PTSD: Private Battles

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After Anthony Sowers, in treatment but still haunted by his combat tour in Iraq, took his life last year, his family mobilized to help ensure that other military families are not alone.

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Sunday, October 30, 2011

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By Ralph Berrier Jr. | The Roanoke Times | 981-3338

SOMETIME IN THE DARK, EARLY MORNING HOURS of Aug. 3, 2010, Anthony Sowers took a month's worth of anti­depression pills and chased them with a fifth of coconut rum.

At 1:03 a.m., he posted his last Facebook status update:

Lifes a Bitch, and then you die! =)

Sowers died alone in his house on McVitty Road in Salem. His death was ruled a suicide.

To his family, however, Anthony Sowers was a casualty of war. He just happened to die four years after his combat tour and 6,000 miles away from the battle-torn terrain of Iraq.

He had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and major depression and was receiving counseling when he died. He was only 28 years old, and he left behind a large family to grieve his death, including six children all under the age of 8.

"I want them to know that Daddy died for his country," said Amanda Sowers, Anthony's wife and the children's mother.

"I know some people think that's a twisted way of looking at it. But he didn't kill himself just to kill himself. He got his PTSD from serving in Iraq. Had he not served his country, he would not have gotten it."

Sowers was an Army specialist who drove fuel trucks on the deadly, bomb-rigged roads north of Baghdad in 2006, when the country had disintegrated into civil war. When the Salem native and Glenvar High School graduate returned home from his year of combat duty, he was diagnosed with PTSD and major depression. He could not sleep and suffered nightmares. He spoke of Army buddies killed in Iraq.

Anthony, an Army specialist, hugs son Jakob.
(Photo courtesy of the Sowers family)

He received bi-weekly counseling at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Salem and was prescribed antidepressants Zoloft and Wellbutrin.

The treatment could not save him. More than a year after his death, family members still rocked by the suicide struggle with the belief that they should have done more to help him.

They also want to make other military families aware of the effects of PTSD and depression and to tell them that treatment and medication need to be supplemented by vigilance. Don't just assume that the counseling and treatment is all a soldier needs, they say.

"This is important to us," said Terry Ford, Anthony's mother. "I want parents and families and mothers and daughters and children and wives and husbands and soldiers — men and women alike — to know that this can happen."

'His own way'

Anthony Sowers was born Dec. 6, 1981, and grew up in Elliston and Salem. His parents divorced when he and younger brother Joe were quite young. Terry remarried and had a daughter, Alicia. The boys lived with their mother but stayed close to their father, Cecil "Junior" Sowers.

"Anthony was a good kid," his father said. "He was never any trouble. Joe would also get caught doing something and say, 'How come Anthony never gets in trouble?' And I'd say, 'Anthony didn't get caught, Joe.'"

Anthony attended Salem schools, but when the family moved just west of the city limits, he transferred to Glenvar.

"Salem had so many cliques, and Anthony didn't fit in any of them," his mother said. "He liked to do things his own way. Glenvar suited him better. It was redneck, like him."

He never wore his emotions on his sleeve — that was Joe, the middle child. Anthony rarely let people know what was on his mind, but he would take up for his siblings when necessary.

When he heard that Alicia was being picked on by a boy on the school bus, he stopped driving to high school and rode the bus for a few days. The message was sent: Don't mess with my little sister.

"He had your back," his mom said.

Anthony played football and baseball at Glenvar and liked to blast "Braveheart"-style bagpipe music from his Thunderbird to pump himself up before football practice. He liked to work; he got his first job at 15 working a concession stand at the Salem Fair, where he made $500 — paid mostly in $1 bills.

"They gave him this stack of dollar bills," Terry said. "He got a big bag out of the trash and stuck it under his shirt. I couldn't believe they let a 15-year-old boy walk out of there with that stack of money."

From that point, he liked the idea of making money. During high school, he worked in food services and catering for about eight months at the Salem Civic Center, where he'd get to catch a few minutes of concerts.

One show featured the 1960s R&B singer Percy Sledge, who sang one of Terry's favorite songs, "When a Man Loves a Woman." She couldn't go to that show, but when she arrived to pick up Anthony, he ordered her to follow him into the building. They ran past the ticket window, down the hall and into the arena, where Terry heard Sledge sing.

"Anthony wasn't a lovey-dovey kid," she said. "He didn't love on you. But he would do something like that."

After graduating from high school in 2000, he enrolled at Bluefield College. He stayed barely a semester, but it was long enough to meet Amanda.

Life at supersonic speed

Amanda Flowers thought she knew everybody on the Bluefield campus. It's a small school, and she had practically grown up there, the daughter of a chemistry professor. She knew students, teachers, janitors ... but then one day, while waiting for a friend in the cafeteria, she saw this tall, handsome, dark-haired guy cleaning a grill in the cafeteria. She didn't recognize him.

"Do you go to school here?" she asked.

"Would I be cleaning this grill if I didn't?" he replied, all smart-alecky.

It was true love.

"He smart-mouthed me, and I smart-mouthed him right back," she said. "We were inseparable after that."

The Sowers family in 2007: (clockwise from top left) Jakob, mom Amanda, Izak, Kaiden, Madison, Morghann, Karson and dad Anthony. The family loved to dance to pop songs in the living room of their house in Salem. (Photo courtesy of the Sowers family)

Love and life moved at supersonic speed for the young couple. They married the next spring, right before Amanda dropped out of college and enlisted in the Army Reserve. She did it to spite her brother, who was in the Army and teased her that she would never last.

Early in the marriage, she became pregnant with their first child, Jakob. Two more followed over the next two years: a boy, Kaiden, and a daughter, Madison.

The family lived in Salem, where Anthony worked a series of low-paying jobs. He was a late-night shelf-stocker at Walmart and a clerk at a Sheetz. Finally, in 2004, right after Madison was born, he enlisted in the Army.

"He was tired of jobs and no benefits," Amanda said. "He wanted something that offered insurance and the stability."

With the country at war in two countries — Iraq and Afghanistan — Anthony joined up and was assigned to the 4th Infantry Division. The family moved to Fort Hood, Texas, from which Anthony departed in December 2005 for a yearlong deployment in Iraq.

A family separated by war

Anthony called Amanda about once a week during his combat tour. He spoke to the children. He told them things were fine, even boring.

He told Amanda all he did was guard the base and drive a fuel truck. She knew he wasn't being entirely truthful. This was 2006, and the Iraqi insurgency against coalition forces was raging. Suicide bombings, roadside attacks and sectarian fighting had turned the country into a war-torn quagmire.

Anthony pulled his hitch and returned to the United States in late 2006. He never talked about his war experiences with his wife, mother, father or siblings.

Anthony and Amanda's son Karson has his photo taken atop a motorcycle at the vigil for his father at Greenwood Park in August. (Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times)

He stayed in the Army, living with his wife and children in Texas for a while, and family life seemed to pick up where it left off. He and Amanda had averaged one new child each year during the first three years of their marriage, but then he was deployed for a year. They got back on track when Amanda bore twins, Karson and Izak, the year after he returned. A daughter, Morghann, was the sixth and last child, born in 2008.

Anthony was discharged from the Army in 2009, and the family returned to Salem to be close to his relatives. In 2010, he joined the National Guard in Roanoke in order to keep health insurance for his kids.

Anthony and Amanda had good days together in Salem. Anthony got a job working for an exterminator, a job he loved so much he would crawl on floors at family functions and parties, looking for signs of bugs.

He took online classes from DeVry University.

"He had goals," Amanda said.

He enjoyed his children. He and Jakob worked side by side on their own computers. The entire family loved to dance in the living room to pop songs. Jason Mraz's hit "I'm Yours" was a particular favorite.

Before bedtime, Amanda would turn up "I'm Yours," with its bopping, pop-reggae beat, and swing the children around the room.

"We just did it at random times. Now it's a precious memory," Amanda said. "Still today when the song plays, Karson will speak up and say 'That's my song, Mama. Turn it up.' "

Despite the happy times, despite having fun with the kids and enjoying his job, Anthony was suffering inside. The war had not let go of him.

Battles at home

Anthony Sowers was diagnosed with PTSD by examiners with the Department of Veterans Affairs in early 2009, following required pre-discharge mental health examinations.

During one exam in 2008, he reported that he experienced "poor sleep, poor concentration, depression, anxiety ... general malaise, tiredness, fatigue and a lack of interest," according to a benefits-rating summary compiled by the VA's regional office in Winston-Salem, N.C. He was awarded monthly compensation from the Army, although the evaluation was not deemed permanent because, according to a VA evaluation, "there is likelihood of improvement."

Amanda saw no signs of improvement. Anthony seemed to lose interest in events around the house, often spending his nonworking hours immersed in computer games such as "World of Warcraft." Some days, he would play for more than 10 hours.

He snapped at family members and was almost non-communicative at times.

"He was a lot harder to talk to when he come back" from the war, his father said.

Anthony would answer the phone rudely when his mother called — "What do you want?" he bellowed. One Easter Sunday, he refused to go with his children to an Easter egg hunt at his mother's house.

"He became — I don't know the right word — withdrawn," Amanda said. "It was like he was blank. It's hard to explain. I don't know what bothered him, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had no control over it. He wasn't there. I don't know if I'm saying this right. I think he felt he didn't have the strength or control to change it."

He saw a psychologist and a psychiatrist at the VA every two weeks. Amanda asked what he talked about with his counselors.

"I tell her what she wants to hear so I can go home," he told his wife.

Frustrated, Amanda moved out of the house with the children in July 2010 and moved to Georgia, where her parents lived. She will not talk about what precipitated the separation. She recently said she isn't sure if the two would have reconciled had Anthony lived.

In his final days, Anthony tossed out many of the belongings Amanda had left behind. Kids' clothes, coats, mattresses — he cleaned house. He packed his gear for National Guard training and learned that his unit would be sent back to Iraq in early 2011.

He had recently signed up for Facebook, and late on Aug. 2, 2010, he made a few posts before consuming the pills and alcohol.

He left a message for his VA counselor, who did not receive it until the next morning. The counselor called police, who in turn got in touch with his family. The police discovered Anthony's body in his home while his mother was told to wait outside.

Iraq's deadly terrain

Anthony never talked about what happened in Iraq — not to his family, at least. All they know is that he was a "fueler," a guy who drove a fuel truck to supply gasoline to forward operating bases.

When he got to Iraq in early 2006, he was with the 7th Squadron, 10th Cavalry. His outfit was based at Camp Taji, a sprawling military installation 20 miles north of Baghdad. The base, a former Iraqi Republican Guard airfield that was taken over after the 2003 invasion, was outfitted with all the comforts of home.

The PX boasted a food court with a Subway, Pizza Hut, Popeyes and Seattle's Best Coffee. A telecommunications center featured 30 phones and videoconferencing stations.

The terrain outside the camp, however, was deadly. Elements of the 4th Infantry Division took up forward positions in the rural region, which required convoys of fuelers to keep them supplied.

Chris Thomas was one of Anthony's best friends in the Army; he, too, drove a fuel truck. He said convoys were often targets of roadside bombs, mortars and small-arms fire.

"I was under fire a few times," said Thomas, who met Anthony at Fort Hood. "It was common to hear gunfire. You'd hear mortar rounds going off. They hit us with rockets. But for some reason, [the enemy] never knew exactly where to shoot. They were not accurate. They'd hop in their little cars and take off running."

Joe Sowers wears a patch on the back of his motorcycle vest in honor of his brother. A year after Anthony’s suicide, Joe and his father led a memorial motorcycle ride across Montgomery, Floyd and Roanoke counties. (Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times)

He does not know if Anthony was ever under fire. According to a post-deployment interview, Anthony told a counselor that he sustained a minor head injury from a rocket-propelled grenade in an unspecified attack.

Regardless, the trips were stressful. The Army has found that one in eight casualties in Iraq came during fuel convoys around the time Anthony was deployed. His unit lost 17 soldiers, one of them a 21-year-old Georgia boy named Justin Robert Jarrett, one of Anthony's best friends.

Jarrett was killed along with three others when his vehicle was hit by an IED. At some point, Anthony was part of a security detail that had to retrieve dead soldiers, although it is unclear if this was the same attack that killed his friend.

Anthony was awarded the Army Achievement Medal for his service as a fueler.

Thomas, now living in Connecticut, has been diagnosed with PTSD. He is also divorced and looking for a job. He was shocked when he heard about his old friend and wonders what pushes some soldiers, or former soldiers, over the edge.

"I don't know what I'm doing right compared to other people," he said.

'A dark, dark place'

Anthony Sowers seemed to be doing everything right. He regularly saw a counselor. He took his medication and had a steady job he enjoyed. He had a loving family nearby. Yet none of this kept him from taking his own life.

"My son was in a dark, dark place," his mother said.

She feels that she could have done more for her son but was afraid to press too much.

Not long before Anthony died, Terry told a cousin that she was worried about her son. The cousin was also an Iraq veteran who had been wounded in an explosion. He told Terry she needed to call Anthony's National Guard commanding officer and tell him her worries.

"I can't do that. Anthony would be so mad at me," she said.

She never made the call.

Today, she recounts that story through tears.

"As a mama, you see it ... and you know it, but if you say it out loud it makes the problem real," she said. "One of the things I would like families to know is that it's OK to make that phone call. ... Soldiers know they have someone to call. But if they make the call, then they feel weak. It means 'I have a problem,' and soldiers don't want to admit that. Soldiers don't cry. Soldiers don't have problems. Families see it and don't want to admit it. I didn't want to admit it. I should have made that call. I would rather have him really mad at me right now."

'The music of the moment'

This is her cause, to let families know that it's OK to make that call about a loved one.

Some of her family participated in a PTSD awareness event at the VA in Salem in late August.

Terry and Amanda held a vigil in Anthony's memory on Aug. 13, a little more than a year after his death. They gathered in Greenwood Park in Salem, where they dined on Little Caesars pizza, chicken wings, veggies and fruit. The children played in the playground as cicadas hummed in the evening humidity.

They made T-shirts with Anthony's photo and the words "Gone, But Not Forgotten." The boombox played songs that included Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" and Michael Jackson's "You Are Not Alone."

Anthony's dad and brother led a memorial motorcycle ride across Montgomery, Floyd and Roanoke counties that ended at the park. The event felt like a big family reunion, which it was.

Finally, they lit candles for Anthony and passed the flame from one person to the next in the darkening evening. Amanda cried as she embraced Anthony's sister, Alicia. Terry was hugged by practically everyone, crying the whole time. The bikers stood a few yards away in a somber knot.

Anthony's widow, Amanda (left), hugs his sister, Alicia, during the vigil in August, a little more than a year after he died. Madison and Morghann, two of the couple’s six children, hold candles behind them. (Jeanna Duerscherl | The Roanoke Times)

Anthony's six children held their candles, each standing stoically.

It was an emotional end to what had been a fairly lively evening. Terry and Amanda had spoken earlier to the crowd, Terry telling them that "PTSD has a cost. Everyone, everywhere should be aware of that cost."

Then, a familiar riff rose from the boombox. The children squealed. It was "I'm Yours." With children hanging onto her legs and balanced on her hip, Amanda sang and danced along.

"Look into your heart and you'll find love, love, love, love.

"Listen to the music of the moment.

"People dance and sing.

"We're just one big family.

"And it's our God-forsaken right to be loved, love, loved, love, love."

'It's OK to be sad'

Amanda returned to Salem not long after Anthony's death. She lives in a house in West Salem not far from Terry. She keeps the children occupied with extra­curricular activities. Jakob plays football. Kaiden is in Cub Scouts. Madison is a cheerleader. The twins are into karate, and Morghann likes to dance.

"I don't do well with downtime," Amanda said.

She said all the activity "keeps us sane."

The children are coping pretty well, she said.

"I want them to know it's OK to be sad and to cry," she said, "but I have to be strong for them. I can't lead a sad life in front of them. I don't want them to be raised as victims. I want them to be survivors of the situation. I want them to look back one day when they have a better understanding and see that they're survivors. I'm trying to hold it together as much as I can and give them a fun, happy childhood. I can give that to them, at least."

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