VETERAN SUICIDE:

No Good Reason

by Marcus Robertson

There’s a commonly cited statistic about suicide among U.S. military veterans: each day, about 20 of them take their own lives. The number sometimes changes slightly, depending on who’s citing it and when, but the fact that it illustrates has remained unchanged for decades: veterans are more likely to kill themselves than the rest of the population is.

According to early 2020 figures, the pandemic likely made it much worse. In Cook County, according to the medical examiner’s office, suicides across the general population fell slightly compared to 2019. That fact, however, hides an increase in suicides from at-risk groups; for example, suicides among Black residents spiked 73 percent compared to 2019.

For military veterans, young people pose a disproportionately high suicide risk. Veterans from age 18 to 34 suffer higher suicide rates than any other age group. According to the Department of Veterans Affairs’ 2019 National Veteran Suicide Prevention Report, the suicide rate for younger veterans climbed by 76 percent from 2005 to 2017.
In November, Gov. J.B. Pritzker joined the Governor’s Challenge to Prevent Suicide, a collaborative push from the Department of Veterans Affairs and the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Agency. Pritzker’s office announced that Illinois would contribute $2 million toward the program.

It was an overcast day in June 2014, when I was on the way from Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, to a cemetery outside Tulsa. I rode in the second row of a van with 14 of my fellow airmen, all of us members of the honor guard, a special detail tasked with performing military funeral honors.

Typically, the funerals we’d perform in were those of veterans who’d finished their term of service long before. Those were smaller affairs, only calling for two to 11 honor guard members. This one was different: a funeral for an airman who died while on active duty. It was my first.

We weren’t told much beforehand about the person we were honoring. When we arrived, I was struck by how minimal it was, outside of our presence. The family of the deceased was present, but that was it; no work friends, and no one from his Air Force unit whatsoever.

The wind whipped, lifting the flag draped over the casket ever so slightly, and I took my place as one of the seven riflemen assigned to send this fallen service member to his resting place with 21 shots’ worth of gunpowder incense. Waiting for my cue, I looked around at the family. Normally, I’d see grief in their faces, mixed with solemn reverence — sometimes pride — for the military send-off their loved one had earned.

Not this time. All I saw was shock, confusion, and despair.

After we’d finished the ceremony and started to pack up, word spread through our ranks: the airman we had just buried was only 20 years old. Nothing else needed to be said. We knew.

He had killed himself.

“War isn’t just a devastating factor,” said Army veteran Kevin Bakker over a video chat from his gun-adorned garage. “It’s the death of innocence in men. The death of truly being able to feel and have compassion.”

A Bolingbrook resident, Bakker first saw combat in 2003, in the early days of the Iraq War. He described a “Wild West” attitude, with soldiers driving at reckless speeds through Baghdad, killing more people than the average video game player. The unspoken rule: shoot first, ask questions later; kill now, deal with your conscience when you get home.

“War crimes was a way of life,” he said.

Bakker, whose tattoos and long, red, braided beard give away that he’s a biker, had been awake for five days straight when we spoke. He suffers from insomnia stemming from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. His Army tenure earned him a traumatic brain injury and extensive nerve damage in his back.

The military broke Bakker down, as it does with any recruit in boot camp, and built him back up into an unfeeling war machine.

“They’re trained and sent to war, to combat. And then after that, it’s over. They’re just kind of like, ‘Okay, have a nice day, go back home,’” said Jorge Grango, a 12-year Army vet who’s taken up a career in clinical therapy.

Grango has treated veterans for psychological trauma, and he said that since the pandemic began, he’s noticed alarming signs in some of his former patients who still keep in contact with him.

“I kind of pick it up in conversation with them saying they’re drinking more, and saying, ‘Man, it just sucks, I don’t want to be here,’” Grango said. “And some of them I know have firearms, so I check on them periodically. If I don’t hear from them within like a week or two, it’s like, shoot a text, ‘Hey, what’s up brother, how’s it going?’ Most of them will say, ‘I’m just here drinking and watching TV.’ And it’s hard, because there’s some days where I’m doing the same damn thing.”

Grango said he most often sees veterans spiral out of control when life hands them too much idle time. Single veterans living alone, or those whose children have grown up and moved out, find themselves with nothing productive to do, and no one who relies on them. Grango said it’s a feeling of having no purpose that he sees too often in these cases.

“Whether you’re an anxious person or you’re depressed, being in isolation is really difficult,” said Dr. Stephanie Grunewald, founder of Restorative Counseling near Millenium Park. “Also, just the rupture in routine can be really daunting for people. Sometimes having continuity in life is really important, so it’s kind of multifaceted.”

The veteran suicide epidemic has hit close to home for both Grango and Bakker. Grango had a veteran friend who followed a similar path he did himself, going into clinical therapy as a counselor for other veterans. Grango helped his friend through a rough patch, but the recovery didn’t last.

“I met with him in early November, and he seemed to be doing better. He was doing great,” Grango said. “And then, come to hear about it at an event, and we got a call saying that he committed suicide. He jumped in front of a train.”

Now, Grango keeps the service card from his friend’s funeral in his wallet as a reminder and a motivator to keep going.

“I’ve watched too many friends and too many people I consider family go into the ground for no good reason,” Bakker said. “Because nobody thought to say the stupid shit you’re supposed to say.”

VETERAN SUICIDE:

Typically, the funerals we’d perform in were those of veterans who’d finished their term of service long before. Those were smaller affairs, only calling for two to 11 honor guard members. This one was different: a funeral for an airman who died while on active duty. It was my first.

We weren’t told much beforehand about the person we were honoring. When we arrived, I was struck by how minimal it was, outside of our presence. The family of the deceased was present, but that was it; no work friends, and no one from his Air Force unit whatsoever.

Not this time. All I saw was shock, confusion, and despair.

After we’d finished the ceremony and started to pack up, word spread through our ranks: the airman we had just buried was only 20 years old. Nothing else needed to be said. We knew.

He had killed himself.

“War isn’t just a devastating factor,” said Army veteran Kevin Bakker over a video chat from his gun-adorned garage. “It’s the death of innocence in men. The death of truly being able to feel and have compassion.”

“War crimes was a way of life,” he said.

The military broke Bakker down, as it does with any recruit in boot camp, and built him back up into an unfeeling war machine.

“They’re trained and sent to war, to combat. And then after that, it’s over. They’re just kind of like, ‘Okay, have a nice day, go back home,’” said Jorge Grango, a 12-year Army vet who’s taken up a career in clinical therapy.

Grango has treated veterans for psychological trauma, and he said that since the pandemic began, he’s noticed alarming signs in some of his former patients who still keep in contact with him.

The veteran suicide epidemic has hit close to home for both Grango and Bakker. Grango had a veteran friend who followed a similar path he did himself, going into clinical therapy as a counselor for other veterans. Grango helped his friend through a rough patch, but the recovery didn’t last.

“I met with him in early November, and he seemed to be doing better. He was doing great,” Grango said. “And then, come to hear about it at an event, and we got a call saying that he committed suicide. He jumped in front of a train.”

Now, Grango keeps the service card from his friend’s funeral in his wallet as a reminder and a motivator to keep going.

“I’ve watched too many friends and too many people I consider family go into the ground for no good reason,” Bakker said. “Because nobody thought to say the stupid shit you’re supposed to say.”

Are you or someone you know suffering a mental health crisis? Find a treatment center here.

Contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline or the Veterans Crisis Line at 1-800-273-8255.

Chicago Mental Health Clinics for Vets

VETERAN SUICIDE:

Typically, the funerals we’d perform in were those of veterans who’d finished their term of service long before. Those were smaller affairs, only calling for two to 11 honor guard members. This one was different: a funeral for an airman who died while on active duty. It was my first.

We weren’t told much beforehand about the person we were honoring. When we arrived, I was struck by how minimal it was, outside of our presence. The family of the deceased was present, but that was it; no work friends, and no one from his Air Force unit whatsoever.

Not this time. All I saw was shock, confusion, and despair.

After we’d finished the ceremony and started to pack up, word spread through our ranks: the airman we had just buried was only 20 years old. Nothing else needed to be said. We knew.

He had killed himself.

​

“War isn’t just a devastating factor,” said Army veteran Kevin Bakker over a video chat from his gun-adorned garage. “It’s the death of innocence in men. The death of truly being able to feel and have compassion.”

“War crimes was a way of life,” he said.

​

The military broke Bakker down, as it does with any recruit in boot camp, and built him back up into an unfeeling war machine.

“They’re trained and sent to war, to combat. And then after that, it’s over. They’re just kind of like, ‘Okay, have a nice day, go back home,’” said Jorge Grango, a 12-year Army vet who’s taken up a career in clinical therapy.

Grango has treated veterans for psychological trauma, and he said that since the pandemic began, he’s noticed alarming signs in some of his former patients who still keep in contact with him.

The veteran suicide epidemic has hit close to home for both Grango and Bakker. Grango had a veteran friend who followed a similar path he did himself, going into clinical therapy as a counselor for other veterans. Grango helped his friend through a rough patch, but the recovery didn’t last.

“I met with him in early November, and he seemed to be doing better. He was doing great,” Grango said. “And then, come to hear about it at an event, and we got a call saying that he committed suicide. He jumped in front of a train.”

Now, Grango keeps the service card from his friend’s funeral in his wallet as a reminder and a motivator to keep going.

“I’ve watched too many friends and too many people I consider family go into the ground for no good reason,” Bakker said. “Because nobody thought to say the stupid shit you’re supposed to say.”

Are you or someone you know suffering a mental health crisis? Find a treatment center here.

Contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline or the Veterans Crisis Line at 1-800-273-8255.

Chicago Mental Health Clinics for Vets