Monday, October 15, 2012

Breaking the Silence

I’ve been silent for a while now concerning writing war. There are a couple reasons: I’m burnt out by talking about combat and coming home, and I’ve been running out of things to say. The narrative feels kind of old to me. How were things when I came home? Rough. Why so? That’s a story that sometimes takes too long to tell.

But mostly, I’ve been feeling removed from the warrior experience; so much so, that I walk around Walter Reed National Military Medical Center at Bethesda (a major military hospital – I have a part-time gig teaching writing there) and just feel numb to it all. Not so much the numbness I felt after my combat time where I just couldn’t relate to being a civilian again. It’s the opposite, really. I help instruct Navy Seals, Special Forces operators, EOD (bomb) technicians, and I can’t relate anymore sometimes to what they’re saying or feeling.

Maybe that’s a guilt I have since I didn’t do anything nearly on the same level of their experiences. But there’s this odd disassociation that’s been occurring within me. And it’s somewhat intentional: I play music loudly, like a nasty civilian when I drive onto base and park, and I don’t shave well and walk with headphones in my ears – things the Marine Corps would kick my ass for.

I’m in an odd place. 28 years young, but, this upcoming March, I’ve been a decade away from my first deployment. Time really does have this way of erasing your identity, healing trauma. I used to get drunk and cry. Loud noises or petty disagreements were calls to arms. Today I drink beers and yell at football, completely ambivalent to the war going on, not caring that the calories I’m consuming will make me slow and weak. Loud, unexpected noises I usually greet with a chuckle. Petty disagreements I let roll off my shoulders – like “water on a duck’s back” as many senior NCOs once said to me when I wore stripes. 

But I need to remember that OUR story IS an important story. All of us vets. And all I can do is share it, and continue to when I can, and hope it’s a beacon that can lead other warriors to where I am now.

Connect with Dario online:
Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)
20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)
JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)
The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)
LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)
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Monday, May 14, 2012

Still, Eight Years Later

I'm sitting with my war buddy at a hookah bar in Rhode Island: sweet flavor, low light, good tunes. A few drinks keep us warm, lessening the anxiety of our minds.

Eight years after serving together on the Syrian Border of Iraq, we still like each other’s statuses, keep in touch through text messages, and I visit about once a year.

We used to smoke hookah in Iraq, too. We spent all of our time together and became brothers. In many ways, I know him better than anyone else on the planet. And I’m sure he can say the same about me.

But there’s no timetable for getting over the trauma of war – and there are stories that people don’t want to tell, especially when they’ve secretly been feeling alone.

My buddy is a gregarious, outgoing guy, the life of the party. My visits with him are usually joined by many others: his friends or mine who just want to join in on our celebrations – of surviving the war, of staying best friends, of keeping true to our promises to always look after one another.

But tonight, for whatever reason, it is just us, and there’s a story he wants to share.

Before I was assigned to his team after serving in a different part of Iraq, my friend was ambushed while on patrol. He got out and shot, not knowing whom he was hitting or whom with him was being hit. But he learned right away that his vehicle gunner was shot, and his friend, too. My buddy held his body as the life drained from him all the way from the ambush site to the helicopter that took him away.
I’ve never heard this tale. I’m shocked that it has never been spoken. But I’m happy he’s shared it. He needs this therapy to get better. I will continue to be here for him. I will sleep without silencing my cellphone. He promises to call if he needs.

In regards to my own trauma, I’m better now, I’m happy to report. I’ve been well and happy for a very long time. But even I’ve forgotten that there are camouflaged wounds on our warriors that most of us will never see.

Connect with Dario online:
Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)
20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)
JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)
The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)
LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)
Facebook (Be my friend?)

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Be the Beacon

I’ve talked in the past about the many people who, probably unknowingly, changed my life with just a little bit of care and concern, and I’d just like to revisit this topic again.

I’m assuming that you, as a visitor to this site, fall into one of three categories: you’re someone who is dealing with the trauma of war, you’re a family member or friend of someone who is dealing with the trauma of war, or you’re someone who is interested in looking for information on this topic and have some sort of general interest in what Not Alone does.

All of you, dear friends, can be the beacon – you can be the ones to help out the vets (or fellow vets) who need us. I’ll share with you one of my recent experiences, not to gloat about how much I care, but to simply show how easy it can be, if you apply the awareness you have on the issues from being one of these three categories of visitors to our site. 

Two weeks ago I went to get my oil changed, a routine occurrence for anyone who, like me, lives in the Baltimore / D.C. area (we’re always commuting. Too many of us. Sigh). One of the workers at the shop walked with me to my car. He noticed my Marine Corps sticker and Iraq Campaign Medal license plates.

“Is that you?” the man asked, pointing at the rear license plate.

I had just gone for one of those quick, five minute oil changes. I really wasn’t interested in talking too much. But I didn’t think that this man was a vet, too. I sensed a deeper question behind what he was asking.  “Yeah, man. 8 years and 40 pounds ago. Why do you ask?” I replied.

“I had a cousin who was in Afghanistan. He’s been very messed up since returning.”

We talked about his cousin. He described all the usual symptoms: hard time reintegrating, refusal to seek help through the VA, too much self-medication. I told him about Not Alone and what they do – anonymous and free e-counseling and many other resources – and I encouraged him to have his cousin get in touch with me.

I’m not a saint. I was very busy that day. And I didn’t really do all that much. All I had was a little bit of empathy and a little bit of concern to just to plant a seed from a two or three minute conversation.
Maybe his cousin will call me. Maybe he’ll go to this site. Maybe it’ll save his life. Who knows? I’d rather know I did something at least, than worry about what might happen because of what I did not do.
We’re everywhere, folks. There are two million of us who have been “over there.” In the next couple months and years, we’ll all be home. Who knows what the positive outcomes of a little bit of your help might be?

Conversely, I don’t think anyone can disagree about what the outcome will be if we as a nation turn a blind eye.


Connect with Dario online:
Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)
20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)
JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)
The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)
LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)
Facebook (Be my friend?)