The Heartbreak of PTSD: A Mother’s Perspective

Matan Nachmani served bravely in the Second Lebanon War. The horrors of war have not ended for this young man of 36, still trapped in a battle with PTSD. Matan described himself in a poem he wrote: “…walking amidst flesh and blood / shadow of a ghost in the body of a man…”

Matan’s parents, Tovah Leah and Gabi, are well-loved public figures in Israel. Tovah Leah is an esteemed teacher of Torah at Pardes Institute in Jerusalem and elsewhere, and Gabi — well known to generations of young adults for his work with the iconic Livnot U’lehibanot (To Build and Be Built) program — founded the non-profit Tenufa Ba’Kehila, which repairs homes for disadvantaged Israelis, free of charge. We asked Tovah Leah to share a mother’s perspective of life with a war veteran with PTSD.

UNORTHOBOXED: First, please tell us about Matan, pre-war.

Tovah Leah: Matan was charismatic and fun-loving, the big brother who could turn a box of plain old blocks into a magic castle. He loved hiking and every kind of physical outdoor adventure. He didn’t love school because it wasn’t practical enough; it didn’t feel relevant and meaningful. When he was 15 years old, I asked him, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Without a second thought, he said: “Whatever I do, I want to give of myself to Am Yisrael, even if it costs my life.” He doesn’t remember saying that. But I never forgot it.

He lived that statement. At 16, he volunteered for civilian security patrols. At 17, he volunteered for the local police force. One day there was a knock at the door. I opened the door, and I saw the chest of a policeman. My heart dropped. And then I looked up, and I saw it was my six-foot-tall son. They had given him a uniform and a badge and had set him up with an office and a 

telephone, because he decided to develop a program for local youth volunteers for the police.

At 18, Matan enlisted in the IDF and joined the Paratroopers, because he wanted to be in a combat unit. He was sent to a medics course, and suddenly “school” was exciting and relevant. At the top of his class, he was asked by his commander to tutor his comrades in the course. Emergency medicine was practical and meaningful. He discovered his calling.

When he was 21, during his third year of army service, the war broke out in Lebanon. He risked his life and saved many lives, going above and beyond the job of a medic, to evacuate his wounded comrades from a house under bombardment. When a doctor went into shock and could not function, Matan — though not qualified to perform the lifesaving procedures — talked the doctor through the process until he was able to pull himself together. 

UNORTHOBOXED: There are always the lives even a very gifted medic fails to save; and those losses weigh heavier and guiltier on some medics than others. Even the most competent medic who makes the inarguably best decision can be sabotaged by factors beyond his control. 

Tovah Leah: Matan demanded that a lower-ranking medic with a serious sprain go back behind the lines to get medical treatment. They argued; Matan pulled rank. The injured man could not walk on his own, so Matan assisted him to the military ambulance and loaded him 

I now understand why Matan never wanted to address his PTSD. His nights were haunted by the sights and sounds of the wounded, and by memories of seven friends who didn’t come back from the war. But by day he was a productive human being. He was afraid to lose that. 

UNORTHOBOXED: In 2019, Matan heard the Yom HaZikaron (Israeli Remembrance Day for Fallen Soldiers) siren, and was overcome by a crippling wave of devastation. Even though the process had been ongoing for many years, Matan began to admit that he was not living a normal life.

The battle between the rational mind and the PTSD prisoner-of-war heart rages on. Matan rationally determined that PTSD was causing him to react in unhealthy ways after a fight broke out between two of his young children. He became very agitated about the fight, as is normal with parents who love and want to protect their children; but he suddenly feared that the PTSD was triggering an explosive kind of anger. In order to avoid the possibility that normal squabbles between his kids might trigger him to harm them, he and his wife agreed that for a while, he would leave their home and live with his parents.

Tovah Leah: That was two and a half years ago. Since then, Matan has not been able to return home to his family that loves and awaits him. The family’s time and resources have been devoted to Matan’s care and treatment and to treatment for their children. Neither he nor his wife, Ruti, an accomplished web site designer, have been able to work.

As a mother, it is heartbreaking to watch his wife and their kids struggling to make ends meet, in need of charity to put food on their table. Ruti is also struggling, but as Matan says, “She fights like a lioness for her family.” She loves Matan and dedicates every ounce of energy to their children, who are experiencing “secondary trauma.” The children suffer severe anxiety, depression, physical illness, difficulty sleeping, and nightmares. 

UNORTHOBOXED: And of course, Matan must carry that guilt, too. 

Tovah Leah: You’re so right. Every man wants to be a man and provide for their family and to be the hero. It hurts him that he is so wounded that he can’t be the hero for them.

Ruti and I communicate about everything. We take the kids to sleep over at our house sometimes; we send Matan and Ruti away on vacation. We try to cook things for her, and do some shopping. She knows that she can ask us for anything that she needs. Her wonderful parents live farther away, but do what they can as well.

Ruti has a delightful sense of humor, even in the midst of all she’s been juggling. She can humor her kids out of a tantrum. Sometimes she makes Matan laugh. I am in awe of her gift of humor. The fact that she can make light of intense situations helps me, too. Watching her with her children gives me hope that they’re going to be okay.

UNORTHOBOXED: What kinds of therapy are you choosing, and how effective are they?

Prior to this, we had all individually been trying to grope our way through the crisis. And now we finally sat down and focused on how it has affected us. Without Matan’s presence, we each shared our feelings about what it’s like as a family to be going through this. One of our children was afraid, as they saw the burden of Matan’s struggle aging us; another spoke about feeling resentment that so much of our parental focus has been on Matan and his family for the last three years. After this meeting, the siblings had a greater desire to bond together and to be there for each other. They had a deeper, ‘soul level’ understanding of what we’re all dealing with.

This year, after the Yom HaZikaron siren, each of our kids came to us and said that they experienced uncontrollable crying. They suddenly owned it, not seeing it any longer as “Matan’s problem.” I am sure that this was a direct result of that family session. We needed to be able to grieve, separately and together. When we can move from resentment to grieving, we turn a corner; we move from thinking about how they are messing up my life to how they are a part of my life.

UNORTHOBOXED: What kind of rehabilitation programs have been helpful for Matan?

Tovah Leah: Matan is in a year-long process of training a service dog. Just as there are dogs for the blind, there are dogs trained for PTSD. Matan has seizures when something triggers him — a loud sound, a smell that reminds him of Lebanon, an upcoming date on the calendar related to the war. The service dog is trained to smell the hormone cortisol the body excretes under stress. When Matan starts to have a seizure, the dog puts its paws on his upper chest. It’s like a hug. Or the dog licks his hand or arm or face, and brings Matan back to the here and now. What is amazing is that the dog can smell the cortisol before it leads to a full-blown seizure. Sometimes, the dog can calm him before Matan’s brain even registers that there was a seizure coming.

Prior to working with the service dog, Matan couldn’t be around large groups of people. Crowded places for him are like being in Lebanon. They’re threatening. The dog enables Matan to go to the supermarket, to attend family gatherings. When it is fully trained, he will have this dog for life.

Through the Conservatory of Music in Tel Aviv, Matan is in a phenomenal project for combat

soldiers with PTSD. He writes deeply evocative poetry in a writing group and, partnered with a top music instructor at the Conservatory, composes songs expressing his PTSD to help people understand. Even through his own suffering, he still wants to help people. That’s Matan. 

The music has been resuscitating for him. The Conservatory is so impressed with his music that they are offering to reach out to some of the musical stars in Israel to perform his songs. His first song was aired on national radio on Yom HaZikaron this year.

He’s also in a therapeutic program through the Israeli Veterans’ Administration where he joins with other vets to share their experiences with those who understand firsthand what he’s been through. This is a huge step for Matan, because years ago, he would not have attended a group such as this. And now, these fellow vets are his friends, with whom he is comfortable going on weekly hikes and overnights. And not only is he attending, but he has risen to a level of leadership among his peers.

UNORTHOBOXED: What would you say to the government, to parents, to sufferers of PTSD?

Tovah Leah: We are all in a learning process, as is the Israeli government, which is doing more and more to support soldiers with PTSD. Gabi and I want to raise public awareness about PTSD — recognizing symptoms in yourself, in a friend, or in someone you love, and not being afraid to go and get help.

Some of Matan’s army friends heard that he was suffering, but didn’t speak to him for three years because they didn’t know what to say, and were afraid to ask. After we reached out to them with our recent fundraising campaign “Building a Home for Matan,” and our video sharing Matan’s story, they helped us to raise a huge sum toward building a specially-designed home which will allow Matan to return to live with his family.

It is possible that the most dangerous symptom of PTSD is loneliness. All of the wonderful things we know about Matan, he doesn’t recognize in himself anymore. While he experiences moments of success and joy, especially with his music, and in the outdoors with his wife or friends, his primary experience is debilitation or incapacitation. He has lost his self-esteem. When he hears, “I love you,” or “I am here for you,” he doesn’t know how to accept it. That loss of self-worth can be dangerous.

It’s the brain versus heart thing again. The brain says, “You have a loving family and friends. Why can’t you move ahead with your life?” But the heart says, “I’m not worthy.” That is such complete loneliness.