by Jason Fox
I hadn’t told either Andy or Debbie about my moment at the cliff, but just by watching me at work, both of them understood that I’d ended up in a dangerous place, and neither of them was in any position to plan my escape route without an expert’s help. Dr Lagaisse’s website was the first result in an early search and apparently offered ‘evidence-based assessment and treatment for people experiencing mental health difficulties’, but when I drove towards the clinic a few days later, to say I was pessimistic would be an understatement. I couldn’t see beyond my experiences in the Navy’s mental health care facility, and I convinced myself that Dr Lagaisse would be no different from the psych nurses in Poole and Portsmouth. I dreaded more sessions of EMDR and CBT, those endless pen-waving episodes and deep dives into my family life, and when I arrived at the clinic, which was a GP’s practice, my worst fears were reinforced. The place looked cold and sterile. Medical. Its exterior reminded me of a building from Ricky Gervais’s BBC TV comedy The Office, and inside its prefab walls and cheap furniture only added to the inhospitable atmosphere. More Ikea, more beige.
I sensed my day was going to end with another frustrated and miserable car ride home, but eventually a young woman arrived to take me into the doctor’s office. She didn’t look like one of the receptionists I’d been used to in Poole. A real hippy-ish type in her early thirties, she wore a long dress with a brightly coloured and flowery pattern, a string of New Age-style beads draped from her neck. She was relaxed, smiley. My introduction to Dr Lagaisse’s working practice seemed a million miles away from the Navy’s psych ward, where the treatment I had been used to was very rigid and formal. This was at the other end of the spectrum. Sadly, the positive mood faded quickly, my heart sinking as she showed me into a room that reminded me of an oversized stationery cupboard. Here we go again, I thought, settling myself on a sofa and waiting for the doctor to arrive. But then, to my surprise, I discovered the same woman had followed me in and was taking a seat on the chair opposite me. I must have looked startled because she smiled, knowingly. Then the penny dropped.
‘Wait, are you …?’ I said, feeling both embarrassed and mega-rude at having expected Dr Alex Lagaisse to be a man. ‘I’m sorry, I just assumed …’
‘Dr Alexandra Lagaisse,’ she said, laughing, shrugging away my blunder. I recovered my composure, knowing I’d come over as a clumsy, sexist idiot. I drew in a deep, settling breath and took in my surroundings. The mood of the place had already depressed the hell out of me. Nothing brought to mind the concepts of wellness or recovery like a dull office stuffed with empty filing cabinets and boxes of stationery. I looked at Dr Lagaisse again. I was worried she wouldn’t understand me, or my life in war.
This isn’t going to work, I thought. But what the hell, mate, just go along with it.
‘So, Jason, do you want to start by telling me what’s brought you here?’ she said.
We settled in to an easy conversation. I detailed the unpleasant circumstances that were tearing me apart and the nature of my departure from the military. I went into the crazy events of the past few weeks and how I was regretting my resignation from a job I’d loved, but weirdly I was more haunted than ever by what I’d seen in conflict. I told her of how I felt guilty at the lives that had been damaged by war, but how I’d been yearning for the adrenaline rushes experienced in a gunfight. Dr Lagaisse nodded sympathetically while taking notes. She seemed so easy to talk to. Her manner was friendly and open, and I felt at ease in her company almost instantly. Without the Navy’s shadow looming over us, I was unshackled, secure in expressing my true thoughts and feelings. I’d also realized that I had nothing left to lose as far as my career was concerned. There was no Brotherhood or senior officers to judge me. I could trust her.
‘I’m shit,’ I said, eventually. ‘I’m shit at everything. I can’t keep my partner happy, so that’s going down the pan. I’ve got a shitty job and I really don’t like it, but then I’m feeling guilty because Andy, my boss, is great and he’s given me a company car, a decent salary, a lot of perks – I’m allowed to do pretty much what I want, but I’m still unhappy. He even encouraged me to come here. The thing is, I’m supposed to be a soldier, but now I’m not a soldier. I’m a nobody.’
I was slowly building up to my most worrying confession of all, the one I hadn’t admitted to anybody. ‘I do understand why blokes take their lives,’ I said.
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Dr Lagaisse.
‘Well, they’re literally at the end of it all thinking, “What’s my purpose?”’
I paused, wondering whether to confess everything before spilling it all.
‘The other day I even walked to the edge of a cliff and stared down wondering what it would be like to die,’ I said sadly. ‘But I bottled it. I couldn’t throw myself off, even though I’d wanted to …’
She nodded. ‘So how do you feel most days?’
I sighed. ‘I’m in this fuzzy head-fuck and I’ve got this whirlwind going on and I’m not sure what’s happening, and I think I’m doing the right thing by working this job when actually my judgement is skew-whiff because of the fuzzy head. And I don’t have anyone to talk to. All that unwritten stuff in the military, that you shouldn’t open up about your emotions because it’s not good for you … That’s bollocks, isn’t it? If you feel unwell, or you think there’s something wrong, or you notice yourself acting spaced-out or experiencing dark thoughts, you need to be brave and talk, don’t you? I needed to chat to other lads, but as a bloke working in an alpha-male environment, I’d been conditioned not to do it.’
‘Other lads?’
‘Well, when I say lads, I mean friends, mates, the people that I’d been fighting alongside,’ I explained, ‘whoever it was – but someone I felt comfortable talking to about what was going wrong with me. Instead, we’d been encouraged to give it the stiff-upper-lip treatment, so I avoided them. Yeah, I chatted to some of the boys on the phone, maybe three or four blokes I knew well after I’d left, but it wasn’t all the time, and I definitely wouldn’t talk about what was going on with me, about my thoughts. Chatting to them was probably more of a distraction than anything else, it certainly wasn’t what it should have been: me, opening up about traumatically leaving a job I’d done for so long. I even told them I’d been struck off with tinnitus rather than telling them the truth. Looking back, quitting was a massive deal for me and I had no one to talk to about it.’
As we spoke, I noticed that Dr Lagaisse was interested in my upbringing, but not to the point where it was the only thing she focused on. I later learned that she’d arrived at the early conclusion that – despite everybody having their own unique patterns and conditioning from family life – my issues were a direct result of the experiences in war. But I’d been free to lead the conversation; she hadn’t even announced some grand plan of how I could expect to be healed within her care, though I should have guessed a more holistic approach was coming. When I’d first looked her up, Dr Lagaisse’s website had promised ‘the practice of clinical psychology’. Her introduction continued, ‘I work with individuals and groups to alleviate suffering, and I work with professionals in the healthcare system. My work with individuals involves using mindfulness and presence, and nature-based work …’ She rounded up our session by asking me what I liked in life, to list the things that made me really happy.
‘Adventure,’ I said. ‘Having a purpose, being part of something with meaning. Taking risks and pushing myself.’ These were the career goals that Sodexo hadn’t been able to deliver in the slightest.
‘Jason, you’re not broken,’ she said. ‘This is a process about discovering again who you are, beyond these experiences. You’re having a normal reaction to extreme events. You don’t need fixing, just the chance to be who you are. A space where you can be honest with yourself and deal with the truth of it. Is that something you think you’d want to do?’
I nodded. There was nothing for me to hide any more, my secrets were out in the open and nothing
I might say was going to worsen my position. I’d already hit rock bottom. Yet for the first time in ages there was a shot of optimism, an idea that my escape from emotional tumult was a very real possibility, and I began to feel more and more comfortable talking to Dr Lagaisse. The only thing that bothered me about our work was the surroundings – not that this lasted for long. After a few sessions I was informed that we’d have to move rooms due to logistical issues. Dr Lagaisse wanted to know whether I’d like to change clinic spaces or shift into what she called ‘an even worse meeting place’.
‘Well, what about somewhere else?’ I said, looking around at the drab office. ‘Is there any way we could do these chats outside, like on a park bench? This place does my head in …’
‘Well, actually we could,’ she smiled. ‘I’m happier working outside this office, too. Next time let’s take a walk through the woods instead.’
25
Author’s Note
So much of my time spent in therapy with Dr Alex Lagaisse is very hard to recall. I was a mess back then, a fish out of water in a corporate job, trying to be a person I was never meant to be. Having re-examined such a heavy episode from my life during the writing of this book, it now seems detached from my current reality, like a parallel universe, one completely unrecognizable from where I am now. It’s as if I was watching my time in therapy rather than actually living through it. I reckon it might well be a self-defence mechanism, my mind distancing itself from what I was going through. Weirdly, my career in the military now seems nearer to me than that period in my life, which lasted for around a year from 2013 to 2014. Because of that, I’ve had to ask for Alex’s help in piecing together what actually happened to me during our year or so working together. The following two chapters have been written by combining each of our recollections of the events that took place, plus a series of patient notes.
‘Mr Fox describes how his problematic experiences have greatly improved over the course of time but he still struggles with the number of difficulties. He describes still being very emotional and crying easily and becoming distressed by things that would not have previously bothered him. He said his emotional state is more volatile in general, becoming tearful at times and angry at others …’
Patient notes: Jason Fox.
We arrived at the woods, the path beyond leading into an expanse of overgrown bushes and trees. This was much more calming than the office we’d been working from previously. I could take in the fresh air now; I felt safe, and my senses relaxed with the scent of the damp breeze, dewy grass and wet bark. The chemical smell of a medical building, the air-freshened waiting room and the unfriendly plastic furniture seemed a million miles away. Even stretching my legs as we talked seemed therapeutic; natural, engaging. But after chatting to Alex – she was happy for me to call her by her first name – I’d come to understand why so many other patients were comfortable when meeting with their therapist in a GP-style practice. The vibe was supposed to make them feel reassured. People went to their doctor in order to fix whatever sickness was cutting them down; they naturally associated clinical environments with help, cure and a source of sympathy. Any psychologist operating from a building like the one Alex and I had met in during our first sessions was aiming to deliver a sense of confidence and safety to someone that might not have experienced therapy before. A reassuring arm around the shoulder; a calming whisper that said, ‘It’s OK, mate, you’re moving into a place of healing.’
But the clinic hadn’t felt like a safe space to me. Instead, those rooms reminded me of Poole and a time when I’d first realized I was losing my identity, when I’d first admitted to someone that … I had a problem. Alex would later tell me that the environment had helped to crush my sense of self. It had tricked me into thinking my body was failing, like a sweating, feverish patient in a doctor’s waiting room. It made sense that I would respond better within a more natural backdrop because I’d spent most of my adult life outdoors, running through jungles, harsh mountainous terrain and deserts.
‘Just notice that you’re entering into a different kind of space here, Jason,’ said Alex.
A trail led towards a steep incline. On one side its edges were lined with a bank of looming redwoods. Standing upright in neat rows like a drill parade of soldiers, they looked identical, packed in together so tightly that the leafy armour prevented a lot of light from seeping through. The other side was less dense and brighter. Sun dappled its vegetation, which had become wild and knotted, as branches and thorny vines tangled over one another. The wood was a public area, so dog walkers and runners occasionally passed by us on either side of the pathway.
‘It’s really valuable to recognize we’re in a place of purpose,’ Alex continued, stepping along the track. ‘That way you can put intention into taking something seriously, to giving it the attention it deserves, otherwise it’s just another jaunt in the woods, something you might do with a mate.’
I walked on, making mental notes of the paths that led away in several different directions, the clearings ahead, and a steep hill on what looked like a stretch of private farmland. Over the coming months we’d explore those woodland routes together on a weekly basis, Alex encouraging me to talk about what had happened in the days since we’d last met and how those events had affected me. Essentially, she wanted me to observe my emotional state; the process was in place so I could return to my wholeness by noticing what I was all about. The real me. The bloke I’d been before my mind had crumbled.
One of her observations was that I’d built up a series of limiting beliefs through my time with the military, assumptions about myself that had halted my progress and were fundamentally wrong. I could go along with that. My shame at being medically discharged was certainly a massive weight upon me and it challenged the image I’d previously created for myself. The idea that I was a man operating with kudos was dissipated by the events that led me to leaving; from there I assumed I was a failure in a profession I’d loved. As a result, my view was that I’d become weak and worthless in all aspects of life, but Alex was teaching me the value of unconditional acceptance. During our early talks I was given a framework in which to share my deepest thoughts and fears without judgement. At times, Alex offered practical advice or ideas on how to manage a certain situation. At others she challenged me to explore my own thinking.
‘I’m just wondering what’s going on for you right now …’ was a line I’d hear whenever she wanted me to delve deeper, particularly if my moods were revolving around the idea of shame. ‘Look at what’s being evoked in you during that moment. What’s your fear? What are you running away from and avoiding? Let’s stay with it for a bit and look at what it’s like to feel shame, or the fear of rejection …’
The problems moved more clearly into focus. I was definitely struggling to overcome the contradictions in my life – they were spinning me out. My fear had been so great on some of my final missions that it had created a dangerous level of anxiety, and yet I wanted to return to combat, the root cause of my issues. Then there was the mourning for camaraderie. I believed that re-joining the military was the only way to experience the powerful levels of union I’d shared with the men serving alongside me. But because I’d been institutionalized in my work, I’d decided the two issues of a yearning for that bonding and my fear of combat were mutually exclusive and couldn’t be reconciled. I was scared and weak, so the concept of The Brotherhood seemed out of reach. Feeling like an outcast, I’d moved into the civilian, corporate lifestyle, building a new story for myself, but the pressure to fit in had made me feel inauthentic. I clearly couldn’t live with the imbalance; I’d felt like an alien. Meanwhile, the actions of my former employers bothered me more and more, especially regarding their speed in binning me off so quickly. Had they just wanted to be rid of my issues?
‘That’s not what life is, though,’ said Alex, as I tried to define the blurred lines and inconsistencies one day. ‘Not everything is black and white. Just because you’ve lost a
brotherhood in the past, it doesn’t mean you can’t find a new one again. You can rediscover another purpose, too. You just need to work out what it was that you really valued in the military. You can then create that for yourself somewhere else.’
I was finding it hard to take in. ‘I don’t know, Alex,’ I said. ‘I’m just so angry about everything that I can’t see how I’d get into that headspace.’
‘It’s OK to be angry at the military and to miss that environment, to need that brotherhood and to want to have that experience again. But the test now is this: how do you find that feeling – that crucial sense of belonging – in a different way?’
It was obvious that responding to those challenges in the months ahead would present the route map to a changed and hopefully renewed life – one with serious purpose. But arriving at that point wouldn’t necessarily happen overnight.
There was so much work to do.
‘Agreed to do mindfulness practice through the woods and walked mainly in silence for about half an hour. Then Jason began to narrate what he saw. See paths he hadn’t noticed before. I asked him to narrate his emotional experience and he said he felt quite calm and was able to notice things he would usually find himself distracted by.’
Patient notes: Jason Fox.
From the outset, Alex observed that PTSD had forced me into a state of hyper-alertness. This, in layman’s terms, meant that I was constantly scanning for threats. I wasn’t assessing the woods for any snipers that might be lurking nearby, or looking under fallen logs for signs of an embedded IED. Instead I was subconsciously searching for obstacles that might hinder the task at hand, not that I actually knew what that task was at the time – it was a vague sense of urgency, one that shadowed me everywhere, and anything that distracted me from it was viewed with annoyance, which then quickened my temper. According to Alex this was a common PTSD symptom, and totally understandable in my situation. For years, I had been trained to work within a constant state of extreme arousal where all my senses were ramped up in order to assess situations for danger and risk to life. My fight-or-flight mechanism was constantly in operation. Once removed from the combat environment, I hadn’t settled down, which, unsurprisingly, had frazzled my nervous system. No wonder I couldn’t sleep. No wonder I’d been wound up tight. No wonder I remembered every awful war experience in painful detail.