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.

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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.

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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.

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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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