Unaccounted casualties: The suicide rate of young veterans far outstrips the general population

A knock on the door interrupted Brandon Cardoza. Standing outside of his second floor Chestnut Hall freshman dorm room was Luke Carreiro.

“This wasn’t ordinary for him,” Cardoza said. “When he showed up, I was concerned. He wanted to come in. I said ‘Let’s have a conversation.’”

Cardoza discarded his books, brushed aside his homework and sat on his bed. Sitting at Cardoza’s desk, Carreiro informed one of his best friends he was unhappy in college. He wanted more. He wanted to enlist in the military.

“I wanted to be a supportive friend,” Cardoza said. “I was just hoping he would stay. Because we had grown up together for five years. It’s selfish I understand, but, with the stories coming out overseas, I didn’t want to lose my good friend.”

Cardoza’s premonition became a reality. Carreiro died, not in Iraq, where he served a tour of duty, but because of Iraq.

On Dec. 2, 2015, Carreiro, at the age of 26, took his own life on a military site in Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

“Once I heard it was suicide, I instantly snapped back to that conversation in my dorm room,” Cardoza said.

That conversation aged six hours until they finally turned in for bed at around midnight.

Carreiro slept on the floor with an extra set of Cardoza’s blankets.

“He felt better after sleeping through the night, but it’s still one of those things, that I always thought back to,” Cardoza said.

The details of Carreiro’s story may be unique, however, the ending is not.

Carreiro was one of more than 72,000 veterans who committed suicide from 2005 to 2016, according to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

The suicide rate among veterans ages 18-34, which Carreiro fell into, is 45 per 100,000, much higher than the rate of non-veterans, which is less than 30, according to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

Younger veterans experience a higher rate of suicide, however, older veterans, ages 55-75 experience the highest number of suicides.

“This story, (Luke’s story), it happens so much,” Veteran and activist Chris Azevedo said. “And this is the problem.”

***

Luke Carreiro found his family on Memorial Day Weekend nearly two decades ago. He arrived at the home of Marie and Fernando Carreiro (no biological relation) as a guest for a cookout.

“I kept saying who is this kid? He’s such a doll. He’s so cute,” Marie said.

Marie was informed his last name matched her family’s and as a foster child, he was looking for a home.

“It was almost as if it was meant to be,” Marie said.

By the end of the first week of July, Marie, Fernando and their daughter Sydney officially adopted Luke as their son and brother.

“We don’t tell a lot of people because he’s always been our son to us,” Marie said.

He loved to read — Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings.

“The bigger the book, the better,” Fernando said.

School appeared easy for him.

Cardoza remembered Luke fell asleep during the review for an exam for a very difficult physics class senior year. Cardoza called him out after class, reminding him how challenging the class was.

“We got the test back a couple weeks later. He had gotten a 98 on it or something ridiculous,” Cardoza said. “I had studied for hours trying to prepare myself for this test and I hadn’t even come close to that. He was very bright.”

He played goalie for the Wildcats. He rapped as part of his “talent” during a Mr. Wesport competition. He earned the title prom king. Jen Farias, one of his best friends, was named queen.

Farias said she never laughed harder than when Luke stormed into her class senior science year with a few others dressed in clothes from the 1970s as they danced to techno music.

“He would be whatever you needed him to be,” Farias said. “If you needed someone to listen, he’d sit there and listen. If you needed advice, he would try his best to give you advice. And if you needed a laugh, he would try his best to make you laugh. He did that for everyone.”

Luke worked with Farias, at Lee’s Market in Westport. They often took breaks together. During one of those breaks, Luke told Farias his intent to join the military.

“What was most admirable about him, he was always putting people first,” Farias said. “So when he told me he was going to enlist and join, it made sense.”

Luke, who couldn’t stomach violent movies, enlisted in the Army Infantry.

He served in Iraq 2010 to 2011. During his time, he earned the rank of sergeant. But he had changed.

“He was quieter. There was more of a seriousness about him, the way that he carried himself,” Farias said. “As much as he was still Luke, he was just a different version of him.”

When he returned home to Westport, he spent most of his time sitting in front of a television.

“He wasn’t as motivated to do things,” Sydney said.

Marie Carreiro received a call at around 6 p.m on December 2, 2015. On the other end of the line, Luke’s wife, who lived in Texas, informed Marie that her son was dead in Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

About an hour later, two men came walked up the driveway in front of their yellow house holding an American flag to inform the Carreiros of their loss.

Brandon Cardoza saw the news on social media. Jen Farias received a text.

“I never thought my older brother would do something like that,” Sydney said. “You just look up to them like a strong person. A hero. You never think they can’t fight the fight. You think they’ll always be around.”

***

A blue sweatshirt covered Chris Azevedo’s torso. The garment dedicated to a motorcycle memorial run for Sgt. Daniel Vasselian couldn’t hide his muscular physique. Tight athletic pants revealed equally fit legs.

His shaved head matched with a day or two without a shave painted the picture of a hard-nosed special forces veteran, one directors cast as an indestructible character.

Minutes later he wiped tears from his eyes.

“I try telling people, this is a sociological epidemic,” Azevedo said. “We’re not thinking about it.”

Azevedo is from New Bedford and served in the special forces. In 2005, he broke his back and sustained a brain injury in Southern Iraq. He initially refused to receive treatment.

“I’m not leaving my guys,” he said.

After he eventually returned home, his post-traumatic stress disorder pushed him to feeling that dying was a better option than living.

“I’m comfortable with guns, so I planned on shooting myself,” Azevedo said. “There were many times I would load one of my guns, I would get my Bible and I would read a little bit and I’d ask questions. Because I didn’t understand why. Why do I feel this way? What purpose do I have?”

He lost his house. His wife filed for divorce. His two daughters didn’t want to see him. He spiraled into drug addiction, which nearly cost him his job as a firefighter.

“I was able to get my body the dose of adrenaline and I was able to replicate the high of combat. That was the most alive I felt,” Azevedo said of taking drugs. “When I was in that state I was able to not feel emotion. I didn’t have to think about the guys who didn’t make it back. I didn’t have to think about why my kids don’t want to talk to me.”

Pain medication drove him to addiction, but the images from war fueled his PTSD.

Azevedo described Iraq as a dreary barren desert. Every person in the military wore the same outfit that matched the tan landscape.

At home even the most mundane item, like a bright red “B” outlined by flawless white on a navy Boston Red Sox baseball cap caused alarm.

Spray paint on the street, perhaps done by the electric company, only brought memories of the spray painted landscape in Iraq that signified a crew had searched the area and it was free of explosives.

Azevedo attended his daughter’s indoor soccer game. The sound of the ball striking the steel side of the building mimicked that of gun firing. At the same time, helicopters flew over facility.

“That was the first flashback I ever had when I returned home,” Azevedo said. “One of the soccer mom’s grabbed my arm. She asked me if I was all right. When I came out of it I started crying. I got emotional because I couldn’t believe it was happening”

In 2013, Azevedo sought help at the Western VA Health Care facility. Through countless sessions of group therapy and acting as a liaison for incoming veterans, he said he again feels life has value.

But it’s a feeling he knows some veterans never experience after returning home.

“What are we doing when they come home?” Azevedo asked.

An average of 20 service members — active and retired — commit suicide every day. Azevedo believes that number is an underestimate.

He said while he decided not to pull the trigger and directly take his own life, he still wanted to die. He purchased a motorcycle built for speed.

“I started going here to Cape Cod as fast as I could,” he said.

He climbed mountains, then raced down them on the bike. He performed well outside his skill level. He’d often swim distances beyond his stamina should allow.

“Maybe I’ll drown,” he said. “I say it with a smile but it’s not a joke. I’m not the only person doing this.”

Today, Azevedo works with veterans and plans to start a non-profit to provide financial aid when needed. He’s also en route to receive a medical degree to better plan treatment for military members returning from service. A book is on the way too, meant to help bring awareness to the fight veterans have after war.

“We’re doing work and we’re saving people or reuniting family. I just helped reunite a family and it’s bittersweet because I lost two families,” said Azevedo who has been married four times. “I couldn’t keep my life together but here I am being able to help this guy not lose his family. It’s very powerful. It’s come full circle.”

***

Marie, Sydney and Fernando Carreiro gathered in the living room of their Westport house. Pictures of Luke filled the walls.

Fernando joked, it’s difficult to walk throughout their house without seeing a picture of Luke.

Their son spent his final six months of life away from Westport and family. Other than phone calls, texts or social media, they didn’t know what emotions or pains haunted him.

Two days prior to his suicide, he posted a message on Facebook:

“I guess it took true loneliness and despair to appreciate how much love there really is for me in this world,” he wrote. “These past few weeks I have not been myself and I just want to apologize to all my loved ones that were affected by my decisions. I am truly grateful for the love that I felt from all the people that reached out to me when I needed help the most. I have never been able to accept help before, and I believe this flaw has gotten me in this crazy situation that I find myself in now. It’s time now to hit the reset button on my life and start the rebuilding process. I understand now that allowing people to help me is not a sign of weakness on my part, but it is a sign that I am willing to accept their love and support.”

From afar, Luke’s family saw it as a positive sign. Wiping away tears in her living room, Marie wondered why no one closer, on the military base, ever noticed anything.

“They just make them go back into society,” she said.

Like Azevedo and Luke Carreiro, many veterans appear strong when they return home. What many forget and those around them miss is the fight at home.

“But you don’t hear about it until someone dies,” said Marie with her eyes full of tears.