EULOGY

Scott Enion
3 RRF
Died 1st Jan 2017

The Words Spoken by

Paul Sanderson
Vicar for the funeral

A man who died when he fell from Dover clifftops on New Year's Day was an Army veteran who campaigned against prejudice.
Former Fusilier Scott Enion, from Radcliffe, had fought in the Gulf War and given years of service to his country.
He died when he fell from the Langdon Cliffs on Sunday - one of three tragic deaths to take place over the weekend.
The 45-year-old joined the Army in 1988, and left in 1996 at the time claiming he had been racially abused.
Suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, Scott had campaigned to highlight racist attitudes which he said he and other had suffered and had also launched a legal case against the MoD.
Now relatives and friends have posted about his tragic death on social media - and paid tribute to the former veteran.
Carley Enion said: "R.I.P to my beautiful uncle scott, you will be missed by soo many :( :( ur with the angels now."
New Lyndel Chinga Acheampong replied: "awww no way R.I.P Bro."
Chanelle Yates added: "So sorry for your loss, rip Scott xx."
He had demanded £100,000 compensation for bullying he said he suffered during seven years in the Army.
The former soldier alleged it drove him to the brink of suicide.
But his case was thrown out.
He said at the time: "I wouldn't recommend the Army to any young black person."
You are with the angels now' one grieving relative wrote in a Facebook tribute
An ex-comrade said: "Scott was a great soldier, a great man and a great friend.
"He suffered a lot as a result of his time in the Army but his abuse claims were never dealt with successfully.
"We are gutted to lose someone like him."
Troubled Scott also feared he had Gulf War syndrome.
He is thought to have made the 300-mile trip to Langdon Cliffs from his home in Radcliffe, Gtr Manchester, on the day he died.
Police were alerted when he was spotted at the top.
He claimed the treatment severely affected his mental health, and even drove him to the brink of suicide. However, the case was dismissed.

At the time, he said: 'I wouldn't recommend the Army to any young black person.'
A friend of Mr Enion's, speaking to the Sun, said Scott 'suffered a lot as a result of his time in the Army but his abuse claims were never dealt with successfully'.

Mr Enion also reportedly feared he had Gulf War, respiratory disorders, joint pain and memory problems.
It's believed he travelled 300 miles from his home in Radcliffe, Greater Manchester, to Langdon Cliffs on the day he died. syndrome - a condition affecting Gulf War veterans that causes a number of medically unexplained chronic symptoms, including fatigue, headaches, dizziness

Mr Enion was a former Fusilier who fought in Iraq in the early 1990s.
His family have said he never recovered mentally from seeing his friends blown up in friendly fire.
Upon leaving the Army in 1996, he claimed he had been racially abused.
The coastguard was scrambled to Langdon Cliffs, Kent, on Sunday afternoon following a report of concern over a man.
When Dover lifeboat arrived at the scene, the crew discovered Mr Enion's body.
More sad news - death of Fusilier Scott Enion
Published: January 6th, 2017
I was horrified to learn of the tragic death of Fusilier Scott Enion. Scott killed himself at Beachy Head on New Year's Day. He was in my recruit training platoon at Bassingbourn and then went on to serve in 3rd Fusiliers. I remember him as a good soldier; quite shy and retiring but hugely competent for one so young. I am aware that he served in the Gulf with C Company and left shortly after. I am also aware he had issues with the Regiment and won a claim for bullying.
Our thoughts and prayers are with his family and friends. As Colonel I am sorry that Scott didn't feel that he could turn to us for help. Please spread the word that OAFAAF applies to all. If you know of anyone who is suffering, then tell them to get in touch with the Association. We would never let one another down in combat - let's look after our own in peace.

Loren was a soldier struggling in a war against the darkness that would engulf him. In this war there were no cease fires, he could not negotiate with the enemy, he had to win every battle, while the enemy, only had to win once. When Loren won there were no accolades, no ribbons, and no parades. There was no way to tell even if the battle had been fought, but for 35 years. . . he held the darkness at bay. I cannot tell the strength it took to fight and I cannot know the despair that ruled him at the end. There is no way to tell. But I, I will remember my brother as a soldier fallen in battle against the enemy of us all. And I will not ask why . . . I will not ask why because the answer will never explain, and it will bring me no comfort. Instead I will ask when. When will I see him again, healed of pain, and whole? And in the silence before sleep, or in the dead of the night when I cannot sleep and the darkness descends upon me, that is the hope I will hold to my heart. Not why, but when.I will not forget my brother. . . and in my home we will remember the battles that he won.
May God grant Loren the peace he deserves, and may God be with us all as we struggle to say goodbye to our brother, son, and friend.

I am sorry that it has come to this.
The fact is, for as long as I can remember my motivation for getting up every day has been so that you would not have to bury me. As things have continued to get worse, it has become clear that this alone is not a sufficient reason to carry on. The fact is, I am not getting better, I am not going to get better, and I will most certainly deteriorate further as time goes on. From a logical standpoint, it is better to simply end things quickly and let any repercussions from that play out in the short term than to drag things out into the long term.
You will perhaps be sad for a time, but over time you will forget and begin to carry on. Far better that than to inflict my growing misery upon you for years and decades to come, dragging you down with me. It is because I love you that I can not do this to you. You will come to see that it is a far better thing as one day after another passes during which you do not have to worry about me or even give me a second thought. You will find that your world is better without me in it.
I really have been trying to hang on, for more than a decade now. Each day has been a testament to the extent to which I cared, suffering unspeakable horror as quietly as possible so that you could feel as though I was still here for you. In truth, I was nothing more than a prop, filling space so that my absence would not be noted. In truth, I have already been absent for a long, long time.
My body has become nothing but a cage, a source of pain and constant problems. The illness I have has caused me pain that not even the strongest medicines could dull, and there is no cure. All day, every day a screaming agony in every nerve ending in my body. It is nothing short of torture. My mind is a wasteland, filled with visions of incredible horror, unceasing depression, and crippling anxiety, even with all of the medications the doctors dare give. Simple things that everyone else takes for granted are nearly impossible for me. I can not laugh or cry. I can barely leave the house. I derive no pleasure from any activity. Everything simply comes down to passing time until I can sleep again. Now, to sleep forever seems to be the most merciful thing.
You must not blame yourself. The simple truth is this: During my first deployment, I was made to participate in things, the enormity of which is hard to describe. War crimes, crimes against humanity. Though I did not participate willingly, and made what I thought was my best effort to stop these events, there are some things that a person simply can not come back from. I take some pride in that, actually, as to move on in life after being part of such a thing would be the mark of a sociopath in my mind. These things go far beyond what most are even aware of.
To force me to do these things and then participate in the ensuing coverup is more than any government has the right to demand. Then, the same government has turned around and abandoned me. They offer no help, and actively block the pursuit of gaining outside help via their corrupt agents at the DEA. Any blame rests with them.
Beyond that, there are the host of physical illnesses that have struck me down again and again, for which they also offer no help. There might be some progress by now if they had not spent nearly twenty years denying the illness that I and so many others were exposed to. Further complicating matters is the repeated and severe brain injuries to which I was subjected, which they also seem to be expending no effort into understanding. What is known is that each of these should have been cause enough for immediate medical attention, which was not rendered.
Lastly, the DEA enters the picture again as they have now managed to create such a culture of fear in the medical community that doctors are too scared to even take the necessary steps to control the symptoms. All under the guise of a completely manufactured "overprescribing epidemic," which stands in stark relief to all of the legitimate research, which shows the opposite to be true. Perhaps, with the right medication at the right doses, I could have bought a couple of decent years, but even that is too much to ask from a regime built upon the idea that suffering is noble and relief is just for the weak. However, when the challenges facing a person are already so great that all but the weakest would give up, these extra factors are enough to push a person over the edge.

Is it any wonder then that the latest figures show 22 veterans killing themselves each day? That is more veterans than children killed at Sandy Hook, every single day. Where are the huge policy initiatives? Why isn't the president standing with those families at the state of the union? Perhaps because we were not killed by a single lunatic, but rather by his own system of dehumanization, neglect, and indifference.
It leaves us to where all we have to look forward to is constant pain, misery, poverty, and dishonor. I assure you that, when the numbers do finally drop, it will merely be because those who were pushed the farthest are all already dead.
And for what? Bush's religious lunacy? Cheney's ever growing fortune and that of his corporate friends? Is this what we destroy lives for
Since then, I have tried everything to fill the void. I tried to move into a position of greater power and influence to try and right some of the wrongs. I deployed again, where I put a huge emphasis on saving lives. The fact of the matter, though, is that any new lives saved do not replace those who were murdered. It is an exercise in futility.
Then, I pursued replacing destruction with creation. For a time this provided a distraction, but it could not last. The fact is that any kind of ordinary life is an insult to those who died at my hand. How can I possibly go around like everyone else while the widows and orphans I created continue to struggle? If they could see me sitting here in suburbia, in my comfortable home working on some music project they would be outraged, and rightfully so.
I thought perhaps I could make some headway with this film project, maybe even directly appealing to those I had wronged and exposing a greater truth, but that is also now being taken away from me. I fear that, just as with everything else that requires the involvement of people who can not understand by virtue of never having been there, it is going to fall apart as careers get in the way.
The last thought that has occurred to me is one of some kind of final mission. It is true that I have found that I am capable of finding some kind of reprieve by doing things that are worthwhile on the scale of life and death. While it is a nice thought to consider doing some good with my skills, experience, and killer instinct, the truth is that it isn't realistic. First, there are the logistics of financing and equipping my own operation, then there is the near certainty of a grisly death, international incidents, and being branded a terrorist in the media that would follow. What is really stopping me, though, is that I simply am too sick to be effective in the field anymore. That, too, has been taken from me.
Thus, I am left with basically nothing. Too trapped in a war to be at peace, too damaged to be at war. Abandoned by those who would take the easy route, and a liability to those who stick it out-and thus deserve better. So you see, not only am I better off dead, but the world is better without me in it
This is what brought me to my actual final mission. Not suicide, but a mercy killing. I know how to kill, and I know how to do it so that there is no pain whatsoever. It was quick, and I did not suffer. And above all, now I am free. I feel no more pain. I have no more nightmares or flashbacks or hallucinations. I am no longer constantly depressed or afraid or worried
I am free.
I ask that you be happy for me for that. It is perhaps the best break I could have hoped for. Please accept this and be glad for me.
Daniel Somers

Suicide is not painless, especially for those left behind.
If a friend or family member has chosen to end his/her life this, to me, means the hardest eulogy of all. Clouding the normal emotions of love and loss can be anger, guilt, confusion and even hatred.
What a 'nasty bastard thing to do' is often the reaction and undoubtedly there will be repercussions far greater/deeper than the person committing the act would have imagined... because lack of consequence is something that comes with that terrible 'black dog' called depression.
The easiest thing with a suicide funeral is to gloss over the means of death and the emotions felt by those left behind - just have a few readings, poems and music and move on. But, for me, this isn't enough. It does both the deceased and those attending the funeral a disservice.
I have had people close to me end their lives (and attempt to) and it is something that never leaves you but a funeral service is not a place for anger or hostility, nor is it fitting to throw a blanket over the good memories and achievements of the deceased. And, if there are children of the deceased left behind, it is important that they gain some support and love from the eulogy.
All situations will be different but perhaps a way to start the eulogy would be to thank all those who have given their support to the family members grieving - for the phone calls, flowers, casseroles, visits, thoughts and prayers. The fact that none of us knows just how many people out there do care can also be a subtle pointer to others that suicide is not only painful but pointless.
With subtlety and sensitivity it is possible to be honest and even confrontational before moving to the good things to remember about the deceased and to give a fitting farewell

The day that I die
Love, Hate, Shame, Self-hatred
I'm not who I was, will I ever be wanted
Guilt, Self-loathing, Anger, that's me
I hate who I am, but my family loves me

I don't deserve them the pain I put them through
But with love, care and support, they try to guide me through
Nightmares, Flashbacks, the deafening noise
The memories never go, I'll not forget the boys

You see me now a broken man
No trust have I, should I or can
Society has forgotten what deed I did
Abandoned by government, what harm they did

No hope, no love, no friends or foe
Only awaken from dreams when I stub my toe
I was a proud man, all strong and straight
Now I hang all crocked, like a broken gate

I sharpen the knives hoping someday to use
Tie the knot in the rope, no what is the use?
I walk on the kerb hoping a lorry will take
my sorry old arse, please do for my sake

My pain will end it has to I know
My demons come out, your face please show
I woke up this morning, I know it for shore
There was peace and calm, I was happy and more

The sun now shines in the blue clear sky
For today is the day… The day that I die

Thank You Soldier (By Chris Woolnough)
Have you stopped to thank a veteran today?
For the price of freedom they had to pay?
Did you gaze into those distant eyes?
Did you see the ghosts he can't deny?

Did you think a soldier's heart was made of steel?
Because he was trained to kill, he couldn't feel?
For the loss of life he can't replace?

Did you know he mourns the lives he couldn't save,
And walks with comrades in their grave?
Did you remember the boy with innocence lost?
Do you really know war's ultimate cost?

Have you felt the blast of artillery fire?
Do you have the courage it would require?
Have you stood in trenches consumed with fear?
Felt the enemies breath so very near?

Have you walked with God on a battleground?
Seen your brothers dead or dying all around?
Have you stopped to thank a vet today,
Or did you just turn and walk away?

From the pain he'll carry for the rest of his life,
Did you consider his family, his children, his wife?
That watch him suffer in silence each and every day,
As he's haunted by memories that don't go away?

Did you care that the soldier is still pulling guard?
That his heart, mind, and soul will forever be scarred?
Do you know how he suffers from ptsd?
Or that our precious freedom is never free?

Do you care that he still hears the blood curdling screams?
Or that he returns to the war each night in his dreams?
Have you felt the sorrow of a combat vet?
Or would you rather just forget?

That war has pierced his hardened heart,
And torn this soldier all apart?
Would you rather our heroes just fade away?
Or will you stop to thank a vet today?
Did you see the guilt written on his face,

Goodbye Brave Soldier (By Andrew Wright)
To that distant land we all flew,
Because our government ordered us to,
On a big green jet plane,
Not knowing what to expect.

Day after day bullets whizzed by,
We all feared we might die,
For eight months we fought,
Did exactly what we were taught,
To survive the deadly battle,
We'd suppress fear, pity…remorse,
And respond with violent, deadly force.

Then after eight months…
Back to that far away land we call home,
Home…from that tragic war we were sent,
No longer able to feel,
Because the wounds are unable to heal.

The war is over for us now, we left it behind,
But we're always forced to remind,
Those long-long nights in the desert,
Wondering if we'd ever make it back,
From that god-awful war in Iraq.

At night you still here the blood curdling screams,
Dead children and dismembered bodies are forever your dreams,
You thrash in your bed through out the night,
Jumping up screaming from the fright,
For serving your country, PTSD is what you get,
Waking up from your dreams soaking wet.

Day by day and night-by-night the years pass,
You hope to god the dreams wont last,
You just want the pain to stop,
So pill-by-pill you begin to pop,
Your eyelids feel heavy,

But now you are ready,
To walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
No more nightmares, no more pain,
As you fall asleep into eternal, peaceful rest…
Goodbye brave soldier…goodbye.

No Wounds upon my body,
No scars that you can find,
Just hurt from wars fought long ago
implanted in my mind

No outward signs of injury,
No telltale signs of pain,
Only flashbacks and the nightmares
Time and Time again.

But all's not lost for us old friend
There are those that understand
Just let them lead us through the darkness
Go with them hand in hand

PTSD
The cell I live in is my mind, where I reside, the place I hide.
For when the past comes here to stay, I fold away, I hide inside.
This cell is dank, it's walls sweat blood, it's ceiling crushes from above.
The floor is wet, the stench is sweat, this place is lacking warmth, and love.
I built this place with my own hand, the reason for to lock away,
The light of day.

And darkness reigns in this foul place, the flashbacks come, the nightmares stay.
For when the past comes round to call, my cell hides me from the truth.
It shelters me from all that hate, it is my only covering roof.
And though to all I'm brash and bold, my outer skin seems hard and cold,
Reality is a different thing, I feel so weak, so used,
So Old.

I'll tell you how this came about, although I really have no doubt,
That you already know,
Because like me you have this room, the place to go, where you can shout,
It came about as I am weak, a person plagued by simple thoughts,
That are not simple anymore, they squirm and toss, a hate, of sorts.
And when I close my eyes so tight, I see again the shattered forms,
Of burning buildings, burning men, in bloody lightning storms.
Of screaming children, arms and legs, just lying there, the dawn to find,
Of shattered lives, of shattered minds, of shattered hopes, from my own kind.

And so my cell protects me from this scene, but in itself provides a place,
Where torture rules, the stinging whip, the tears of blood run down my face,
For in my mind, I built this place.
The brick's are moulded from my hate, and kiln-fired in the fire of life.
The morter mixed from fear of death, and watered down with tears, and strife.
So course by course, as years went by, I built this cell,
I learned to cry.

And when at last my time does come, when I lie down, to wilt and die,
Then this fine shelter will collapse, fall over and be turned to dust.
For all my fears will go with me, my legacy of brick and rust.
My spirit then will fly so free, the past not there to trouble me.
I hope.

And so to you I say these things, to fellows who have lived like me,
To you who's anguish rules your lives, fear not,
For someday we'll be free.