By Jeremy Redmon
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
AUGUSTA Ga. 鈥� Fourteen years ago, Jim Banish found himself with a bottle of booze in one hand and a gun in the other. Cumulative traumatic stress from his job in policing and grief over his older brother鈥檚 suicide two years earlier pushed Banish to that desperate moment.
As a law enforcement officer in New York, Banish was often given the task of notifying people that their loved ones had taken their own lives or had been killed. He responded to fatal car wrecks. And he vividly recalls the moment a suspect fatally shot himself in front of him.
Depressed and on edge, Banish isolated himself. He self-medicated with alcohol, seeking to keep a recurring nightmare at bay. Finally, he underwent therapy and was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.
Today, part of Banish鈥檚 perseverance comes from helping others heal. He teaches first responders how to cope with trauma, and he created a related in New York. Now he is moving south and helping raise for opening a new mental health treatment center for police officers and other first responders in Augusta. It is called .
Compared to the general population, police and firefighters face heightened risks of depression, PTSD and suicide, and they are more likely to die by suicide than in the line of duty, according to a 2018 commissioned by the Ruderman Family Foundation, which advocates for people with disabilities.
At least 33 first responders have taken their own lives in Georgia since 2018, , a charity that fights mental health stigma. Most were men who held jobs in law enforcement.
Ambitious plans
, a nonprofit that helps men recover from drug and alcohol addiction, met with stiff opposition from Augusta residents for years as it sought to transform a former convent into Valor Station. Neighbors said they worried about safety and their property values. Ultimately, the foundation failed to win approval from the Augusta-Richmond County Commission.
The foundation sued in state and federal district courts. After losing those legal battles, the foundation switched to a location closer to Hale House, its addiction recovery center for men in Olde Town Augusta.
Banish, who retired in March after spending 27 years in law enforcement, recently spoke about plans for Valor Station as he sat in one of the two newly renovated homes that will serve patients in Augusta.
鈥淚 will never stop until this place opens and we are successful,鈥� said Banish, Valor Station鈥檚 co-founder and vice president.
In preparation for Valor Station鈥檚 opening, Hale Foundation CEO Cliff Richards and a few colleagues checked out the Emory Healthcare Veterans Program, which treats military veterans diagnosed with PTSD. Some of Emory鈥檚 patients have also held civilian jobs as first responders.
鈥淚 found there are a lot of parallels between what they are doing and being successful at with the military and what we are trying to do here with first responders,鈥� said Matthew Carpenter, a former New York City police officer who serves as Valor Station鈥檚 chief administrative officer.
Sheila Rauch, deputy director of the Emory Healthcare Veterans Program, also sees overlap.
鈥淭here are a lot of similarities. Both first responders and military populations have high rates of exposure to trauma,鈥� Rauch said.
Valor Station plans to offer some of the same forms of treatment the U.S. Veterans Affairs Department has found effective for military veterans with PTSD. Among them are individual and group talk therapy and eye movement desensitization and reprocessing, or EMDR, in which patients are instructed to discuss their traumatic experiences while focusing on blinking lights and vibrations. Patients from across the United States with and without medical insurance will be welcomed at Valor Station, Banish said.
鈥淲e want to open at least two on the East Coast and two on the West Coast, and hopefully have one or two centrally located so officers don鈥檛 have to travel as far to get treatment,鈥� said Banish, the founder and president of the New York Law Enforcement Assistance Program, a nonprofit that aims to prevent PTSD and suicide.
鈥楢lways taking care of each other鈥�
The second youngest of five children, Banish grew up in a close-knit Catholic family in the Buffalo, New York, area. His father served in the U.S. Navy and worked as a local judge. Banish and his two brothers followed in their dad鈥檚 footsteps and went to work in criminal justice.
Banish wrote movingly about his older brother, Joe, in a book published last year, 鈥淟aw Enforcement Culture Unveiled.鈥� The two shared an apartment near the Canadian border when Joe Banish was assigned there as a New York State trooper.
鈥淢any cold nights we slept in the same bed to stay warm and would stay up late talking about our childhood and even our future plans,鈥� Jim Banish wrote. 鈥淛oe and I were so close, that was just a normal deal for us. We shared blankets and a philosophy on the world, always taking care of each other.鈥�
Joe, who dreamed about leading the New York state police, rose quickly through the ranks to lieutenant. He became an administrator in the New York State Police Academy in 2007. That is when Jim noticed his brother change.
Joe became distant, his brother wrote, and he began drinking more and eating less. Jim urged him to talk to someone, but his brother worried about being stigmatized. In 2008, Joe Banish took his own life. He was 35.
The next generation
Banish remembers his encounter with a New York State trooper who pulled him over for speeding as he drove to his parents鈥� home in western New York just days before his brother鈥檚 funeral.
鈥淚 told him who I was and where I was going, so he let me go,鈥� he wrote. 鈥淚 was indescribably sad and it was obvious that he was, too. He put his head down and told me he was sorry, that he had worked with Joey and couldn鈥檛 believe it. No one could believe it.鈥�
In the wake of his brother鈥檚 death, Banish also remembers hearing his father cry for the first time. His father鈥檚 wail, he wrote, sounded like a piece of steel splitting apart.
Banish began to struggle at work. As he responded to a deadly car wreck one day, he noticed his hand trembling. His legs became weak.
Eventually, he fell deep into depression. When he became suicidal in January 2010, he reached out for help and began seeing a psychologist. After six months of therapy, Banish began feeling substantially better.
A workmate noticed Banish鈥檚 changed demeanor and asked about it. When Banish told him about his therapy, his colleague asked for his counselor鈥檚 phone number, saying he also struggled with cumulative stress.
From then on, Banish threw himself into helping other officers heal. Noticing Banish鈥檚 contributions, the sheriff in Warren County, New York , permitted him to switch from working as a patrolman to helping colleagues cope with stress as a peer supporter coordinator.
鈥淚鈥檝e taken guns out of cops鈥� mouths more times than I can count at this point in my life, both literally and figuratively,鈥� Banish wrote. 鈥淭hat means that Joe鈥檚 death was a tragedy that has led to something positive.鈥�
Banish cites another reason for helping fellow officers heal: The next generation. His oldest son, Domanic, joined the Virginia state troopers and works as a canine officer with a Dutch Shepherd named Abza. At Domanic鈥檚 police academy graduation, Jim Banish pinned his son鈥檚 badge on his uniform. It carries the same badge number that was assigned to Joe Banish.
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