Happiness Is A Warm Gun: A Vietnam Story

By Cheryl Breo

I crawl away and shut myself in a room with my Beatle records, the music that would keep me from suicide and strong enough to care for our baby daughter.
This was the aftermath of his tours of duty in Vietnam, bringing that war home to our front door, letting itself in uninvited,
causing both of us to relive the demons of the violence he experienced over there. It is a story that many women of my era who were married to combat Vietnam vets seldom tell; and who certainly wouldn't commit to paper. It's not a book about The Beatles; but their music is the backdrop to my story, a passion, a love and a musical therapy at the time that absolutely kept me alive. It is the story of the terror a war can bring
home and how it can continue with devastating consequences. At that time; when our soldiers returned home from Vietnam; there was no mental health support program for us or our families. They were simply dropped back into a society that despised them and the war they fought; forcing them to internalize the trauma and relive it every day in their minds, and in our homes. Too many committed suicide, too many took my husband's path of physical violence, until finally, during the Gulf Wars our government recognized the need for "debriefing" and PTSD therapy when soldiers returned home; but it is still a token gesture. My story highlights how bad it really was back then and how much more attention needs to be drawn towards the minimal mental health care that our returning veterans receive today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Breo
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773703268

Book preview

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Chapter One

He would grab me by the neck with one hand wrapped around my throat and lift me straight off the ground, my feet dangling as he pushed me up against a wall, banging the back of my head against it until it nearly cracked. Then, with his other hand, he started punching me; in the stomach, in the ribs, on the chest, before throwing me to the floor, where the kicking began. I desperately curled myself up in the fetal position, trying to lessen the blows to the parts of me that he had just pummeled. Yet, he was careful to never hit me in the face.

He always wore his combat boots, I don’t know why, since he hated them and all they represented to him about Vietnam, but they made for a much harder kick, and much deeper bruises.

I never pleaded with him to stop … I had learned that lesson all too well the first and only time I opened my mouth, the first time he punched me. The beatings grew as intense as his rage, as if I was somehow questioning his authority. So, I never spoke again, and rarely ever cried in his presence.

The war had caught up with him in January of 1975. There had been small changes in him; but perhaps the biggest trigger, that literally pushed him over his edge, was losing his job with a great company. I didn’t know until much later that they were forced to let him go … for smoking weed on the job, not showing up for work, and a growing arrogance with his bosses.

But on that Saturday morning in January of 1975, he finally broke from the effects of that fucking Vietnam War. He got out of bed soaking wet and in a cold sweat, couldn’t speak a single coherent sentence; just yelling, mumbling and shaking uncontrollably; waking up our 10-month-old daughter, who cried her lusty cry; which seemed to really irritate him. My motherly safety instincts kicked in and I got her settled down. His appearance scared the shit out of me, but hell, I was only 22 years old at the time and didn’t have a clue what to do except call my mother, which led to calls to my father, and his father. They sat with him for hours on our couch, trying to convince him he needed help, he needed to commit himself voluntarily into the hospital. But his refusal was adamant; he would not be thrown into the nut house.

Finally, my dad simply told him that I could have him committed, involuntarily on his part, but since, as his spouse, believing him to be a danger to himself and his family, I could do it. But if I did, he would lose many of his ordinary rights, like driving, voting …

The venom in his eyes when he looked up at me, perhaps realizing I held his future with a mere swipe of a pen, was demonic. He screamed at me that I didn’t have the guts to do it; and I quietly thought, yes, I do.

He finally agreed to commit himself; and was put in the lock down area of the psych ward. He was only there for a week, since we had no insurance and his father would only pick up the tab for seven days. So, he came home, medications in hand, doctor’s orders and outside therapy arranged.

There were no particular triggers to set him off. Just asking him how’s your day? resulted in him grabbing me with his two hands on my upper arms, digging in so hard he left a black and blue hand print imbedded on me; before throwing me across the length of the room with such force that I bounced off the wall on the other side, nearly going through the window; then hitting the floor. I didn’t dare move; I didn’t have to … he was right behind me, pulling me by the hair back to where he threw me from, this time grabbing my neck, choking me within an inch of my life; letting go just in time. He kicked me a few times; watching me crawl on my hands and knees out of that room, hearing the door slam behind me.

I crawled to the living room where my turntable was and quietly retreated back into my safe place. Once again slipping into the grooves of the vinyl’s of my Liverpool lads. I deliberately stayed away from the more profound, lyrically edgy songs on albums like Sgt. Peppers,