Over 26 years ago, I unknowingly used a therapy technique called a “Pattern Interrupt” with my beloved uncle, a World War II veteran haunted by PTSD.
My uncle, then 83 years old, was a USMC World War II veteran who had battled PTSD for over 53 years due to a traumatic experience in Iwo Jima. The nightmares were so severe that he couldn’t sleep in the same bedroom as his wife, fearing he might harm her in his sleep.
One afternoon in 1998, I visited my aunt and uncle for lunch. Afterward, my uncle suggested we take a walk to help him recover from recent bypass heart surgery.
While he was putting on his walking shoes in his bedroom, my aunt pulled me aside. She confided that they hadn’t slept in the same bedroom since he returned from the war in October 1945, and she wished they could share their remaining years together. She asked me to encourage him to seek psychological help from the VA for his PTSD. I was very hesitant, knowing how sensitive the subject was, but I promised to bring it up if the moment felt right.
During our walk, we stopped in front of a large white colonial house. Out of nowhere, my uncle said, “They must have cleaned the blood and brains off the wall behind that rocking chair this morning.”
Confused, I asked him to explain. He told me that Mr. Smith who had been sitting in that chair a few days earlier, had shot himself.
I asked if anyone knew what Mr. Smith’s mental state had been. My uncle replied, “He was like a lot of us. We went to war and came home forgetting we even had a childhood.”
That was my in! I mentioned that he could get therapy through the VA. My uncle became enraged, his face turning red. He got in my face and said, “I should have died that night in the foxhole!” I raised my voice in response, “If you can feel your feet, you are alive. Most of your buddies would be dead from old age by now. You owe it to your wife to sleep in her bed before you die.” He stood there silently for a moment, then started walking home without a word.
When we returned, he when into his house and my aunt on the driveway eagerly asked if we had discussed the matter. I told her, “Yes, but it didn’t go well.” My uncle didn’t even say “goodbye” to me.
Six months later, I visited again, this time with my 19-year-old son Clay, who had joined the Marines. My uncle opened up about his war experiences, something he had never done before, but clueless me didn’t fully grasp its significance at the time.
A year later, my aunt was diagnosed with cancer. During one of our phone calls, while Red was out of the room, she opened up to me. She wanted to express her gratitude for what I had done for Red but hadn’t found the right moment, as she didn’t want him to overhear. I was confused and asked what had I done?
She shared that on the day I spoke with Red on the walk over a year ago, my uncle moved his belongings into her bedroom and secured his old bedroom door from the outside with the padlock she used every night. She mentioned that he never experienced those terrifying episodes again.
They slept in the same bed every night for the last two years of her life. My uncle’s quiet transformation, sparked by a simple yet profound moment, allowed them to regain the closeness they had long missed.
A few years after my aunt’s passing, my uncle, along with his middle-aged grandson, attended his first and last USMC 5th Marine Division Reunion in Orlando, Florida. He was received by the open arms of the few survivors of the First Platoon, Company A, 5th Pioneer Battalion, 5th Marine Division.
A year later, my uncle passed away.
Decades later, reflecting back on his moment of change, I realized that I had unintentionally put my uncle into a “trance state of confusion.” I did what is called a “Pattern Interruption”. See the next post on how another therapist uses this technique in a playful way with her clients.
I was curious about what AI would infer from this event, so I asked for its perspective with ChatGPT. The AI’s response was insightful:
“Yes, your approach involved a subtle element of confusion, but it was combined with empathy and clarity, leading to a meaningful shift in perspective. Here’s how confusion played a role: