First Responder Veterans Australia was established in 2022 by a group of Police, Firefighters and Paramedics who felt there should be more out there that could help their first responder brothers and sisters.  Although there were countless sites and organisations offering help for mental health issues, many of these services were provided by organisations that had no experience in the unique challenges faced by first responders.  The question was asked, “What can we provide that first responders need as well as mental health support?”

Being a first responder is like no other job.  It is a career, a life, it becomes a part of your identity.  What was needed was an organisation that helped first responders deal with the challenges of mental health that not only tried to deal with the issue and the stigma itself but to work on ways that first responders can find ways to deal with what comes with mental health challenges such as loneliness, disconnection, lost relationships, poor self-esteem and sadly, that’s just scratching the surface because sometimes someone feels so challenged they see no other way out but end it.

The Founder of First Responder Veterans Australia decided that the importance of finding out why we were losing so many was to look at why it was happening in the first place.  First Responder Veterans Australia began life as an organisation that offers fellowship, recognition of service and a national community of first responder veterans, serving, retired, former, paid and volunteer alike.  Our mission became to establish a national organisation where first responders can come together in a non-judgmental and caring supportive community.

We are not mental health care professionals but we can concentrate on helping our members with recognition,m self-esteem, fellowship and finding the courage to reach out for help when they need it because the stigma of fear around mental health or even if someone is just struggling a little bit is very real.

From time to time we will be profiling our members, not for public relations or marketing purposes, but because their story deserves to be told.

 

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ROSS BECKLEY OAM
National First Wellbeing Program Coordinator
Member – First Responder Veterans Australia

Struggle to strength: a firefighter’s battle with post-traumatic stress disorder

The FRVA, Has brought together countless emergency service personnel who all struggle with their past at times, but are now in a safe place with likeminded people to embrace and support them.

 

 

Over his 21-year career as a New South Wales firefighter, Ross Beckley has fought some frightening battles.  From house fires to bushfires, to car accidents and rescues, he’s placed himself in situations that most ‘ordinary’ people never have to face.  It was his job and his duty; but one that has changed the course of his life.  After coming through the other side, Ross and his partner now want to use their journey to help other frontline emergency workers deal with the realities of post-traumatic stress.

Bulletproof

Growing up on the northern beaches of Sydney, Ross Beckley was like any other kid. He would muck around with his mates and spend endless days dreaming of surfing.  He was adopted, but that didn’t worry him – he had good parents who were supportive and nurturing, just like his friends had.  By the time he reached his early thirties, Ross was persuaded by a friend to join the New South Wales fire brigade as a retained firefighter in 1993.  He ended up based south of Lake Macquarie, covering the Hunter region.

He thought he was ‘bulletproof’.

The work was new, exciting and had an element of danger about it; Ross wanted to immerse himself in this new adrenaline-fuelled workplace.  “I was probably in the job about three or four months and I had one of my training instructors enter the room. He said, ‘if it’s been blown up, destroyed, flattened, whatever, I’ve seen it.’ I just sat there thinking, ‘How cool’s this? This is awesome. I want a part of it.’,” Ross said.

In the early days of his career, Ross saw a brochure that effectively said ‘you may feel a bit average’ after an incident, but he had no real sense of what post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was when he began.  An ingrained culture of firefighters having to ‘toughen up’ was rampant in the brigade. Humour and practical jokes were used to mask emotions and deal with the after-effects of traumatic incidents.

“You’re taught pretty much to turn your emotions off,” Ross said.  “Because they are off, often at times for so long, they’re hard to turn back on. You become unresponsive; you become unemotional. People just think you’re a hard-arse.”  Ross Beckley had a meteoric rise through the ranks of the fire brigade and became a deputy captain within three years in the job.

He was proud of his achievements and placed high expectations on himself as a leader within his station.  But it came back to bite him. An insidious danger lurked in the shadows, intangible and unknown.  As a leader he felt compelled to run towards incidents without fear or favour and not back away. Despite the horrific accidents and incidents his crew was called to, Ross felt he couldn’t be seen to be shying away and forcing those ranked under him to ‘do the dirty work’.  “I had to expose myself to it because you had to lead by example; that’s the way it is,” Ross said.

“I taught a lot of people how to be good firefighters through my instructor roles, but I wasn’t teaching people how to look after themselves.

“Is that a regret? No – because I didn’t have the information [myself].”  In 2008, the pressure from Ross’ emergency work kept mounting.  His brigade was sent to horrific incident after horrific incident. The crew became difficult to work with as the relentless cavalcade of car crashes, fires and accidents continued.  “It was becoming explosive; it was volatile,” Ross said.  He had been feeling tired – he knew that – but kept suppressing thoughts that something more sinister was wrong.

People suggested he get help, but he kept brushing them off, saying he was alright.  Years later, Ross said he was in denial.  “I got to the stage of my career that whatever was thrown at me I had to go to – whether good, bad or otherwise. It didn’t matter because I’d probably done it before,” he said.  “You get that bullet-proof mentality, and that worked against me.”

Work became his safe haven – a place he could go to escape the routine of home and the concerned questioning by his partner.  Work, and the inevitable adrenaline hit that came with it, was becoming an addiction.  “Every other aspect of my life that became rocky – whether it was my relationship, responsibilities with mowing the lawns, looking after my car, or looking after my friends. Because it was so chaotic and I couldn’t control that, work (which I could control) became the focus,” Ross said.

“For emergency services, because you’ve got that adrenaline as well, you need that hit and that rush. It’s like a drug. You would go to work regardless.  “With my journey, 99.9 per cent of the people I worked with wouldn’t have known the battles I had mentally.”

The fall

Sitting together hand-in-hand, Ross Beckley and his partner Veronique Moseley banter with each other.  While they’ve been together for 12 years, their relationship hasn’t always been smooth sailing.  It was only a few short years ago that the rapport they now share was missing in a quagmire of desperate anguish.  While Ross fell deeper into his battle with PTSD, Veronique tried to help her partner while also attempting to keep her own head above water.

Veronique has worked as a social worker for 25 years – a vital role in helping people going through tough times, or in caring for those with mental illnesses.  Ross’ condition grew increasingly dire, and he rebuffed Veronique’s attempts to help him.  In 2009, Ross was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. But it took him two years to accept the diagnosis.

“That’s called denial,” Veronique said.

Ross was on a merry-go-round of visiting psychologists, and he admits to manipulating them.  “You can feed them the information that they want,” he said.  “[Going to a psychologist] ticks a box with the family members outside; you say, ‘I went and saw my psych today and had my session.'”  As Ross’ battle continued, his family life grew increasingly erratic.  Some days he would be fine. Other days something would set him off, triggering myriad emotions, sleepless nights and flashbacks.

“It is turmoil,” Ross said.

“It’s like putting the washing in the washing machine and putting it on heavy load. It can be quite challenging.  “Sometimes you just think, ‘God, I’m losing it big time’.”  As it worsened, Ross saw Veronique as the enemy.  “It didn’t matter what she said or did; it was wrong, because you just think you’re under attack. That’s why you’d go back to the fire station, because that’s the safe haven,” Ross said.

“It becomes a vicious circle. Everyone wants to help you, but you don’t want the help.”

Despite being a social worker, Veronique said trying to help Ross was tougher than she’d ever imagined.  “I was the enemy. I did everything wrong. Who copes with that?” she said.  “Before all this happened I thought if ever this (PTSD) happened to me, I’d know exactly what to do. [But] it doesn’t help you when you’re in the personal situation. Worse than that, I didn’t have the network of people that would understand.

“The conversations would come back to me being the one that was having relationship issues and ‘why was I staying with this guy?’ as opposed to ‘there’s an issue going on with this guy and here are some strategies to deal with that and keep my own self esteem’.”

Did Veronique fear she’d lose Ross?

“Many times. Ross used to leave, so we separated many times,” she said.  “Those two years were the hardest time in my life – and I’ve had a lot of horrible things happen.”  For Veronique, the situation was like a double-edged sword.  If she told Ross’ colleagues to look out for him, she feared he’d find out, and his short fuse could lead to bigger problems.

If she didn’t help, she’d be enabling his behaviour.

In 2012, after seeing a procession of psychologists, Ross found the therapist he believes changed his life.  The new psychologist’s experience in treating emergency services workers struck a chord.  “When I first met him, he said to me, ‘G’day Ross, I don’t need to know what you’ve seen and done, I’ve done it myself’,” said Ross.

But in October 2013, amid the raging Catherine Hill Bay bushfire, Ross had what he calls his ‘Forrest Gump moment’.  He was standing next to his tanker on the highway at Chain Valley Bay, and was gazing at the burning wall of red flames surrounding him.  Then something clicked.  “We’d just been through some horrendous few hours with fires, and I vividly remember standing there going, ‘I don’t think I need to do this anymore’,” Ross said.

“That was it. I’d decided I had had enough.

“It was up to me to make that decision. It wasn’t because I was scared I was going to die; I’d changed. Something clicked in my head.”  Despite having heard Ross say for years that he’d quit the fire brigade, when Veronique received the phone call from him, she knew that this time he was serious.  “He’d said it to me ten thousand times over the previous years,” she said.  “I was at the point of [thinking], ‘yeah, right, whatever. You’re never going to give this up. This is an addiction, even though it’s destructive for you’.  “As much as it was sad that it was the end of his career, for his family, and ultimately for Ross himself, it was the best news ever.”

Ross was medically discharged from the NSW fire brigade in 2014.

Since then, he has reflected on how his life was flipped on its head by his work and the ramifications of his mental illness.  “I’ve done a lot of great stuff, but I’ve also got a lot of baggage with it … I [now] have a greater understanding of myself. I have a greater understanding of not shutting things out,” he said.  “Yes, I’ve got regrets in some of the things that I’ve done in the family aspect – [things] which I don’t particularly want to relive. And I can’t really do much about it; that was just the way it was.  “[At its worst] I said things; I did things that I don’t particularly like to think about. That’s how damaged I was; but at the time, I didn’t feel I was damaged.

“I’ve fought some pretty horrendous battles in the fire brigade, but for me, the biggest battle has been my head.”

Change

While Ross and Veronique hope that the darkest days of Ross’ PTSD battle are behind him, they are still picking up the pieces and trying to find out what went wrong.  In May 2013, even before Ross left the fire brigade, the couple decided they had to do something to help other emergency services workers avoid the slippery slope into mental illness.  “With our combined experience, and particularly with mine in that mental health arena, why did it all stuff up so badly?” Veronique said.  “If it stuffed up so badly for the pair of us with that added bonus [of social work skills], what was it actually like for others who didn’t have that educational background or the knowledge about mental health problems?”

What has followed is the launch of the pair’s educational training service for emergency services workers called Behind the Seen.  The training provides basic mental health awareness for emergency services workers and their families, and operates outside what the police, ambulance and fire authorities offer their employees.  Emergency services workers approach Ross and Veronique and ask them to conduct a training session. Ross offers insight into how PTSD and other mental illnesses have affected him, while Veronique speaks about the effect these conditions have on families.

“The difference with what we do is that it’s proactive, whereas the organisation’s services are reactive – they’re there for you when you put your hand up, and they are, and they do a good job,” Ross said.  “This is about stuff that I would’ve liked to have known before I hit the wall and the drips in my bucket got too much.”  Veronique said families of emergency services workers also need to be educated about, and prepared for, potential mental health issues.

“I’ve lived through a partner having gone through PTSD, the whole period of denial and all the horrible bits and pieces that go along with that,” she said.  “All that could have possibly been prevented. That’s our message, and it’s a big battle because there’re a lot of changes that need to take place.  “I think what’s made the difference is Ross’ lived experience and him standing up there saying, ‘I was just like you, I thought I was bulletproof; and you know what? You’re human.'”

Ross and Veronique firmly believe that the so-called ‘toughen up’ attitude within the emergency services still exists, and needs to be eradicated.  “I think there’s a cry for change from frontliners now. Because we’ve got social media and we’re able to share information a lot easier, that’s very, very slowly changing,” Veronique said.  “It’s a culture that’s been ingrained for a long time, so it’s going to take a long time to change – from frontliners all the way up through to management, and unfortunately out in the community as well.

“Some people in the community presume that these guys and girls are just naturally going to be tough, because they’re the jobs that they chose.”  Ross’ journey with PTSD is ongoing, albeit less severe than when he was in the fire brigade.  The reduced severity is because he is conscious of the triggers that could send him into a PTSD ‘episode’.  Ross chooses which movies and television programs to watch. He particularly avoids cooking shows, for fear of seeing chicken carcasses and meat hanging off bones.  If he hears car brakes screeching, he tenses up.  He even avoids certain roads while driving.

“I’ve always had a problem with white crosses on the side of the road,” Ross said.  “Yes, it’s sad that somebody’s passed away, but I also think about the people that were there for the five or six hours trying to deal with that incident.  “Driving to places, it would take you 10 minutes, but it would take me 30 minutes because I’d avoid different streets, because I didn’t want to get memories of that day or night.”

Although they are making steps towards change, Ross Beckley and Veronique Moseley said the battle to prevent PTSD and other mental illnesses in the emergency services will never be over.  What does Ross want his legacy to be?

“One word: change. That would be it; change,” Ross said.

“I’ll expand on that for you: saving lives in a very different way to what he was doing before,” Veronique added.  “‘Turn struggle into strength’, is what we always say.”  Ross agreed.

“I’ll take that.”

Ross also finds time to help his fellow brothers and sisters in First Responder Veterans Australia coordinating on a national basis our latest Peer Support Program.

If you would like to find out more about the organisation Ross and Veronique established, Behind The Seen, you can visit them here.