"...the only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing." — Socrates There are individuals, clandestine organizations, cults, and religions that are adamant their theories go beyond being challenged. This site is not for those entities! Instead, it is for open-minded people with honest questions, idea's, opinions and open-minded enough to discuss them. We may not agree, but willing to listen to the views of others.
Sixty years have passed since my deployment as a combat Marine to Vietnam, yet only a handful of years have granted me the painful awareness of my inability to suppress the demons of PTSD alone. Like so many veterans, these "Demons" have relentlessly stalked me, manifesting as vivid nightmares, subtly altered personas, and deeply buried, often irrational fears. The weight of their presence is a constant, often suffocating pressure.
While some veterans manage to navigate the demons' onslaught with a semblance of success, millions more languish in destitution, trapped in needless solitude and agonizing social disconnection. Many silently condemn themselves as cowards, terrified of surrendering to the demons' relentless hold. Countless others exist in a state of perpetual denial, clinging fiercely to their warrior's pride, masking their pain with stoicism. The most vulnerable among us – those tormented by unbearable guilt and haunted by the feeling of utter loneliness – too often succumb to despair and choose to "end" their lives, in a tragic and irreversible act of surrender.
As friends and family gather, their laughter and joy ringing hollow in my ears during another festive holiday, I am often plunged into a state of profound despondency, ambushed by vivid, intrusive memories of lost friendships and the grotesque theatre of battlefield carnage. These fragmented recollections erupt erratically from a vulnerable, carefully constructed partition of my mind – a cerebral fortress I erected decades ago, a delicate mechanism for preserving some semblance of normalcy in a society that demands it. Unwittingly, I find myself clutching at a profound loneliness, a direct consequence of my relentless avoidance of those formative years. To truly gaze into my past, to confront the ghosts that haunt me, I must first transcend a dense and suffocating cloak of darkness, a self-imposed prison designed to restrain the demons unleashed so long ago. Let me begin.
My pledge to God, Country, and the Marine Corps, feels like a lifetime ago. As a young, untested warrior, fueled by a potent mix of patriotism and youthful bravado, I willingly consented to the ancient, brutal rules of war. At seventeen, barely a man, I was permanently immersed in the ageless stench of death and carnage, thrust into the treacherous mountains and suffocating jungles of Vietnam. But the seeds of this journey, the path that led me to that point, were sown much earlier, on a sixty-mile bus ride crammed with nervous teenagers, all bound for New York City’s legendary Induction Center at 39 White Hall Street.
We shuffled through seemingly endless lines, subjected to a dehumanizing battery of examinations, our bodies poked and prodded without ceremony. Hours blurred into an indistinguishable mass as we stood around, our shared vulnerability laid bare; recognizing each other's nakedness, our shared humanity, before we even learned each other's names. Little did we know, so many of us would remain inextricably linked, forged together in squads and fire teams, building deep-seated, unbreakable bonds of friendship – a brotherhood forged in the crucible of shared experience and trauma.
Our initial 'shock' indoctrination began the instant we arrived at Parris Island. The guttural roars of intimidating Drill Instructors scattered our disoriented selves from the bus, forcing us into a semblance of formation guided by yellow footprints painted on the pavement. A position we would learn to carry throughout our lives. We were herded towards the barracks, unsuspecting lambs led to a night of unimaginable hell.
Anxiety gnawed at our insides, second-guessing our impulsive decision to enlist. Apprehension hung heavy in the air, a palpable sense of dread that permeated every breath. Following what we naively believed would be a night of restorative sleep (it was, in reality, a fitful, dream-haunted nap), we awoke in utter shock and disbelief to an explosive clamor. The Drill Instructors, faces contorted in menacing grins, were banging on tin garbage can lids mere inches from our bunks, unleashing a torrent of verbal abuse: "Get up, you maggots!" Even the largest, most physically imposing recruits visibly trembled, their bravado instantly shattered.
Our heads shaved, we remained maggots, mere grubs, for the next few weeks, enduring relentless physical and mental training, slowly recognizing the crucial importance of "the team," the collective, Instead of "the individual." Individuality was systematically stripped away, replaced by a rigid conformity. In less than ten weeks, we were transformed – into proud United States Marines. But the celebration was short-lived, a fleeting moment of triumph quickly overshadowed by the grim reality that awaited us. We loaded our gear and headed, in order, to Camp Lejeune, Camp Pendleton, Okinawa, and then the Philippines, where we continued to hone our stealth and killing skills, preparing to unleash these talents on the already blood-soaked fields of Vietnam.
We argued and fought amongst ourselves, the petty squabbles and rivalries that inevitably arise amongst brothers. Still, we never lost sight of the profound bonds we shared: We were United States Marines, bound together by an indisputable commitment to "always cover each other’s back."
Crammed into the claustrophobic bowels of Navy Carrier Ships, we slept in precarious hammocks, often with no more than six inches separating you from your brother's ass above you. The seasoned sailors, veterans of countless voyages, laughed cruelly as these self-proclaimed "bad-ass Marines" were quickly transformed into the wimpy "Helmet Brigade." We vomited into our skull buckets for days on end as we made our way to Okinawa, where we would engage in brutal counter-guerrilla warfare training. Fully aware that we were destined for Vietnam, we partied with reckless abandon in every port, seeking fleeting moments of escape and oblivion. The first of our battles were often alcohol-fueled slugfests in dingy, distant bar-room brawls.
Conversely, our eyes were also opened to the pervasive poverty and often-deplorable living conditions on these famous islands in the Pacific. Their exotic reputations, fueled by Hollywood fantasies, preceded them, but the romanticized stories about the war with Japan – the John Wayne movies – were a stark contrast to the harsh reality we encountered. Instead, we found overpopulated, desperately dirty cities, constantly barraged by legions of impoverished children, begging for any scrap of food. In the rural areas, families lived in flimsy thatched huts, with no electricity and virtually no sanitary facilities.
During one particularly harrowing training exercise, I experienced the sheer terror of being chased by a massive two-ton water buffalo (armed only with blanks in my rifle). Moments before, this same beast was being calmly led around by a ring through its nose by a ten-year-old boy. Even worse than the desperate chase itself was the sound of the uproarious laughter of my brother Marines, watching me run at full speed, frantically searching for anything to climb. Perched unsteadily in a tree, I felt as though I was losing some essential piece of the "macho" Marine persona, and we were still thousands of miles from the war in Vietnam.
In moments of rare confidence, we spoke to each other as brothers, confiding our deepest fears, sharing stories of hardship growing up, talking about our families, our girlfriends back home, times of profound humiliation, experiences with prejudice, and what we desperately hoped to achieve in our lifetimes once our tour of duty in Vietnam was finally over. We knew each other's innermost thoughts, our dreams and aspirations, and we spoke with an almost naive certainty that we would all return home alive, never seriously considering the very real possibility of death or defeat. We had not yet learned that devastating lesson. Moreover, we dreamed of returning home as respected American warriors who had bravely defended democracy in a remote foreign land, standing tall and proud, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment, and experiencing a life that none of our friends back home could possibly comprehend. Our country had called, and we had answered, willingly and without hesitation. The welcome never came.
We transferred to a converted WWII aircraft carrier, a relic of a bygone era, that now carried helicopters and Marines instead of jet planes. Our mission was to traverse the coastline of Vietnam and deploy by helicopter into identified combat zones, ranging from the Demilitarized Zone, the imaginary line separating North and South Vietnam, to the provinces and cities of Chu Lai and Da Nang. Then further south, to the volatile outer fringes of Vietnam’s largest city, Saigon.
Within sight of land, we heard the ominous roar of distant artillery, the unsettling thud of mortars, and the now-familiar crackling of small-arms fire. These were the sounds we had become strangely accustomed to during months of rigorous preparation for battle. However, for the first time, we fully grasped the chilling reality that these sounds were not emanating from simulated war games; this was not an exercise. Someone was likely dead, at this very moment. A potent cocktail of anxiety, adrenaline highs, and a bone-chilling fear of the unknown swirled uncontrollably within our minds.
Was I truly prepared for what lay ahead? Could I bring myself to kill another human being? Would another man, driven by similar fears and convictions, kill me? From that point forward, death became an inescapable part of my life, an omnipresent shadow that followed me everywhere. We would eventually load into the bellies of those noisy helicopters, descending into chaotic confrontations, ambivalent yet somehow assured that we were young, invincible warriors. We were utterly convinced that the South Vietnamese people desperately needed us; and in many cases, they did. Thus, our mission was, in our minds, simple and righteous: save the innocent from oppression and banish the enemy to Hell!
The very first time we touched down on Vietnamese soil, we mechanically and efficiently spread out in a practiced combat formation. Immediately, everything I had been so meticulously taught to watch out for rushed to the forefront of my mind: "Was the enemy lurking nearby, concealed in the dense vegetation?" "Was I inadvertently standing near a cleverly concealed enemy grenade trap, or about to step into a punji pit filled with sharpened bamboo spikes, coated with filth and poison?" Seeing our entire company cautiously advancing through the low brush offered some measure of comfort, a shared sense of security in numbers, until an unexpected, deafening explosion shattered our fragile peace. We immediately hit the ground, instinctively going into combat mode, establishing our designated zones of fire. There was no time for conscious thought, only the primal instinct to engage the enemy. We were ready for battle.
We waited, our senses on high alert, but heard no subsequent gunfire or exploding rockets, only the hushed voices of a few Marines speaking several hundred feet away. One of them yelled out, his voice thick with disbelief and horror, “I can’t F’N believe it!”
We soon learned that our first encounter with death, our grim introduction to the realities of war, was the result of a tragic accident. One of our brother's grenade pins had not been properly secured; we could only assume that it had been accidentally pulled out by the dense underbrush. Regardless of the precise circumstances, he was dead. Staring at his lifeless body, I felt the last vestiges of my youthful innocence gush away, replaced by a cold, hard knot of fear and a growing sense of dread.
One particularly harrowing engagement began with us being abruptly plunged into utter chaos from helicopters hovering mere feet above the ground. We anxiously leapt from the copters – some stumbled and fell – directly into the midst of an already heated battle. The enemy sprung a deadly and well-coordinated assault upon us. I became completely engrossed in the shock, the paralyzing fear, and the overwhelming adrenaline rush of battle. It was utterly surreal, a nightmare unfolding in real-time! It was certainly not the time to ponder the morality of killing another human being, to thoughtfully recall the rationale behind the supposed ethics of war, or to become absorbed in the sheer horror of men slaughtering each other. Thoughts of the war's insidious demons were most definitely not on my mind at that moment.
"Wandering through the remnants of battle, a still form caught my eye—a body contorted amidst the jungle's grasp. Gently, I freed him from the tangled vegetation, not yet comprehending who lay before me. Blood and shattered bone obscured his features, replaced by a mask of carnage that ignited a sickening wave of disgust and a raw, primal hunger for retribution. It was then that the horrifying truth crashed upon me: the fallen warrior was Gunny, my mentor, my hero, my friend.
My voice cracked as I spoke to him as if life remained: “Gunny, no! You can’t be gone! Damn it, you survived WWII and Korea; how could this forsaken land claim you? Get up, Marine!” Tears streamed down my face as I whispered a vow: he would not be forgotten. With aching hands, I placed him in a body bag, the zipper sliding slowly, sealing him in darkness.
The Navy Corpsmen—our steadfast brothers—worked with desperate urgency, attempting to mend shattered bodies. We did what we could to offer solace to the wounded as they cried out to God. “I love you, brother,” I said to each man I met, though some were beyond hearing, their voices already joining the heavenly chorus. Unseen, survivor’s guilt began to take root within my soul.
Two weeks passed before our mission drew to a close. We lifted off from the jungle, seeking sanctuary on the ship. But there was no rest to be found, only the haunting memories of faces and the stark emptiness of the bunks where our fallen friends should have been. I prayed for the dawn to linger, to postpone the inevitable ceremony for the dead.
The next morning, we stood in rigid formation on the carrier's deck, a fragile dam holding back the flood of emotions as my gaze fell upon the rows of flag-draped caskets. Each crate, identical in its somber design, offered no clue as to which held my closest comrades. As the mournful notes of taps echoed across the water, tears flowed freely. It was then, with brutal clarity, that I grasped a fundamental truth of war: there is no chance to say goodbye. I made a silent promise to each of my fallen brothers—they would never be forgotten. A solemn vow, tragically, that devolved into years haunted by nightmares and waking hallucinations.
Combat is a brutal dance of death; respite is fleeting. Our purpose: to destroy a skilled enemy, until only one of us remained standing."
Nonexistent were the clear lines of demarcation, the distinct boundaries between friend and foe. We constantly grappled with the tormenting ambiguity of identifying which Vietnamese was a genuine ally and which was a deadly enemy, cloaked in deceptive innocence. The agonizing realization that a seemingly harmless woman or a vulnerable child might be a lethal combatant was a constant burden, an overwhelming decision that weighed heavily on our souls. Each encounter, each interaction, was fraught with danger, a moral tightrope walk with potentially fatal consequences.
I remained woefully unaware of the subtle, insidious changes in my own demeanor. In time, I simply assumed that I had somehow adapted, emotionally calloused, to contend with the unconscionable atrocities and the stark finality of war. I acquired a chilling stamina, an unnerving ability to endure the ever-present stench of death, to eliminate enemy combatants with little or no visible remorse, to ruthlessly suppress memories of fallen companions, and to actively avoid forging new, deep-rooted friendships that could be so easily and brutally severed. I even struggled, in the silence of my own heart, to accept the very feasibility of a loving and benevolent God in the face of such unrelenting suffering. I never detected the nameless demons stealthily embedding themselves deep inside of me, quietly taking root in the fertile ground of trauma and unresolved grief.
At the end of my tour, I packed a minimal amount of gear, eager to shed every last vestige of that life, and left the blood-soaked jungle battlefields of Vietnam for America, never once turning back to bid farewell, never wanting to see that ravaged landscape again, never wanting to inhale the pungent stench of death and fear that clung to everything, even the air itself. Within a mere seventy-two hours, I found myself standing on the very same street I had left fourteen long months prior, a street seemingly untouched by the horrors of war, the grinding poverty, the systematic genocide, the gnawing hunger, or the pervasive fear that had become my constant companions.
I was home. But I was profoundly and irrevocably alone. Aged well beyond my mere nineteen chronological years, I was psychologically and emotionally adrift, a shattered mirror reflecting a distorted image of the boy I once was. I was expected, almost overnight, to seamlessly transform from a killer, a skilled instrument of death, back into a (so-called) civilized man, ready to reintegrate into a society that could scarcely imagine the experiences I had endured.
Except for the unwavering support of my immediate family members and a handful of close high-school friends, returning home from Vietnam was, for most of us, a deeply demeaning and alienating experience. There were no celebratory bands, no heartfelt cheers of appreciation, no genuine feelings of accomplishment or pride. Instead, we were often shunned and ridiculed, branded as participants in a war that our own government had assured us was both crucial and for an undeniably honorable cause. I soon discovered, to my dismay, that family, friends, and even well-meaning co-workers could never truly understand the life-altering events that had irrevocably transformed me in those fourteen harrowing months. As veterans, we were alone.
I had undergone a radical metamorphosis, changing from a naive teenage boy into a battle-hardened man, a seasoned warrior carrying the weight of unspeakable experiences. I found myself unable to engage in the trivial, everyday conversations or to participate in the adolescent games that many of my friends still played with carefree abandon. For them, life had remained largely unchanged; their greatest "struggles" were often limited to the demands of their jobs or the "unbearable" pressure of the college coursework they had to endure. It did not take me long to realize, with a heavy heart, that they would never understand; there was absolutely no comparison between the challenges of completing a homework assignment and the agonizing task of carrying the lifeless body of a fallen companion in a black, zipped body bag.
The media, in their relentless pursuit of sensationalism, played their own biased games, unfairly criticizing the military and its operations, while conveniently failing to illuminate the thousands of Vietnamese civilians we had personally saved from mass execution, brutal rape, unspeakable torture, or other heinous atrocities at the hands of a ruthless northern regime. They conveniently neglected to showcase the courageous stories of the countless American "heroes" who willingly gave their lives, their bodies, and their very minds to save innocent people caught in the merciless clutches of a "controversial" war.
For years, my transition back into civilian society was uncertain and fraught with peril. I struggled, silently and alone, against the insidious influence of unknown demons and the bewildering array of perplexing social fears that haunted my waking hours. I actively avoided searching for surviving comrades or ever engaging in any conversations related to my experiences in Vietnam, burying those memories deep within the recesses of my mind.
Worse still, I fought a lonely and desperate battle to manage the recurring, nightmarish visions that relentlessly plagued my sleep. I tried, with all my might, to block them away in a heavily fortified chamber of my mind, a chamber I meticulously labeled: "Do not open – horrors, chaos, and lost friends from Vietnam." However, I soon discovered that suppressing such profoundly dark and traumatic memories is an almost impossible task, a futile effort doomed to inevitable failure. Random, seemingly innocuous sounds, unexpected smells, or even casually spoken words could suddenly unleash a torrent of vivid nightmares, crippling depression, overwhelming anxiety, and the insidious seepages of bitterness I alluded to before. Even now, decades later, I still fight a daily battle to keep these volatile emotions locked away inside me, desperately trying to maintain control.
Today, my youth has long since passed me by, and even middle age is rapidly drifting into the distant past. Still, unwelcome metaphors and the haunting echoes of lost souls continue to seep through the decaying barriers I fabricated in my mind, persistent reminders of a past I can never fully escape. Vivid memories of old friends, the agonizing weight of death, the crushing burden of guilt, and the simmering rage sporadically and relentlessly persevere, intruding on my thoughts and disrupting my peace. There may be no definitive end, no clear resolution, and no readily apparent limitations to the incessant voices of the demons that torment me. They began as barely audible whispers, almost imperceptible, but gradually intensified – over the course of decades – growing louder and more insistent in my mind.
"Help me, buddy!" I can still hear them scream, their voices raw with terror, as vivid nightmares jolt me awake from my fitful slumber. I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, and shout back into the darkness, "I’m here! I’m here, my friend!" In my mind's eye, I envision their ghostly, blood-soaked bodies, their faces frozen in expressions of unimaginable pain and anguish. I often find myself wondering, consumed by self-doubt, if more Marines would still be alive today if I had somehow fought more fiercely, if I had been braver or more skilled. "I had to kill!" I remind myself, trying to find some solace in the harsh realities of war, as haunting visions of shattered friends, and even the faces of long-dead foes, repeatedly and unexpectedly reappear at the most inappropriate times.
Guilt relentlessly consumes my consciousness as I vividly recall the sheer mayhem of war, the chaotic, brutal, and often senseless violence, and the morally compromising things we had to do, the difficult choices we had to make, simply to survive. I am also plagued by the persistent, and perhaps unanswerable, question: Why did I survive, while so many others, so many good men, did not? Most horrible of all, however, is the conflicting torment I feel when I am forced to acknowledge, deep down, that I am actually thankful it was others who perished instead of me.
Regardless of which war a person fought, I am reasonably certain that many of their memories, the images and emotions that haunt them, are fundamentally similar to mine, just as I suspect that many of my experiences resonate with theirs. For so many years, I stubbornly refused to acknowledge the insidious persistence of the demons, nor did I fully realize how quickly and deeply they had matured within my very soul. Cunningly disguised and deeply rooted, the demons manifested as debilitating anxiety, crushing loneliness, crippling depression, destructive alcohol abuse, terrifying nightmares, and even fleeting suicidal thoughts – traits that haunt far too many warriors for the remainder of their natural lives. For agonizing years, I steadfastly refused to admit, even to myself, that these malevolent demons were lurking inside me, silently poisoning my mind and slowly eroding my spirit. I stubbornly clung to the misguided belief that seeking professional medical assistance for what was going on inside my own mind was somehow a sign of weakness in a man, a shameful admission of defeat.
It was not until the first Gulf War began in 1990, as I watched the unfolding events on television, that I finally sensed the demons were once again violently bursting forth from within, demanding to be acknowledged. No matter how hard I tried to avoid them, to suppress the memories and emotions they triggered, I could not escape the ubiquitous and graphic images and the relentless news coverage of every aspect of the ongoing war. Eventually, the anonymous bodies and unfamiliar faces flickering across the television screen were not strangers anymore; they were transformed, in my mind, into the faces of my brothers, the men I had fought alongside in a much older and largely forgotten war. Encouraged by a few trusted peers and several supportive family members, I finally made the courageous decision to seek professional assistance from the highly skilled doctors at the VA, who promptly diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and immediately began an ongoing and comprehensive treatment program.
During my third or fourth group therapy session at the VA, the compassionate and insightful psychiatrist leading the meeting gently persuaded me to open up and speak about myself, starting with my overall thoughts and feelings about my tour in Vietnam, but then specifically focusing on what I had accomplished during my time there, instead of dwelling exclusively on what I had lost. After a long and agonizing hesitation, I reluctantly told them that, despite the horrors and the losses, my greatest accomplishment in Vietnam was the hundreds of innocent people our teams had personally saved from brutal rape, unspeakable torture, or a savage and senseless death.
We did not give a damn about the self-righteous politicians and the privileged college students arguing back home, or the cowardly draft dodgers who fled to Canada to avoid their patriotic duty. We were enlisted Marines, boots on the ground, on the front lines, protecting innocent people caught up in a horrific and morally ambiguous war.
My most positive and enduring memory, I continued, my voice choking with emotion, was the day I carefully lifted a frightened three-year-old girl from the crumbling rubble that separated her from her distraught parents, who were slaughtered by the VietCong for the simple act of giving us rice the day before. Though deeply traumatized and visibly trembling with fear, she instinctively reached up towards me, seeking solace and protection. I gently cradled her in my arms, desperately trying to elicit even a flicker of a smile, a momentary reprieve from the surrounding horror.
For just a fleeting second, I succeeded. I then handed her over to one of our extraordinary corpsmen, trusting in his skill and compassion, and continued my relentless pursuit of the enemy who had committed these atrocious murders. It was in that devastating moment, amidst the carnage and despair, that I finally understood, with unwavering clarity, why I was in Vietnam. It wasn't about abstract political ideologies or geopolitical strategies; it was about protecting the innocent, defending the vulnerable, and fighting against the forces of pure evil.
However, as with everything else I desperately tried to mask in my subconscious, I stubbornly obscured that profound moment of compassion for decades, burying it deep beneath layers of trauma and denial. It wasn't until this small, intimate therapy group encouraged me to tentatively glance back and actively search for positive events, for glimmers of hope, buried within the worst of my war memories, that I was finally able to unearth it and acknowledge its enduring significance.
Regarding my post-war years, the doctor gently steered me towards my career, an area where he knew I had achieved some measurable success. I explained that when I left the Marine Corps after four years of dedicated service, I was brimming with youthful energy and an unwavering confidence in my own abilities. I had absolutely no clue what debilitating depression and overwhelming anxiety were, and I naively dismissed the recurring nightmares as personal and temporary inconveniences, minor glitches in an otherwise smooth transition back to civilian life.
I was fiercely determined to look forward, to embrace the future with open arms, and to resolutely avoid looking backwards, towards the chaotic memories of war that threatened to consume me. Unfortunately, I realize now that while constantly focusing on the future helped me to temporarily evade the most chaotic and disturbing memories of war, it also inadvertently cloaked the positive memories of my formative younger years, and many other joyful and fulfilling events throughout my life. I had inadvertently sacrificed the good memories along with the bad.
I never particularly relished talking about myself, and I thought it would be a good time to bring the session to a close. However, the other members of the group, understanding my reticence, gently encouraged me to continue. As fellow veterans, they intuitively knew that I needed to feel a sense of purpose, to believe that my life still had value, and to dispel the insidious notion that my existence was somehow a second-rate one, diminished by my wartime experiences. I was reluctant, hesitant to delve deeper, as I looked around the room and recognized that many of these men had succumbed to the debilitating effects of PTSD much earlier in life and had not fared nearly as well as I had. I was afraid that I was about to sound like a self-pitying wimp, or worse, a self-centered ass, oblivious to the struggles of others.
Awkwardly and haltingly, I began to tell them – with many significant gaps and omissions – about my career after Vietnam, about the path I had taken and the challenges I had faced. My first recollection was one that they all immediately understood and empathized with. I went through eleven or twelve different jobs in rapid succession, never feeling truly at ease, always feeling somehow out of place, like a square peg being forced into a round hole. Watching sales managers gather their teams with fanatical enthusiasm, tell us how absolutely great we all were, and how together we would attain the highest sales revenue, triumphantly whipping all other regions, struck me as utterly absurd and disingenuous. To me, having experienced the life-or-death intensity of combat in the unforgiving jungles of Vietnam, this was all just a frivolous game, utterly devoid of any real meaning or consequence.
Feeling increasingly frustrated and disillusioned within the superficial environment of civilian life, I was seriously contemplating heading back to the familiar structure and camaraderie of the military. However, before reenlistment could actually happen, fate intervened in the form of a woman who would irrevocably change the course of my life. I got married to my current wife of 50 plus years, a woman who will be the first to candidly tell you that living with a type-A personality afflicted with PTSD is often a living hell, a constant roller-coaster ride of unpredictable emotions and behaviors, especially since she had absolutely no idea what I was battling internally. But, in all honesty, neither did I. Like millions of other warriors before me, I stubbornly refused to speak to anyone about the horrors of the war, or the terrifying nightmares that abruptly woke me in the dead of night, drenched in a cold sweat and wracked with silent tears.
Ultimately, I made the difficult decision not to reenlist and instead pursued a career in the unpredictable world of business. After enduring numerous unfulfilling jobs, I finally landed a relatively stable position with a bank, repossessing cars – a small-scale adrenaline rush, at times, that provided a temporary distraction from my inner turmoil. Through hard work and dedication, I steadily worked my way up the corporate ladder, eventually earning a promotion to branch manager within five years.
However, increasingly bored and stifled by the repetitive tasks and the predictable routine of banking, I accepted a promising offer from a very large computer company to join their team as a collection administrator. Though it felt, in some ways, like starting all over again from the bottom, I quickly proved my worth and was promoted into a management position within a year. Actively focusing on new and intellectually stimulating business challenges proved to be a surprisingly effective strategy for keeping the demons at bay, preventing them from gaining a foothold in my mind. Subsequent promotions followed, each one bringing new responsibilities and fresh opportunities for growth.
Within roughly eight years, I was hand-picked to attend Syracuse University to attain a degree in Management – with the company generously paying for my tuition at full salary. I continued to accept increasingly challenging positions in diverse areas such as finance, marketing, business development, sales, and even world travel, expanding my horizons and pushing myself to new limits.
At first, traveling to exotic countries was undeniably exciting and stimulating, but after enduring the second or third grueling twenty-one-hour flight to far-flung destinations like Bangkok or Singapore, the initial novelty quickly wore off. I began to realize that boredom and repetition were major catalysts for my emotional setbacks, triggering my underlying PTSD symptoms; having too much unstructured time to dwell on the past was a guaranteed recipe for falling hard into the dark and suffocating bowels of PTSD.
As the years relentlessly passed, anger, simmering frustrations, unpredictable mood swings, and episodes of debilitating depression became increasingly common events, negatively affecting me, my family, and my career trajectory. I eventually stopped actively striving to move forward, to push myself to achieve new goals, and instead spent an increasing amount of time passively battling the intrusive memories of the past, desperately trying to keep them from overwhelming me. It was at that point that I finally began to understand, with a chilling certainty, that the demons never truly leave; they simply lie in wait, patiently biding their time, waiting for even the slightest sliver of weakness to overwhelm you, to exploit your vulnerabilities, and to drag you back into the darkness.
Consequently, these debilitating conditions, as well as heightened road-rage, a hair-trigger temper, and the occasional inability to carry on a coherent and articulate conversation, ultimately led me to unenthusiastically retire early from my very well-paying job, a decision I knew deep down was inevitable. This, of course, significantly decreased my income, and opened new and previously unexposed crevices in my rapidly deteriorating armor, creating new pathways for the demons to infiltrate my defenses. The demons seized the opportunity, gaining a stronger stronghold than ever before; they are relentless and persistent adversaries.
I have still not definitively won the long and arduous battle against the demons that haunt me, but, with the invaluable help of regular therapy, engaging in stimulating outside physical activities, taking prescribed medications, and finding a creative outlet through writing, I am once again able to look ahead with a renewed sense of hope and purpose. The demons continue to plague me with recurring nightmares, episodes of debilitating depression, frustrating memory loss, overwhelming anxiety, and an intense and often overwhelming need for solitude, but I am learning new strategies for managing their insidious influence and preventing them from completely consuming me.
Although I still find it difficult to sit down face-to-face with another veteran and openly talk about the specific horrors of war, I have actively taken on a new and meaningful cause through writing stories, using my personal experiences to reach out to both young and senior veterans and to help break down the pervasive stigma surrounding PTSD, encouraging them to seek the professional reinforcement and support they desperately need. It took me, with the invaluable support from younger vets at the Journal of Military Experience [http://militaryexperience.org], over the course of six long and challenging years to finalize this particular story, to find the courage to share my own vulnerabilities and to offer a message of hope to others who are struggling. I mention this not to boast, but to emphasize to others that it is possible to move forward in his or her life, to find meaning and purpose again, by learning from what I and others know now, by acknowledging the pain and seeking the help that is available.
I sincerely wish that someone had cited the following crucial recommendations to me much earlier in my life; although, being young and stubbornly macho, I probably wouldn't have listened at the time. However, here are a few hard-earned suggestions from one old warrior, to those of all ages who may be struggling with the invisible wounds of war:
* Break through the pervasive stigma of PTSD and actively seek professional medical assistance - PTSD is real! Acknowledge the reality of your pain and don't be afraid to ask for help.
* Unless you are engaged in a high-risk occupation, you will likely never experience the same intense adrenaline rush and the stark finality of your decisions as you did in combat. For me, I attempted to replicate that intensity by playing business games, constantly chasing the next big deal, but I was never able to find that ultimate adrenaline rush again. It remains a void within me, a constant yearning that I think about often.
* The longer you wait to seek treatment, the harder it will inevitably be to effectively handle the demons that haunt you. They do not simply go away on their own, and can remain dormant in your soul for decades, silently poisoning your mind and eroding your spirit.
* Understand that it is never truly too late in your life to begin looking forward and actively pursuing new and meaningful objectives. It's always possible to find new sources of purpose and fulfillment, regardless of your age or past experiences.
* If you find it difficult or impossible to speak openly about your PTSD with your family or close friends, then consider handing them a simple brochure from the VA that clearly explains what to look for, the telltale signs and symptoms, and why you desperately need their unwavering support and understanding. You do not have to go into graphic detail about the specific tragedies of war, but without your loved ones’ compassionate understanding of your internal battle, your tormented thoughts can easily lead to devastating consequences such as divorce, the irreparable loss of cherished family relationships, or even suicide – a truly terrible waste of a hero.
* Silence and solitude is not the answer! If you are struggling with PTSD, you may simply not be able to effectively beat it alone. It is essential to reach out and connect with others who understand what you're going through.
* If you are genuinely concerned about the potential impact on your military or civilian job, seek confidential help from peer resources. They have personally experienced what you have been through, and will help keep you grounded in the present, instead of being constantly haunted by the ghosts of the past.
* Or, if you prefer, contact a person in a peer support group anonymously. They will not know your name or any personal details, but they will listen without judgment and talk for as long as you wish, offering a much-needed lifeline.
* You simply cannot adequately explain the true horrors of war to someone who has not personally experienced them, with the possible exception of a highly skilled and empathetic PTSD psychologist. The gap in understanding is simply too vast.
* Get up off your ass and take a long, hard, and serious look into yourself! Accept the undeniable fact that if you are experiencing continuous nightmares, recurring flashbacks, episodes of debilitating depression, uncontrollable bursts of anger, overwhelming anxiety, or persistent thoughts of suicide, you likely have PTSD.
* There is also financial assistance readily available through the VA, which may help you avoid living a life of destitution. Don't be afraid to ask for the benefits you have earned and deserve.
Finally, let your ego and your stubbornly macho image go. There are many caring individuals and dedicated groups today wanting to help you, to offer you support and guidance on your healing journey. If you stubbornly refuse to seek help, you may very well find yourself alone and bitterly isolated for the rest of your natural life. The demons are not going away on their own, but with the right kind of help, you can learn to fight them effectively and win one hard-fought battle at a time.
Semper Fi, brother!
[AW Schade; a Marine, Vietnam 1966/67, retired corporate executive and author of the award-winning book, *Looking for God within the Kingdom of Religious Confusion*. A captivating, comparative, and enlightening tale that seeks to comprehend the doctrines and discord between and within Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Secularism. What the seeker discovers, transforms his life forever! https://www.amazon.com/author/awschade
Also, free short stories posted on Wattspad:https://www.wattpad.com/user/schadeaws
- Note Alone: A story of my first Group Therapy for PTSD
- The greatest father: As satire
- Twilight Dreams: A poem on the remaining years of growing older
- Jump start your career as a new Manager: Ideas for becoming successful as a new manager
- A Scarred Life: War, PTSD, and the Long Road Home: My story of a life with PTSD [This story].
- A long overdue apology: My sincere apology to all those I’ve affected with my PTSD
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