by Jason Fox
‘It’s an easy place to get lost in,’ said Alex as we found a spot to stand and take in the quiet. ‘It’s why I like coming here. You can walk around for ages and never see the same path twice. After all this time, we’ve only just made it down to the water.’
We looked at the river for what felt like ages, chatting about the future, and what I wanted to do beyond working at Sodexo. Together we were locating the permanent sense of purpose I so desperately needed. Rock2Recovery was making small strides and seeing results. (Malcolm agreed to fill the coaching role that Alex had felt was inappropriate for her to accept.) To both of us, a reassuring reality was coming into view. I had advanced enough emotionally to not need Alex’s help for much longer, though I was taking to the idea more slowly than she was. I’d grown to enjoy our walks; the sessions were something I looked forward to each week. But she reasoned that we should move our meetings from weekly to fortnightly – so I could ready myself for a time without her assistance – before eventually arranging to talk in a couple of months. The process was called a staged ending, and I felt gutted at the suggestion. I thought, Hang on. You can’t say that! You’re an awesome person and I like being around you … But the break had been coming for a while and a closure to our work made sense. I’d made so much progress in her care that I was able to cut loose without help. After around a year of sessions, my anger and anxiety had faded. I was able to sleep without being haunted by the faces of terrified kids and families. I could see past the gloom of depression to a future that had once seemed so dark.
‘This sounds funny, but it will be good for you to experience life on your own,’ Alex said. ‘Without having these sessions to rely on.’
It made total sense. I was stronger, healthier, and Alex had helped me to get to that point, though leaving her behind felt like a painful break-up. What would happen without her? Who would I turn to for advice? Then the idea of regained purpose pushed me forward again. New trails stretched out ahead of me. There were other paths to walk down, each one loaded with new possibilities as I took in the now.
Author’s Note
The following is a recent note written by Alex Lagaisse when asked to summarize our time spent working together …
Reflecting on the work that Jason and I did together, which started five years ago, and hearing his account is a touching thing. Rarely, if ever, does a therapist get to do that. As I sit down now to write this I ask myself how can I best describe what happened there in the woods to give people a true account? How can I, as a clinical psychologist, shout out and give hope to the many people who have felt utterly betrayed and disappointed by the help offered? How can I justify the choices I made here with Jason?
But all of these, I know, are pointless. If anyone has had therapy they will know that the nuances and moments that make change are nearly indescribable. For example, it might read that the breakthrough moments happened for Jason when realizing his need to live in the present, or seeing the little girl and understanding that he needed to find a path forward that fulfilled him and moved him in the way the military once had. But these moments were built on many weeks of struggle and pain. Wandering down different paths – metaphorically, and literally – through the woods, often not knowing where we were going, sometimes getting lost or finding ourselves in unexpected places: it was hard work and the journey took us into dark spots. Going to those places with someone you trust, rather than going round and round in one’s own mind, is like having a guide. To experience PTSD is, as Jason alludes to, like losing one’s touch with the world and finding yourself alone in your thoughts. For some people it manifests as anger and irritability, for others as shame, and for many, a hyper-vigilance to fear that cannot be switched off. But to reach out and be allowed to be, just as you are, can help you find the way out.
Reading Jason’s account of his previous therapy in the military was not a surprise to me as I had heard it before, but I am so glad that he has shared this because I feel it is sadly so common. To feel pathologized, to be made to feel like one is ‘broken’ or ‘ill’, is to immediately undermine the healing process. These kinds of experiences – whether they come from war, witnessing the death or injury of a loved one, or having endured things as a child that one shouldn’t have to (amongst many other things) – can cause wounds. But the responses are always, in my experience, understandable given the context; they can, within the right environment, become a gift. Both EMDR and CBT, the therapies that Jason tried, can be effective and transformative. However, in my experience that happens only when a person feels understood and truly seen. No one will fit a round hole if they’re a square peg.
This book has juxtaposed Jason’s experience of war with being in the woods and this is something we did frequently in our sessions: reflect on the striking differences between being there and here. I remember distinctly that he gave an account of being in the desert, of being out there for days on end, before returning to a base camp in the middle of nowhere. That was his world. And then there we were in Devon, clambering up a bank of slippery mud and fallen leaves. He was struggling so much in the corporate world, which was sterile and revolting to him; full of politics, hierarchies and ways he didn’t understand. The time we spent in the woods was the only time he wasn’t at work, wearing a suit, doing a job he hated. It was purposeful choosing to be there, in the wilderness. It is, for many reasons, the best environment in which to find oneself; a sense of calm, presence and belonging come much easier. For Jason, many ex-servicemen, and indeed many others, it is where they feel most at home. The natural world has a calming influence on our nervous systems, which gets hyper-activated in the case of many veterans. It is, after all, our original context and most fundamental place of belonging. I recall Jason noticing that he was beginning to feel safe again in those woods for the first time.
For people struggling with mental health, finding a place of comfort in the uncomfortable – or, in other words, to be OK with where you are at – can enable change to happen. The war within can fall away and wholeness can return, leaving a person wounded in all the right places.
Alex Lagaisse, 2018
27
My inner kid was reclaimed with the help of Aldo Kane. A former commando sniper who had served in the War on Terror, the pair of us crossed paths during my early days in the Marines, at a training course where everyone was expected to be physically on-point. The night before our work was set to start, most of the lads were mega-keen to succeed and had hunkered down for a quiet night of rest and some sensible preparation for the arduous horrors to come. But Aldo and I went out on the lash. I’d warmed to him straight away. His character immediately put me at ease and everything about Aldo was genuine – there was nothing mystical or secretive going on and we would later become pretty tight mates. Neither of us managed to grab any sleep after our heavy session, and the following morning, the group was ordered to run around for hours on end, sprinting through miles and miles of muddy fields during a time trial, heavy Bergens strapped to our backs. Somehow, miraculously, Aldo and I passed, puking up into the grass when the punishment was done.
While I’d been enduring my medical discharge from the military and rebuilding my life through therapy, Aldo had turned himself into a modern-day Indiana Jones, setting up a business in which he disappeared on safety missions for TV production companies hoping to move within some of the world’s most dangerous locations. In military terms, Aldo was the dude kicking down doors, ensuring that remote rainforest environments were accessible enough for film crews to work in, meeting with tribal elders and native fighters, while smoothing the way for battle-hardened TV presenters. He had lived in Ebola zones and helped toxicologists to find venomous snakes and spiders in the Amazon. At one point he even travelled into the Congo, where a camera crew had wanted to film from the edge of an active volcano. Aldo had nailed that particular job and after that the work flew in at him from all angles. It seemed only a matter of time before he required some assistance.
&nbs
p; Given that the pair of us had stayed in touch since we’d met, Aldo had learned that I was working through a sticky spot. It was obvious to everyone that I was keener than ever to get away from Sodexo, and Andy Leach understood my desire to move on. Actually, he was only too happy to see me go; he wanted me to discover my purpose as much as Alex and Malcolm did. Various grand ideas had come and gone. There was an idea to apply for a job flying drones, but I knew it wasn’t enough to give me the much-needed spark I craved. Meanwhile, I’d been knocked by the collapse of a potentially lucrative security gig.
An Italian oil executive required personal protection as he travelled the world in a private jet, and I was invited to make up part of his bodyguard team. I put aside my scepticism about the downsides of that particular profession, mainly because the pay was so great, the perks were awesome, and I knew the role might involve some James Bond-style work. Being attached to a high-risk individual often involved assessing the personal logistics of their day-to-day life. For example, knowing exactly where the person was sleeping in a hotel, and who might be staying in the rooms around them, was imperative so that any risks could be headed off quite quickly; I was also required to plan escape routes should the need arise. Cyber-security checks were often a major issue. Sometimes, when the CEO of a high-value company was looking to close a deal, rival firms would hack into the company’s online infrastructure, seeking out weaknesses that could alter its position. Worse, they might seek compromising material which, if accessed, could deliver enough embarrassment to blackmail the company into signing away an asset for considerably reduced sums. I needn’t have thought about my workload too much, though. Having passed a bodyguarding refresher course, the oil industry went belly-up and my contract was cancelled. Eventually, I took it to be a blessing in disguise. Even though I was fast going broke, guarding a wealthy businessman as he met with other wealthy businessmen was hardly bringing the risk and adventure I’d craved. I needed to put Alex’s theory into action: to think more like a kid.
So when Aldo called, some time in 2015, offering a temporary job, I jumped at the chance.
‘Of course, mate, what is it?’ I said, imagining the possibilities.
‘It’s a job in Madagascar,’ he said, barely able to hide his excitement. ‘We’re working for an American explorer called Barry Clifford who’s doing a documentary on sunken pirate ships. Five-star hotels, five hundred pounds a day. It’s going to be awesome.’
Not long afterwards I was diving into the Indian Ocean’s sparkling waters, surveying the rotten husks of old boats rumoured to be the vessels of some of history’s most notorious pirates and old-time bad dudes. As well as being dive buddy to Sam, the project’s underwater cameraman and series producer, it was my role to guarantee that the air tanks were operational and that safety was on point at all times, ensuring that nobody suffered a nightmare while they were working. The location was amazing, real picture-postcard stuff, but I soon realized that the work could be quite dull. Watching a bunch of old archaeologists becoming over-excited as they scoured the sunken wreckage, bringing up fragments of what looked like ancient tea sets wasn’t the riskiest gig in the world. But with each piece, I smiled enthusiastically – It’s another teacup, mate – while reminding myself of the five-star scenery I was living in.
By the third week I’d become really bored, but my mood was about to change. As I waited on the edge of the dock with Sam, our feet swinging over the side, I noticed a cluster of bubbles below. Barry Clifford was emerging from the water. As he broke the surface I knew something had happened. The archaeologist looked really excited, more buzzed than he’d been at uncovering those old teapot pieces.
‘I’ve definitely found something down there!’ he shouted, waving up at us.
For weeks, Barry had been adamant that one of the wrecks we’d been swimming into was the Adventure Galley, a ship used by the famous seventeenth-century pirate Captain William Kidd. Kidd had really riled the Navy when he once sailed down the River Thames, and on passing a Navy yacht he failed to salute, which was a major balls-up in maritime etiquette back then. The Navy fired a shot across his bows, a warning for him to act respectfully in future, but his crew responded by turning their arses towards the yacht and spanking themselves, which, from what I could tell, was the seventeeth-century equivalent of giving it the middle finger.
Barry’s claim had got me excited for the first time in days and as he climbed up to change his air, Sam grabbed his camera and quietly suggested that he and I should swim down for a look of our own. ‘Shall we just do it?’ he said, and I nodded, hoping for a bit of action. The pair of us dropped into the water, swimming towards the bottom, the turquoise glow turning to inky blue as we moved through what we thought were the wooden guts of what might, or might not, have been the Adventure Galley. In the dark, silt and mud swirled around us, so it was hard to discern any definite shapes, but I knew Barry had excavated a makeshift tunnel leading into the heart of the wreckage. Once I’d located the entrance, we moved in, feeling around in the darkness for the source of his enthusiasm. There! In the roof I felt a large metallic block, rectangular with curved edges. It was cold to the touch, and once I’d pulled at it forcefully, the object dropped to the floor like a brick, puffing up plumes of dark sand. Whatever Barry had found was bloody heavy. (It later turned out the discovery had weighed around 50kg.) I could barely pick it up and after I’d waved Sam over, I began wrestling it from the floor, his footage later revealing what looked like a Looney Tunes cartoon fight scene: my hands and flippers disappearing in and out of a swirling brown cloud as I dislodged Barry’s discovery from the seabed. When I’d eventually prised the slab away it seemed to be a block of dark grey metal. The letters ‘T’ and ‘S’ had been engraved on to one side. And then I realized what had just happened: We’d decimated the old guy’s historical dive site! Panicking, we threw whatever it was back into the hole and rose to the surface, Barry passing us along the way. Sam gave him the thumbs up as if nothing had happened, and the pair of us climbed to the dock, hoping our unauthorized dig would pass unnoticed.
There was no chance of that.
Thirty minutes later, as we sunbathed with the crew, Barry stormed up to us angrily. ‘You two – over here,’ he snapped, pulling us to one side. ‘You found it, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, realizing the block must have carried some major significance. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m telling you, that’s the lost treasure of Captain Kidd.’
According to Barry, the archaeology team had sent off photographs of the block to a series of experts around the worldfn1 and early signs suggested his claim was going to be confirmed. My heart raced. I’d helped to find a serious chunk of pirate loot, and for a few hours afterwards the story ran across every major media outlet in the UK and beyond. All the newsflashes were accompanied by a video image of my hand as it grabbed at the dark grey metal slab in the gloom. Apparently, it was a silver bar, the largest ever found and a piece of booty that could be traced back to a Bolivian ship once attacked by Kidd as it sailed across the Atlantic. The story even knocked the news of the 2015 General Election from the BBC News homepage, and the knowledge that I’d played a small part in the discovery of a sunken treasure haul gave me the kick I’d not felt since my time with the military. I was reconnecting with my old self. When Sam had suggested swimming down to check the wreckage, I hadn’t flinched. I’d instinctively taken a risk and the rewarding burst of adrenaline that tingled through me afterwards was all the affirmation I needed that Alex had been right. I could be like that kid. I was like that kid! The recognition felt more lucrative than the contents of any swashbuckler’s treasure chest.
At times, the television business seemed more close-knit than the military. Once word had spread that I was the diver involved in the Adventure Galley project, my name was brought into discussion for a new Channel Four series that explored the physical attributes of the military at its highest level. Entitled Who Dares Wins, the show pushe
d a group of keen civilians through their paces rather than a team of battle-toughened soldiers or Royal Marines. The production crew were looking for four ex-military dudes to fill the role of directing staff (DS) – the assessment team, who pick out which recruits have the minerals to pass through to the highest level. Once I’d been identified as the diver on Barry Clifford’s latest haul, my name was chucked on to the shortlist. Initially I’d thought they’d wanted me to go in as an off-screen consultant, but when it was mentioned that Who Dares Wins required me to present a visible front and centre position with three others – Matthew ‘Ollie’ Ollerton, Colin Maclachlan and Ant Middleton – I wasn’t sure if getting involved was such a good idea.
‘Are you going to disguise our faces?’ I asked nervously.
I knew the Ministry of Defence weren’t overly keen on ex-soldiers like myself revealing their identities on the telly, and landing myself in trouble was the last thing I wanted, but Channel Four remained adamant that our personalities should feature in the show. Meanwhile, I was stressing about what my old mates in The Brotherhood would think as I pushed a mob of civvies through their paces. I’d be putting my head above the parapet – getting shot down in flames on social media by ex-military and the public wasn’t my idea of fun – but when I explained my plans to some of the blokes I’d kept in touch with, their reactions had been fairly positive. People seemed cool with it. Meanwhile, I’d become more relaxed about my reputation, after Andy Leach dragged me along to a military boxing gala some months previously.
It was meant to be a fun night out, but when he’d first mentioned it my gut instincts warned me not to go. ‘The people I worked with might blank me … They might not let me in,’ I half-joked when Andy showed me the ticket. The event was a black-tie do at a fancy London hotel and as the date of the gala approached I became fearful of a rejection from my old teammates. I worried that somebody might say something out of order when I walked through the door, a cheap crack about me being weak, and I felt embarrassed to see everyone after what I’d been through. I was being paranoid and Andy knew it. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.