The Truck Driver

In my crazy days after the war, when I was wild with anxiety, stress, and rage, I’d spend my days with co-workers and townies at a bar named the Treehouse. One such normal night, early off work, I traveled there.

The Treehouse stunk of the usual environment even though it was still relatively early. Classic rock played over fuzzy quality wall speakers and the Keno board intermittently flashed different numbers on the wall behind me. Underneath the epically-sized painting of a forest scene on the far side, some regulars made out and fondled each other in a booth. Ms. Pacman continued her desperate search for Mr. Pacman and some twenty-somethings screamed at each other near the Golden Tee arcade game with the busted screen – busted from overuse and abuse.

Still the first one of my fellow servers here at the bar (I had paid someone to do my side work at the end of the shift at the restaurant), I sat alone, staring at the muted TVs, two vodka and Red Bulls down, now guzzling a Guinness.

I noticed the man next me being presented a large dinner, t-bone steak with all the trimmings. It was 10:30 at night.

“Damn, that looks good,” I said. “That’s a big meal for so late, isn’t it?” I asked lightheartedly.
The man sat stoically, not turning from his plate. “Yeah, I drive trucks. I’m used to eating all sorts of weird hours.”

Maybe because I was feeling particularly sad – or entitled to be sad because of my recent experiences in Iraq – I replied, “I know what you’re saying. I was in Iraq. I had to eat at odd hours all the time, too.” Perhaps I was trying to validate the lonely feelings and negative behaviors I often acted out that brought me to this bar every night. Maybe I was trying to one-up him to earn some sort of praise or sympathy.
He stabbed his meat and began slicing it with the dull kitchenware. “Yeah, I was in Vietnam. After three Purple Hearts they sent me home,” he said, his voice trailing off. And suddenly I felt kind of dumb.

I wrecked myself for years because that’s all I could do. I know now that it’s called self-medication. And yeah, I went through some s*** in Iraq. But damn, how could I compare my experiences to those of a man who just coldly mentions his wounds? How often did this man look for sympathy or act a fool like me? I could never know. But I could know that, compared to him, I think I was acting pretty dumb.
Because I was made uncomfortable by this man, and because I was humbled by him, I paid my tab and went home early just that one night.

You never know how bad someone has had it. There’s always someone who has it worse than you.

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Sergeant Dakota Meyer: The Hidden Story

For the first time since the Vietnam War, a living Marine, Sergeant Dakota Meyer, was presented with a Medal of Honor a couple weeks ago. His tale is that of a modern Rambo, no lie. After an ambush, Dakota boldly, relentlessly, returned to the kill zone as humvee gunner – mortar shrapnel wounding him, RPGs and bullets whizzing past him – to collect his injured or dead comrades. "I didn't think I was going to die; I knew I was," Meyer was quoted as saying. You can read his Medal of Honor citation here.

But lost in the pageantry of the event – the predictable probing of the media, the late night talk show visits, the White House ceremony, his story being disseminated everywhere – there is a story of a possible mental injury – maybe PTSD, combat stress, etc.; the “camouflaged wounds” of war – that hasn’t been talked about much. And I’d like to thank President Obama for his tact in handling that reality.

See, to Dakota, he was a failure. He wasn’t successful in saving some of his brothers-in-arms, his friends, and one can only imagine how painful it must be to, if that’s really what he believes, have to retell that story on a daily basis, many times a day. This is a symptom of PTSD: not being able to accept the outcome of a situation or process it in realistic way; feeling guilty for things that happened that were beyond your control. Nathaniel Fick called it the “sacred geometry of chance” in his memoir. No matter what, in war, someone’s going to die. Some of your buddies are going to have to die. No one has control over it. You just do your best to survive and take care of those around you.

And this is where President Obama deserves significant recognition. During the ceremony at the White House he addressed this specifically. They were just few quick lines, probably tossed aside by most, but they will go a long a way in helping Dakota heal. President Obama faced him and said, “I know you’ve grappled with the grief of that day. You’ve said that your efforts were somehow a failure because your teammates didn’t come home. But as your commander-in-chief, and behalf of everyone here today, and all Americans, it’s quite the opposite.”

But just the same – keep in mind, I am in no way comparing my efforts or experiences to Dakota’s – I’ve felt a similar grief and guilt. Many of us have. Maybe all of us veterans have.
I served two tours without a scratch, and some of my friends were wounded or killed. And some of my friends will never be the same people; they’re unwilling or incapable of coping with their mental traumas. I still often think about reenlisting and doing more. Five years ago, when I got sick with mono and couldn’t deploy a third time, my captain told me, “D-Bo, you’ve done your time.”
I don’t know if that’s true anymore. So I go back to my laptop and keep writing, hoping that contributes somehow.

I’ll continue to tell the stories of the battles we face when we come home.

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Love After War: A Narrative (Conclusion)

Part V.

In August 2005, my roommate decided to move back home to Frederick, MD – a place often jokingly referred to as Fred-Neck because of its rural and conservative philosophy. So I threw him a “redneck party” for his going away: dress like a hillbilly and drink from the keg for free. Lisa wasn’t invited, but she showed up anyway.

At about 11pm the party was pulsing and everyone was enjoying their last night with my popular roommate. It gave me great pleasure to be able to send him off this way; he had been a good friend.
Then, without so much as a knock, Lisa barged in (the first time at my place in months), all tricked out with a shiny nylon halter top and a pound of makeup. I guess she had just come from the club. I guess she couldn’t find anyone there to love her for a night.

I told her that she had to leave, but she wanted to plead with me instead. I didn’t really think it was appropriate to speak with her in the crowd so I took her to my master bedroom at the end of the hallway and closed the door.

I had to hold her upright; drunkenness destroyed her balance. She began tracing her lips on my neck and ear and telling me how sorry she was – how much she missed me – how much she loved me.

And for a moment I believed her when she began to disrobe. I wanted it to be true. I was so alone.

But I stopped us. If she was indeed genuine in this desire to be with me (we had never actually done anything sexual) then she would stay all night and we could be close later. It was my friend’s going away party. I was the host. I didn’t want to forsake him or anyone else by getting with her.

Lisa put her top back on and raged. “Why don’t you care about me, Dario? Why do you treat me like s***?”

And I clenched my fists in anger, too. I’m sure no one else in her entire life had bought her flowers at her work. I’m sure no one else had ever tucked her in or walked away after she threw herself at them. I’m sure that chaos was all that she knew.

She exited my room, stomping her feet, and tried to make out with the first man she saw. And finally, that was the one unpardonable action that made me ready to let her go forever. The popular opinion of everyone at the party forced her exit shortly thereafter.

I’ve seen her in the years after our fleeting, tumultuous love – sometimes as a guest at the restaurant that I continued working at periodically; sometimes as a fellow patron out on the town. We stared at each other like we still hated one another, but I know that kind of passion can only exist when the feelings still remain.

She has kids and a husband now and I hope that’s what she needs to keep her tame and happy.

My world is more fragile and tenuous. I make a living off of prostituting my struggle in some abstract idea of the power of story – how words can help others and shape the world. I’ve been happy for a time too, but sometimes I don’t know if the alcohol and self-destruction I’ve poisoned into me just works slowly. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll go into depression remission.

Sometimes I don’t know why I can’t entirely let her go.   

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Ten Years Ago, Today

Ten years ago, to this day, I waited on the edge of the parade deck at Marine Corps Recruit Depot Parris Island, South Carolina. After the impending graduation ceremony, the command “dismissed” would arrive, and I’d be relieved of my duties as a recruit and finally, officially, I’d become a Marine – a title I’d have earned and could never lose.

Boot camp to this point was tough, no doubt. I had endured thousands of push-ups, hundreds of miles of marches and runs, and 13 weeks of the toughest basic training in the U.S. Military. I thought that in this moment, my heavy belt drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Crandall, would finally let up on my training platoon.

But he didn’t. And that angered me. I didn’t understand why, in these last moments of basic training, he was still screaming at my platoon and pointing out our flaws. I thought we deserved some of his respect; we were just about to complete the same training he did, probably a decade before. Boot camp is the connection that’s supposed to bond all Marines, regardless of generation. It’s supposed to entail and demand a mutual respect – why was he still screaming?

It took me two combat tours, six years in the Marine Corps Reserve, and many years as a civilian to finally figure out why he maintained this hardness until the end, never ever letting up on us. In the military, there’s never an easy moment. There’s not supposed to be. When you’re a Marine – or a soldier, or sailor, or any warrior with a job in the combat arms – your job is to be a warfighter, a killer. And war means that you may die, or your buddy may die, and most certainly that your life will change and continue to be changed, especially when you get out.

He was hard on us until the end because that was his final lesson to us: your life in the military is going to be lonely and rough. Your duty station will change. The wars will come. Your friends will die. So be hard. Always. The green machine will use you, and doesn’t care about how you feel.

I wonder how he is doing today, and if he still feels the same. I wonder if he feels regret, knowing he trained hundreds of Marines for war, and more than likely, some of them are dead.

I wonder if he still feels the need to be hard, even as his career is probably at its twilight, and he’s probably getting ready to soon return home for good as a civilian.

I wonder if he’ll realize now, despite the good intention of his final lesson – numb yourself and be hard to deal with the life you’ve chosen – that he’s not alone in his pain. 

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A Speech

Last Saturday, I spoke on the U.S. Capital Grounds as part of a rally to create awareness for veteran's mental health issues. Here is that speech. Please comment if you like, or feel free to re-post or link to this.

Good afternoon. I’d like to thank the Stop the Loss Foundation for having me. I’d like to thank the military representatives who’ve come out to tangibly show resolve against the stigma of seeking mental healthcare. And thank you to the other speakers. And finally, I’d like to extend my empathy and sympathy to all the veterans and current service members and their families in attendance today, who are dealing with the camouflaged wounds of war. You are not forgotten or excluded today. Hopefully you never will be.

As a combat veteran who had to cope with the mental traumas arising from my experiences at war, I feel you. I feel this cause.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell you with medical certainty what was wrong with me when I returned home from Iraq in 2004, because I was one of those stubborn vets who refused to get help or treatment, even though I knew there was something very wrong with me – something very wrong with my mind. There were the usual symptoms: violent flashbacks to my experiences at war that chilled my bones; being unable to take off my combat edge and often snapping, ready to fight in a moment’s notice; crying without ceasing when I was reminded of my dead friends; lonely nights with a bottle of vodka and enough Red Bull to explode an elephant’s heart.

Yes, I knew there was something wrong. But I didn’t know why.

I became a writer as a personal therapy to help shed the skin of my painful experiences. And I discovered the power of words – especially creative nonfiction: true words to help create awareness and create change for a better world.

So, after getting a fancy master’s degree in creative writing and completing thousands of hours of writing and research on military and veteran issues, I can finally tell you now that I do know why I was messed up then.

So here it is. Here’s what I would like every congressman, senator, and concerned American to know about war and why it affects our men and women in the way it does.

Please consider this fact first. Nearly half of the enlisted force in the Marine Corps today is under 25. And what exactly are these magnificent men and women doing in Afghanistan and Iraq today? Let me paint you a picture the only way I know how – with words.

There is a constant fear even though it is never mentioned. There are no front lines so no one is safe. Enemy rockets and mortars don’t discriminate on whether you’re sleeping on your cot on base, lighting up a cigarette, playing the guitar or poker with your friends, or talking on a satellite phone to your mom back home. They don’t care where you are or who you are. They will kill you anytime.

And IEDs don’t care what your job is. If you’re riding in a humvee -- whether you’re a supply person, or cook, or machine gunner – when they explode like an unseen and deadly surprise, they will melt your flesh, slice off your legs, or pummel your sternum with piercing shrapnel so you can bleed out slow.

The sniper just the same, does not care. When he sees you through his scope, he will explode your skull, knowing that when your brains paint the sand with scarlet, he has victory.

This is war, folks. This is what we’ve asked a new generation of young Americans to bear for an entire decade now.  Think about that. Let that number mull around in your mind. Ten years.

Now, let’s contrast our combat veteran’s experiences with the typical experiences of the other 99% of young Americans who don’t serve and are also under the age of 25.

They might get up early. Say, maybe nine or ten. They’ll take a warm shower, blow dry their hair, and show up to class, where they might doze off during the lecture. Or maybe they do have a job. Maybe they’ll sit in traffic, listening to their I-Pods, AC blasting, in their modern and safe cars. They’ll have to look busy all day behind something light and digital.

Or maybe they’ll work a blue collar job at a lumber mill or dock. Tough work. I know that from experience, too. But no one will be shooting at them. No one of thousands of hostile insurgents will be praying for and actively seeking their deaths.

When you compare and contrast these wildly different existences, my question to anyone listening now is this: how can someone not be mentally damaged from their experiences at war?

It’s so fundamentally different from an average life here in the states, that I dare you to find me one person who’s been over there who hasn’t been affected at all. Remember this, EVERYONE GETS POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS. Everyone. For the reasons I’ve shown you, it’s just not possible to be unaffected by war. The D in PTSD however, the Disorder, occurs when after six months to a year the veteran can’t live a normal life. They can’t sleep in their bed with their wife because of the nightmares. They can’t work in a team environment, because they’re scared and confused by all the movement and noise. They can’t stop crying when the news says, “another soldier dead.”  

The Veterans Affairs Department of the United States of America conservatively estimates that the there is an 18% prevalence rate of PTSD amongst our returning veterans. Okay, 18 percent. Doesn’t sound that bad, really. Until you realize that two million have served over there. And 18% of that number means that 360,000, or the population of New Orleans, is mentally not well.

Oh yes, it’s that alarming. And we veterans need your help. We’ve done what you’ve asked without mutiny, argument, or rebellion. We’ve born the weight of our nation’s battles and some of us have done that for ten years now. Let’s give all of our veterans the honor they deserve. Let’s give honor for all.
I’d like to close with a poem I wrote about suicide. Because, unfortunately, the number 18 appears again in the Department of Veterans Affairs’ statistics. 18, as in 18 veterans a day commit suicide.

(Poem not included because I’m seeking its publication.)

~ Semper Fi ~

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How Not to Interact With a Veteran: A Story

All four of us rode down in the compact car, hips against hips, shoulders pushing shoulders. My roommate’s friend, Megan, was visiting from Connecticut. And together with our unofficial third roommate, our dude on the couch, Ryan, we were headed down to historic Fells Point, Baltimore for a wild, raucous time.

Megan (a law student) and me didn’t get along from the beginning.

I commented thusly on the homeless people who were walking without looking into the middle of the street, almost getting hit by ours and other vehicles: “These guys don’t care. They just want to get hit and then sue.”

“They couldn’t sue for that, Dario.”

“Sure they could. They might not win since they’re not on a crosswalk but you can sue for anything.”

“No you can’t.”

We went back and forth like that for a bit, and my pulse became a slow boil. I was more ready to drink than ever.

When we arrived at the bar, the first bar of several (and the first shots and beers of many), Megan continued goading me.

“So you’re in the Marines right? You’ve been to Iraq?” she questioned as I hunched over to take a shot at pool.

A long corner pocket shot. Missed. “Yes. I’m in the Corps.”

“What did you do?”

“I would really prefer not talking about it with you.” And it was true that I meant specifically her, especially since she seemed like a stereotypically snooty New England know-it-all, but back then I hadn’t really processed my experiences in a way that I wanted to talk about them with anybody at all, really.

“Why not?” She continued her questioning.

“I just don’t feel like arguing.” I had learned after being home from Iraq for a year and a half that to civilians, war was nothing more than a political topic, and they couldn’t relate to or understand the human cost or the mental traumas that were what I knew of it. So I would keep my mouth shut when pressed, usually.

“Well I think you’re a coward if you don’t want to talk about it.” And at this point just the very sight of her disgusted me. I contemplated cracking her skull with the pool cue.

Ryan (another veteran) and I kept to one side of each different bar we went to, while my roommate, Hollywood, and her friend Megan kept to another. Ryan kept trying to talk me down but each shot, each beer just intensified the fire burning inside me.

When we left that night to finally return to our car, Megan still prodded me, and I couldn’t control my emotions anymore. “What do you know, Megan!? What the f*** do you know!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I started walking in the middle of the street.

“C’mon, f***ing hit me, f***ing hit me!!!” I yelled, fire-throated, at the cars that careened out of the way, honking their horns, trying to avoid me. “Am I still a coward? Huh? HUH!!??”

And after entering the car, I leaned into the window and cried the entire way home. The memories of my dead friends darted from side-to-side in my mind, stabbing my thoughts, punctuating my psyche. I couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” I wept and slurred. “I’m sorry.”

To her credit, after that very awkward and emotional night, Megan did apologize later, too, and if she saw me now I know she’d comment that I’m an entirely different person.

Turns out, she met a Marine some years later and told him this same story, and he said he would’ve reacted just the same. “He was horrified when I told him how I treated you,” she told me then. And I said that was okay.

You never know what anybody’s been through or where they’ve been. That seems like an obvious thing to say, but sometimes, here in America, we feel like we know everything because of the sound bites we hear, and the dozens of online news articles and commentaries we read. But unless you’ve been there, how can you really empathize? How much can you really know?

Or more simply, if you’re some chick who’s from some insulated town in one of the richest and safest states in America, honestly, what do you really know about war?

Some sympathy is all it takes, people. And just a little love and a little consideration. Don’t treat people like s*** because of what you think you know. Unless they’ve told you, you might never know.

THANK YOU GROUPON.COM FOR SPONSORING NOT ALONE. With their support, we can help 3,000 Warriors. 

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Dario's Op-Ed for the Washington Post

Hello, all! Here’s my op-ed on bin Laden's death for the Washington Post in its entirety if you would like to read it all! I think it speaks to the important and unique connections veterans maintain even after war.

“...When the news came of bin Laden’s death, I felt numb at first. Rather than exult, I could only mourn my friends and the other Americans who lost their lives. My roommate — my best friend and another Marine veteran — suggested we do a shot to celebrate bin Laden’s killing.

We had only imported alcohol on hand, so we chose a couple of ounces of rum from Puerto Rico instead of French liqueurs or vodkas. We continued watching the news: the slips in verbiage that confused “Obama” and “Osama”; the bold, galvanizing speech of the commander in chief; the crowds gathering on the streets of New York and at the gates of the White House. I knew, despite living in Towson, that I had to be at the president’s home, too.

I raced down I-295 in my Lincoln and scanned the different AM stations. Yes, he is dead. Shot in the head. SEAL Team 6. A good and historic day.

I parked several blocks from the White House and could hear the cheers reverberating. I saw cars zipping through the cross streets, honking their horns, sometimes a passenger’s hand holding the American flag out the window.

The scene outside the White House felt like a big hug. It didn’t matter that I had come alone; I was here with a thousand of my fellow Americans. And we were wild with patriotism, even cheering the cops who were trying to corral us away from the fence...”

Again, here's the full story.

Much love,

Dario

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