| By Michael
McKenna
Michael
McKenna is a Vietnam veteran who suffers from posttraumatic stress disorder. He reports
his descent into a profound addiction to heroin, and his use of cannabis as a singular
medicine for becoming human.
My name is
Michael McKenna. I'm 46 years old, and I've been using marihuana on and off since 1970.
I've gone without it for long periods, but I use it today and probably will for the rest
of my life. I have no choice. I went to Vietnam right after my 18th birthday. When I had
been there for two weeks, our company lost the first men that I knew. Back at base camp, I
sat in the dark by myself wondering what the hell had happened. I asked myself where these
souls went, and was there a heaven for men who died the way they did. As I stared into the
darkness I heard a voice behind me say "Man, you shouldn't be out here by yourself
thinking about this shit or you'll go nuts." I couldn't look him in the face and
didn't even look up for fear that he would see the tears in my eyes. He told me I needed
to get drunk to forget it and go on, or I would die there. I told him I didn't drink, and
he said he would be right back. When he returned he had a big joint and asked if I had
tried pot before. I told him that I had, a couple of times. He said this shit was about
100 times stronger than anything in the States and I should only smoke a little. Then he
left.
That night
alone in the dark, I smoked the whole thing, and I've never regretted it. He had given me
my mental survival tool. It did not make me forget, just allowed me to digest the pain and
fear peacefully and respectfully with dignity. I'm sure you've heard before that over
there we had Jesus freaks, straights, potheads, and diesel freaks (drinkers). While the
diesel freaks made up the majority, pot smoking became more and more open. The straights
became potheads by the drove.
My job over
there meant I had to deal not only with our dead but theirs also, along with murders,
suicides and heroin overdoses. I did not allow my crew to get high on the job, but when we
hit camp we all smoked. There was not one drinker in my crew, because we had to move on a
moment's notice, and you could not trust the drunks to be ready or sometimes even able.
The potheads came through like champs, always ready, always able. When I returned home, I
was hit by the same crap that most other vets got: unemployable, hate, prejudice, called
all of the names I'm sure you've heard. All you had was family and close friends, and that
didn't last, because in your head they knew that you were the murdering, rapist scum that
they had been reading about and seeing on the news. So I threw away all the people who
knew me and loved me and turned to vets and then threw them away too, just as some had
thrown me away because they knew the scum that I was. Soon no one I was seeing even knew I
had even been in the Army, and I wasn't talking. My way to cope was heavy drugs and booze.
About this
time my father (a combat vet from WWII) told me in a loving way that something was wrong
with me, that I wasn't adjusting. He saw death in my eyes, and knew that I was killing
myself. He and my Mom begged me to get help before it was too late, or my rage and anger
would kill me or someone else. So with my Dad almost holding my hand, we went to the VA
hospital in St. Louis. They told me there that I didn't really have a nervous problem, and
in time I would adjust like everyone else who had served in combat. They gave me Valium
and told me to come back in 90 days. When I went back and told them the Valium wasn't
working, they said there was nothing else they could do, and I had to live with it. I
began to hit the drugs even harder, running all over the country from my demons.
Eventually I got strung out on heroin, a $500 a day habit. When I found myself thinking
about robbing places because I could no longer support my habit, I decided to quit so I
wouldn't hurt my family any more. All the people I knew who took methadone in the morning
were still doing heroin at night, so I decided to quit cold turkey.
I called my
father to come and get me. All I told him was that I need his help. He never asked why,
and I never told him until later, but he knew anyway. He put me in a camper on his
property not too far from their home, and then the hell began. He watched me from time to
time, puking, screaming, not able to sleep or even stay in the trailer. I would build
campfires to sleep by, if I slept at all. If the fire went out, he would keep it going
when I didn't even know he was there.
On the third
day, while I was rolling on the ground screaming in pain and puke, a yellow convertible
pulled in and a barefoot guy with waist-long hair and no shirt got out. He said my father
had sent him to help me. Seeing my confusion, he said, "Just call me Dr. Jim, and
you're going to sleep tonight." He had a bag of pot and a gallon of whiskey. I told
him to take his shit and get out. Pot wasn't going to do shit, and the whiskey would
probably kill me. But he said getting drunk would help me sleep, and the pot would make
the withdrawal less violent and help with the puking. I stayed drunk and high for a week.
When I finally
went to my Dad's to take a shower, he came over and hugged me, as nasty and disgusting as
I was, with tears in his eyes. He told me that I had been through enough, that he would
have gone through the withdrawal for me if he could have, but that I still had a long way
to go. He said that he was never so proud of me as he was when he realized that I wasn't
going to turn back to heroin instead of continuing the withdrawal. He suggested that I
quit the booze, but maybe the pot wasn't a bad thing. Well, I drifted away from the other
drugs, but continued to drink and smoke pot. I was unknowingly starting to refine my own
treatment. Pot was no longer just a party high for me but a survival tool. I used it to
cope with everyday things that others seemed to do on their own, going out, seeing
friends, working.
I was just
another bombed-out crazy vet, useless, suicidal, and violent. I've had a lot of women in
my life who liked me but could not stand the mood swings, the striking out and fighting,
and the depression. After a while they all would learn the same thing: that when I had
pot, I was nicer and more romantic and didn't get into fights. So they made sure I had pot
even if they had to buy it for me.
I'm in my
third marriage, and my wife has mixed feelings about pot because it's illegal. I've bought
my first home, and she's afraid we will lose it if I get busted. So she's scared, but she
sees that pot helps me. Since 1990 I've been in therapy for PTSD. I've been in the Stress
Recovery Unit at Bay Pines VA hospital in Florida four times. My doctors there have tried
me on different medications for depression and anxiety such as Valium, Prozac, trazodone,
Cetrizine, and Serzone. All of my doctors know I self-medicate with pot, because I never
hid this from any of them. Most of them don't really discuss it with me, but some have,
and have even told me that the only problem is that they can't control the dose. They ask
me not to smoke while I'm adjusting to their drugs, but I always go back to the pot
because it is what works for me. I still use trazodone to help me get to sleep and
short-circuit the nightmares, but pot is my daytime drug. I've had a lot of pain in my
lower back for many years. During one of my stays at the VA, they told me I had a
spondylopathy there that they could not operate on, and that I would probably end up in
wheelchair. While pot does not stop the pain, it sure makes it a lot easier to live with
at bad moments. My pain pills don't stop the pain and are addictive.
I think it is
important for you to know that I'm not a "Cheech and Chong" type. I've been a
deputy sheriff as well as a police chief and a private investigator, but the PTSD always
made me crash and burn. I've lost everything several times, and for the last few years I
have been rebuilding again. My doctors have told me to retire and try to maintain as
normal a life as possible.
Yes, I'm still
in a lot of pain mentally and physically, but I am still alive, and I know that I would
not be if it weren't for the pot and my family. And as I said earlier, without the pot I
would not have maintained my family. I'm sorry I've been going on longer than I thought I
would, but I guess I had to defend my continued use. I hope I can help others who have
guilty feelings because the stuff is illegal. We must make choices, and mine is to
continue to smoke and tell others about the benefits that I got. Thank you for helping me
vent.

Phillip
Leveque, a former WWII combat infantryman, physician and toxicologist, discusses the
merits of marijuana use for those who suffer from PTSD.
(MOLLALA, Ore.)
- For those who do not know it, the humans and all animals so far tested produce two
marijuana like substances, Anandamide and 2- Arachidonal glycerol (2AG), which produce
exactly the same medical functions as marijuana.
Courtesy:
deanza.eduSecondly marijuana/cannabis has been used in human medicine for about 4,000
years and have never killed anybody, which cannot be said for almost any other medicine.
Thirdly,
between 1850 and 1900 cannabis medicine was the most prescribed and most used medicine for
about 100 different diseases in the U.S.
Fourthly, in
1988 after hearing 15 days of testimony, pro and con, DEA Administrative Judge Francis L.
Young made the following ruling, "Marijuana in its natural form is one of the safest
therapeutically active substances known to man. Marijuana is far safer than many foods we
commonly consume." Three DEA Administrators, all non-physicians, refused to comply
and have deprived millions of desperately ill patients' effective relief.
Authors
Note: Many newspapers and magazines are currently publishing articles about PTSD
what is it and what to do about it. Most reporters AND psychiatrists don't have a clue.
One heavy artillery or mortar barrage would give them some insight.
In World War
I, it was called "Shell Shock". As a frontline Combat Infantryman, pointman,
scout and forward observer, I know what an artillery or mortar barrage is like it
scares the bejesus out of the soldier. In a long barrage, I can see the soldier going
psychotic frozen in space and time and not being able to speak or move, even if
some battalion officer visiting the front would order him to do so. It happened a lot.
Courtesy:
epluribusmedia.orgDuring World War II, if the soldier was lucky (I'm joking) he would be
sent back to an aid station and be given a triple dose of a barbiturate sleeping pill.
These were called "blue 88s". They would knock-out the soldier for at least 24
hours. Then he was often sent back to the front. On the off chance it was an officer, he
would be sent way back to a rest area, often with as much booze as he wanted for as long
as he wanted.
Army
psychiatrists have had a field day with this. They first called it
"homesickness" (what a crock). They also called it "war neurosis".
That doesn't cover it. Everybody in a war zone has neurosis. It's how we cope. Battle is
super stressful. A recent example is the serial killer at Virginia Tech who killed 32
students.
The whole
student body and faculty had a neurosis. Many will suffer from PTSD.
For a
soldier who may be almost constantly under fire with the knowledge that a whole bunch of
enemy are trying to kill him and he is so tired and stressed out, does anyone, including
psychiatrists, believe the soldier can carry on indefinitely?
Battle
fatigue, terror fatigue, combat stress or PTSD seems to slightly cover the situation.
One of the
symptoms is the belief that one cannot survive. This is NOT fear or paranoia. With
horrible death and destruction all around, how can a soldier NOT know he won't survive?
But still, he carries on.
Courtesy:
d21c.comDuring World War II, in North Africa, the "nervous breakdown" ratio
(another name for the same) was 15 to 20% of living casualties. Some other casualties went
berserk and charged a machine gun or ran into a minefield. At the Battle of the Bulge,
they shot themselves in the foot or let their feet freeze. No toes on a foot was better
than a shot in the head.
The Vietnam
soldier discovered an effective treatment for PTSD. They discovered it while in Vietnam.
It was high-grade Marijuana and sometimes opium or a combination of both.
It isn't
even known how high a percentage of frontline "grunts", as they were called,
used the above, but it was a lot. They also had access to all the beer or booze they could
get their hands on.
This was
certainly no different than the "blue 88s" of WWII, and better in the long run.
The Vietnam
Administration Clinics have tried every anti-psychotic and anti-depressant in the book as
well as highly potent pain killers like Oxycontin and M.S. contin (morphine) with minimal
success for PTSD. They did end up with thousands of drug addicts and alcoholics.
I had about
500 Vietnam vet patients. Many had PTSD which was not acceptable for an Oregon Medical
Marijuana permit. Most did have some physical injury for which I could give them a permit.
Will vets
please write in their experiences?
Email your
story to: Tell Dr.
Leveque
Note: This is
modified from the article: "Battle Fatigue: What's
wrong with these sissies?" from the author's book "General Patton's Dogface
Soldier" by Phil Leveque.

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