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| Andy O'Hara |
ANDY’S STORY
For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do. As a police officer,
I’d always been able to make a decision.
Now, sitting on the bedroom floor with my service
revolver, I couldn’t decide whether to shoot myself up through the mouth or the into side of the head. I loaded and reloaded the gun as I tried to think it through, fingers trembling. I turned the gun into my face and the barrel seemed huge.
I’d had it all. I followed my grandfather
into law enforcement, was valedictorian of my class, was first on the sergeants list, and spent 20 of my 24 years on the road. I had become a respected field sergeant and treasured nothing more than wearing the
blue and gold of the California Highway Patrol.
Now, I loaded the gun the last time, took a deep breath and raised the gun, determined
to blow out my brains and end it quickly. Hearing my wife’s car pulling
into the driveway, however, startled me back into reality, confused me and,
within hours, I was in a hospital psychiatric unit, in tears and beginning a years-long struggle that continues to this day. I still suffer from nightmares, bouts of anxiety, guilt and paranoia. I have to leave a movie or television show that contains screaming.
How often I've wished PTSD could be 'cured' with a few magical weeks in therapy.
How often I've wished I had a bullet wound I could show to prove my injury.
How often I've wished I could sleep at night without having pray for freedom from
The Dreams.
I did learn that my diagnosis of post traumatic stress disorder was not uncommon
to police officers—but was one of those “dirty little secrets” departments didn’t talk about. It was an accumulation of traumatic events I “shrugged off” for years. But the brain never forgets. Screams.
Wrestling someone for my own gun. An officer's face half gone. Mistakes made and regretted. The
secrets and the shame of falling short of duty and honor in your own eyes until your heart and soul have nothing left and
nowhere to go.
As I have recovered, I have come in touch with many other officers—some retired,
some still active—who flee that dark horseman day and night. Some deny
it (“It doesn’t bother me.”) Others know “something”
is wrong, but they fear admitting to it or don’t know what to do about it.
Many distrust the suicide prevention programs being offered today, fearful that they’re
a token gesture that will fade away in a year or two. Some question the information
being given.
That’s why Dick and I put this website together.
A lot of bogus information is being thrown out—on how many suicides, on how best to treat a depressed officer,
on how “suicide “interventions” should be conducted. We may
not have all the information, but the information we give will be straight, as best we can possibly do, or it won't be in
here.
DICK’S STORY
I’d had an excellent career for 12 years on the California Highway Patrol. All that ended one fateful
night when I was gunned down by armed felons on a "Routine Stop".
The vehicle had three occupants I only later learned had been on a 'Crime Spree' of robberies and murders.
While speaking to the driver, one of the male occupants in the back seat shot me point blank from about three feet.
The bullet ripped into my body, puncturing my left kidney and sticking to my spine, knocking me to the pavement. I knew
I was going to die, but drew my service revolver and started firing at his assailants, despite the intense pain and loss of
blood. I was intent on "taking one of them with me". The assailants fled
in their vehicle, and I struggled to my feet and laid on the seat of the patrol car, elevating my feet so I wouldn't
go into shock. In minutes,an ambulance had me on the way to the hospital.
A Catholic Priest was summoned and administered 'Last Rites' prior to emergency surgery.
I had many weeks in the hospital to think how close that ‘Routine Stop’ had come to being a one
way trip to the cemetery, or worse, a lifetime pass to a wheelchair.
It took a year to heal from the bullet wound, and I then realized I needed psychotherapy to overcome the trauma.
Still, I found I wasn’t able to continue my career after such a traumatic bullet wound injury—few can.
I tried, but found myself on the edge of “drawing down” at the slightest provocation. I feared I would do harm to someone innocent. My nerves were
on edge constantly. I found myself facing retirement.
Nothing, however, prepared me for what was next—the sense of loss and the crushing "aloneness" an officer feels
when he is severely injured on the job, retired, and forgotten. He or she is initially subjected to a wave of sympathy
and support, media coverage--and then sent away with a half pension...and forgotten.
I made attempts to approach our Academy, both with letters and in-person requests, to relate my unique story
for cadets from my personal experience so they could learn. I was given a smile
and the usual feeble excuses. I was naive enough to think that my so-called "Family" would welcome me with a kind reception,
but the 'young' staff there ignored my interest and offer. It was puzzling to me,as I think that very few of them...if
any, have ever experienced receiving a serious bullet wound and living to tell about it...a rarity.
It's no small wonder that the suicide rate for medically retired officers is the 'highest' for all Law Enforcement.
They are the "walking dead", shuffled off to annual BBQ's; cold receptions at CHP Offices; and a brief obituary in the Association
paper. Sadly, I learned how true these words are: "Courage is a fragile
thing, and history doesn't linger for too long anywhere."
I’m left with a
lasting depression from the fateful night that I gave my ALL for the Department and the citizens of California,
and most of the young troops don't know or even, worse, care...until it happens to them.
Andy O'Hara is a 24 year veteran of law enforcement who spent his last day on the bedroom
floor with his gun trying to decide whether to shoot himself in the mouth or side of the head. Hospitalized twice
with the effects of his post traumatic stress, he has both written on this topic and spoken to cadets of police agencies in
his area. Through those, he has realized the tremendous potential of a carefully planned, implanted message in
this group.
Richard (Dick) Augusta's career with the California Highway Patrol was cut short in his twelfth
year when, on a traffic stop, a felon got the drop on him and gunned him down. Dick recovered from his serious wounds
but when he tried to return to the road, he was haunted by the post traumatic stress that made him hypersensitive on traffic
stops and fearful that he would overreact and harm an innocent person. In spite of therapy, he was medically retired
and now suffers a different kind of depression shared by many medical retirees who suffer not only financially but from feelings
that they have been abandoned by their "family" and their wisdom dismissed as useless. His story can be found in Randy
Sutton's, True Blue, Police Stories by Those Who Have Lived Them.
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| CLICK ON BADGE TO CONTINUE |
OUR GOALS
1. Identify the serious lack of coordination and information sharing
between law enforcement agencies.
2. Point out the hopeless state of data collection for planning
and cost justification of suicide programs--there IS no data, and no one has a clue as to how many suicides are even occurring!
3. To serve as an information base for agencies seeking information
and resources with which to begin planning for their own suicide prevention program.
4. To serve as a source of information on resources available to
individuals seeking assistance during emotional distress.
5. Dispel the many myths that have been propagated about what PTSD
"is" and "isn't."
6. FINALLY, show a way for new and improved programs by which
police suicides can be reduced by 75 percent in ten years through our MENTAL HEALTH PRESCRIPTION PROGRAM.
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| Go to Police Suicide Prevention Plan |
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