a MEANINGFUL veteran art collection with cause

"My experiences with PTSD have informed how I work as an officer. I do not want my sailors and officers to feel like they have not been supported, or that they have been let down by the system. The shoot opened up some interesting feelings for me. There are things I did not expect to come up, which did. It can be rough when some of the difficult memories come up without warning. The physical sensation of the molasses was interesting, but the visual impact was even more notable. On first impression on my skin, it reminded me of tattoos - particularly the cultural tattoos of New Zealand and Pacific island nations, where the bearer wears their history on their skin.  The patterns drawn in the molasses have layers of intent and meaning. The scrolling curving patterns are a common part of what I draw - inspired by water and the ocean. The sensation of drawing them along my skin is similar to self-soothing actions; fidgeting, but also working through pain of injuries. When it dried, it was almost like a second skin, a shield, a thick hide protecting against the world. Imperfect and rough" - Clare Randall

"I played the “everything is fine” game for years. I’m just a civilian. What I was deployed to do will ever compare to what my military colleagues did. I felt, and still do feel, guilty for struggling when I believe that I have no right to. There is no assistance for civilians who deploy – we’re not covered by DVA and there is no equivalent organisation for us for medical or psychological support. It’s like we are not acknowledged at all, so we struggle through alone. It is a strange limbo to be in - we'll never be accepted as veterans (quite rightly), but we do endure many of the same experiences and feelings. I saw things that will be forever burned into my mind. I know the fear of a direct threat against my life. I know how it feels to be fully clad in body armour. And, as an unarmed civilian, I know what it’s like to feel both completely helpless, and like a liability and a danger to my uniformed colleagues because I can’t do anything to help.  Molasses is an excellent metaphor for my PTSD. The feeling of being dragged down into the thick, welcoming abyss until you realise you are choking and drowning. Being able to barely keep your head up enough to catch a breath. The struggle between letting go and slipping under, or fighting to stay above the surface. I have an amazing clinical psych, a fantastic psychiatric support dog and an incredible husband, and I continue to want to stay above that line” - Rachelle Bonner

"The main thing I remember about 2011 was feeling numb. Close friends remarked that it seemed like I was in chains; a shadow of my former self. It was no surprise. The previous two years had been mad. I’d been the Chaplain of 2/14 Light Horse Regiment, and I had never served in a better unit. However circumstances beyond anyone’s control meant that for two years I hardly had a moment’s peace. I was surfing a wave of circumstances from the moment I posted in to the Regiment, until the time I left. The first death occurred in the first week. The poor fellow died in an accident on base, with one of his brothers witnessing the event. When I got to the scene, I approached the grieving brother, and he said, “Mum, the Padre is here,” and handed me his phone. “Is he dead?” she asked, and I looked over at the body of the young soldier, who’d just been pronounced dead. I knew I couldn’t lie to her, and the danger of the family finding out from social media was high, as the accident had been witnessed by many. So I told her the truth. “I’m afraid so ma’am,” I replied. And then she screamed. That was the first of three deaths I dealt with that year, and the reaction of each of the families was different every time. Except for the screaming. It was the same. A banshee wail that stuck in my mind. However, the busyness of work meant that I had no time to process things. When 2010 rolled around this didn’t change. However the first field exercise of that year held a real surprise. I was told I would be deploying in eight days time — to Timor. It would only be a 20 day stint. After 14 days in Timor, I found out I’d be going to Afghanistan 10 days after I got home. No time to think; just time to react to circumstance and do what needed to be done. Afghanistan was frantic. Pastoral issues, the identification of the fallen, conducting ramp ceremonies, going to patrol bases; all part of life in a war zone. Then I returned home, and hoped I would get some rest. But no. Such was the shortage of chaplains in Brisbane that within two weeks I was involved in the aftermath of two more deaths that had occurred in Afghanistan. Six fatalities in two years, and with five of those I was dealing directly with the families — sitting on the floor telling a child that their father was not coming home — listening to them scream — having to remain acutely aware of my surroundings in case people in their grief did something random or violent, but at the same time having to show empathy. My brain was overwhelmed, but I did not know it. Until later, when I heard screaming again. Then I knew it, and knew that I was broken. An angel of death I had become, the bearer of bad news. Someone whose face would forever be associated with the worst day of people’s lives. The bringer of tears" - Roger