Understanding the Oil Spill's Psychic Toll

For all the environmental and economic harm caused by the disaster in the Gulf, the most lasting--and least visible--damage could be inflicted on the mental health of its victims

  • Matt Slaby for TIME

    The Landry Family

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    Like southern Louisiana, Alaskan towns were full of fishermen whose way of life was threatened. Residents saw coastal waters fouled by millions of barrels of oil, and they raged against an incompetent response from government and industry. Previously close-knit communities were divided — those who took well-paying cleanup jobs with Exxon were decried as "spillionaires" profiting from the catastrophe. And the wounds did not heal with time: a recent study found that stress levels among Alaskans involved in the oil-spill litigation were as high in 2009 as they were in 1991. "There are still significant levels of depression and posttraumatic stress," says J. Steven Picou, a sociologist at the University of South Alabama. "It was a constantly renewing disaster."

    By its nature, a man-made disaster like an oil spill differs from a natural one like an earthquake — and it can cause far more psychological havoc. The difference, in a word, is blame: while no one can really be at fault for a natural disaster, victims of man-made catastrophes have plenty of places to point fingers. That creates anger, and as it builds and builds, it leads to what Picou calls "corrosive communities."

    Further, in natural disasters, the suffering is more egalitarian — while the poor and vulnerable will be affected more, obviously, no one truly escapes unscathed. That can help a community regroup and rebuild, as happened to an extent after Katrina — even if the fecklessness of the federal response complicated things. But that's not the case after an oil spill; fishermen see their way of life destroyed, while other residents are barely affected. A sense of injustice stokes anger, which, says Dr. Elmore Rigamer, the medical director of Catholic Charities in New Orleans, "is a killer emotion. It's like going around with a closed fist full of crunched glass."

    That sharp, chronic pain can quickly turn into depression — something that's already occurring in Gulf Coast fishing communities. Darla Mooks, a 47-year-old shrimp-boat captain from Port Sulphur in southeastern Louisiana, says she's barely sleeping these days. With no shrimp to catch, she has only one other potential source of income: a cleanup job with BP — but Mooks hasn't been able to get one because, she charges, of gender discrimination. "I don't know how I'm going to get through it," she says while smoking a cigarette outside a town-hall meeting in Port Sulphur. "We have to, but I don't know how."

    The trauma would be bad enough if, as with the Exxon Valdez, there had been a single spill. But the BP disaster went on for weeks, each day — until recently — bringing a fresh supply of oil. The underwater-camera feeds were an around-the-clock reminder of that. For Gulf residents, it was as if they'd been mugged and then forced to watch a video of the crime on an endless loop. And now even though the active phase of the oil spill is over, there are lingering fears about what might be left behind, about long-term impacts to the region's seafood supply and economy. Even if it turns out those fears aren't justified, they can eat away at people.

    After just a little bit of this, trust erodes: Who in the Gulf believes BP when it says it will make things right or the government when it promises that chemical dispersants aren't toxic? Finally — inevitably — comes the fracturing of the community. Travel around southern Louisiana and you'll hear complaints that BP isn't handing out cleanup jobs fairly, that some captains are getting all the work and others are getting nothing. "We're a community," said Acy Cooper, vice president of the Louisiana Shrimp Association, at a hearing in New Orleans for the national oil-spill commission. "This isn't fair, and it has to change."

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