The hidden scourge of police PTSD
Warning: The following comment refers to suicide and may cause distress to some readers.
Peter Gillett (pictured right) is a retired NSW Police Officer now living on King Island and during his policing career he worked with Brad Edwards.
He was moved to write a poem in response to Brad’s death two weeks ago after a long battle with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD).
“I am sickened by the continuing plight of (the) suicide of former and serving police,” Mr Gillett wrote to Dubbo Photo News
“In response, I have written a poem on the subject.
“I too retired from NSW Police as a result of PTSD injury and now live the life of a homesteader on King Island,” said Mr Gillett, who has written a book about his career, titled “A Step Too Far”.
Tickets Please – In memory of our fallen mate Brad Edwards
Sometimes we see him at carnivals, gaudy, dressed by chocolate wheel.
We cast suspicious eyes and know it’s not quite real.
We hear the spinning flutter and dare not see where numbers land.
Everyone’s a winner, he oils in language few say they understand.
Been known to do private gigs – bedroom, flat or crowded bar A voice that could be near or from afar.
Soothing hiss falls easy, like hand inside a glove
Come, come insistent whisper all is ready, delay no longer, my love.
Impromptu appearance, a specialty, no booking fee required.
In moments he can screw your brain, in seconds all cross-wired.
In fits of rage materialise with answers clear as mud
Seductively he calls, tells of stories writ in blood.
Silent friend of many years, plan B if things go awry,
Whispers lies into our ears, promises the sky.
We gaze into his mirror-cracked, disjointed all we see.
Confidently he grasps at our hands – “All be better soon,” he utters, emptily
Not afraid of party, cheerful music and play,
Come and dance with me alone to see another day.
As long you hear my discord, playing underneath,
I’m in no hurry, but tells of glory in the wreath.
Old age, young age, bothered by neither one.
If seeds of doubt be sown, he knows his job is done.
He knows his weathered dreams of nothing or eternity have currency either way,
A quick snatching commando style, a house favourite, free of pay.
At times we catch fleeting scenes of him, fox-like among the chickens,
A slowly moving searchlight finds him quivering in the bracken.
None can really know the face always on the turn and run.
If perchance, you encounter him, come back, tell the rest of us and end his time of fun. z If this article has caused concern about your own or someone else’s mental health, contact Lifeline on 13 11 14 or call the NSW Mental Health Line 1800 011 511 for advice.