tap on something when she's walking up to him with his back turned. Otherwise, he might leap from the shock.

His routine is minimal. He takes walks daily with Bradshaw. He goes to the store. He takes loads of trash to the dump. He takes care of chores on the property. He used to fish, but he lost interest. His doctor told him that's what happens to someone who's depressed.

He's open and polite to a visitor who's come to ask him about his book. He uses a dishtowel to wipe his eyes when he talks about emotional subjects -- times he was near death or the patience and compassion of his wife.

He usually has no problem with strangers on a small scale. He can go to the store and ask for cold cuts without a problem. But he gets anxious around large crowds. He can visit with friends and family, but after a while, he gets too anxious and has to leave. Hence, the two houses. He needs space where he can be alone.

"A lot of Americans need to know what war can do to a person," he said. "For the longest time, I never thought Vietnam had anything to do with what I was feeling."

VIETNAM

Morris joined the Navy shortly after graduating Beaufort High School in 1965, following in the footsteps of his father. He was eventually accepted to become a Navy SEAL. As a part of Mike Platoon, SEAL Team One, he mainly operated in the Mekong Delta, doing ambushes, intelligence gathering and bringing in Vietnamese for interrogations.

In his book, he details the traumas that burrowed their way deep into his mind. He saw combat, so the stories are of men killing or being killed.

One is of a well-respected officer whose automatic weapon unloaded in the small, crowded cabin of a river patrol boat. Morris was unharmed, but the officer was killed and another SEAL seriously injured.

Another is of a suspected double agent who Morris and a fellow SEAL were escorting out of a hut. They were awaiting orders about what to do with him. His hands were bound behind his back and a rag was stuffed into his mouth. The order came to "do it." Kill him.

Morris took his KA-BAR knife and started to cut the man's throat but stopped. The other SEAL stabbed the man in the gut. The body was rolled into a canal. The man was listed as killed in action. Morris always knew the severity of what he had done. But he kept it to himself.

He returned stateside and graduated with a degree in business administration from the University of South Carolina. He rejoined the Navy, got married and moved to Florida for training. He started in a program to fly helicopters, but found it difficult. His anxiety was too much. He switched to become a SEAL training officer. But it didn't feel right either. He didn't feel like he belonged.

INESCAPABLE ANXIETY

Eventually, Morris returned to Beaufort with his wife and young son after an honorable discharge. His anxiety was by now a constant presence. He thought about Vietnam daily. He worked a low-stress job at his father's gas station. The marriage didn't work out, and he divorced.

Soon after he met Bradshaw. At the beginning of their relationship, they would go out, meet with friends, travel. But even then she sensed something was off. Sometimes Morris would just unexpectedly want to leave when they'd go out for the evening. They once turned around halfway on a trip to North Carolina because Morris was too anxious. It can be frustrating to not live life as a normal couple, but she stays beside him because she sees the good man behind the disorder, not just the disorder.

"I saw him fight it, but it's so powerful," she said. "There wasn't much more that I could do than to just be there for him."

Morris was a college graduate and a former Navy SEAL, but he couldn't seem to hold a job with much responsibility. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what.

In 1996, he went to the hospital in Charleston for tests because of his potential exposure to the military defoliant Agent Orange, which was believed to be causing cancer and other health issues in veterans. A few tests were run and afterward he spoke to a doctor. That's when the line of questioning began. Where did you serve? What did you do? Had you seen any of your friends killed? What were their names?

He was flooded with the past, and the emotion seemed as real as it did those 28 years ago when he was in the sweltering jungle. Shortly after, he started to regularly see a doctor in Charleston to deal with PTSD. The doctor said he had been suffering from it since 1968.

STILL HOPE

Almost a third of Vietnam veterans have suffered through most of their lives with some form of PTSD, according to the department of Veterans Affairs. PTSD wasn't officially recognized as a disorder until 1980, meaning many veterans like Morris didn't received proper treatment once they returned home. But that doesn't mean that they are lost causes. Given the proper treatments, patients can show improvement no matter how long they've been suffering, said Dr. Matt Yoder of the Ralph H. Johnson VA Medical Center in Charleston.

"It can happen after one year or 60 years," he said.

After being diagnosed, Morris felt worse before he got better. He was crying every day, even on site with his job with a contractor. He was having frequent nightmares -- vivid images of dead babies, decapitated bodies, knives wet with blood. His boss couldn't count on him to do his job. He got put on permanent disability.

Life has gotten better over the past decade, he says. He doesn't cry as often. He continues to take medication for anxiety and depression. He's been through a half dozen psychiatrists. He currently sees one every three months. Morris and his wife live off his disability payments and the money she makes being a nanny and working in a church day care.

He says he doesn't think of suicide. The only time he did was about 10 years ago. He used to go on drives, taking his dog, Buddy, in his pickup and tooling around the country roads and out onto the interstate. Once he was driving on Interstate 95 when the concrete pillars that supported a road overhead caught his eye. He thought he could swerve into one of the pillars. He could end his misery. But Buddy, just a pup then, was in the seat next to him. He couldn't end the life of an innocent.

TELLING HIS STORY

Treatment involves getting past avoidance, confronting the situations that cause the trauma. Dr. Yoder said patients tell and re-tell their stories, often recording themselves to listen to it later.

About two years ago Morris decided his life wasn't just going to be consumed with the anxiety. It needed to be worth something. He started to compile his story, simple and direct, from the beginning. He dictated into a recorder and enlisted his wife to help him write.

He saw it as part of his recovery.

It's his confession. It's his exorcism.

"I used to feel like the devil had gotten a hold of me," he said. "And I fought it."