They stuck me in an institution

Said it was the only solution

To give me the needed professional help

To protect from the enemy myself

— Suicidal Tendencies, Institutionalized

Suicide prevention is a subject that every military commander at every level  of command is required to address: they assign personnel to be in charge of a unit suicide prevention program, they publish memorandums for record announcing their suicide prevention policies, they must provide training and briefings to their personnel on at least a quarterly basis, and they regularly report to their superiors about high-risk members within their population.  This is normally the standard for a unit, so there are some that do more and some that do less, but a commander that implements these measures would most likely be told they are doing their part for suicide prevention. 

The Department of Veteran’s Affairs has mental health professionals at just about every location, including veterans’ centers, local inpatient facilities, and manning crisis lines 24 hours a day.  The services may be inconvenient or insufficient, but they do exist and there are many dedicated people who care deeply about veteran suicide and are willing to help in any way they can. 

There are countless nonprofit organizations focused on suicide prevention specifically for veterans, including programs focused on transition to civilian life, homeless shelters, veteran community organizers, fitness and wellness proponents, and even outreach groups that can help you find the best organization for your needs.  Most of these organizations are owned and operated by veterans who have experienced and/or triumphed over the effects of suicide, and their services are provided with very little cost to those who seek their help.

All these programs exist, and all of them are beneficial in their own ways.  So why is this still a problem?  Why does it still feel so lonely to have these thoughts?  Why is it so hard to find someone willing to actually have a meaningful conversation about this?  I’m far from being an expert on this, but I have a few thoughts on the matter. I’ve scratched the surface in collegiate research and done more than my fair share of study in this field, but I wouldn’t dream of thinking that I have all the answers.  The only thing I can really claim expertise on is my own mentality, and why it’s been so hard for me to share my darkness with others.    

Dealing with divorce and death in my childhood shaped me into the role of “the Fixer.”  In a very short period during my teenage years my family experienced quite a bit of tragedy and I did my best to be strong for those in my family who needed it.  Being the calm and collected rock was a role that came to me naturally and molded my personality more than I could have ever guessed.  Throughout my career in the military I continued to fill this role: being the calm advisor that would tell it like it is-no bullshit, whether you were a general or a private.  In my marriage with the love of my life, this calm strength continued to be my tried and true modus operandi.  I am confident that my ability to stay calm and collected in high stress environments saved lives in combat and has remained one of the first things I mention when asked about what my personal strengths are. 

It is a common mentality in the veteran population, the idea that we shoulder the burden for those that cannot do so on their own.  This mentality gives us the purpose to spend time in combat zones and away from our loved ones, it helps us to remember why we fight, and it helps us deal with unimaginable loss.  But what do we, the Fixers, do when the burden becomes too much for us to bear?  Do we fix ourselves?  Sometimes.  Do we let others in and let them help us bear the burden?  Maybe.  But just as often, we do what we’ve always done: we push that shit deep down, like shoving the last item on a packing list into a duffle bag.  That duffel bag is about to blow up like a camouflage IED, but we just keep shoving more crap in there.  I have a hard time letting go of an analogy, so I’m gonna keep running with this one.  We don’t ask for another bag; we are the Fixers, we just need to repack that motherfucker.  We don’t let others check our packing list; we are the Fixers, we packed that sumbitch just right.  On the outside that duffel bag looks just like all the others, but on the inside the stitching is fraying and the buckle is warping. 

Looking back, I can vividly recall many moments where my metaphorical duffel was over-stuffed and I kept driving on.  Hell, that’s what they give awards out for, right?  That is the job, that’s what we signed up for.  If you can’t hack it, hopefully you trained some others to do it for you long enough to take a knee and get some help.  Maybe we find some coping skills like alcohol and pills to deaden the pain for the moment.  It’s all good, other people struggle with shit like that, but we aren’t them. We can quit anytime-we are Fixers.  Maybe like me, you just keep shoving that crap away until one day you barely even recognize yourself.  In my case, that was probably for the best-I was a bit of a jackass in my youth.  What made this realization worse was the distance that I realized I had created in the years of stuffing my problems out of sight.  I was still in the military, but I had desensitized myself (and moved so often) so much that the most interaction I had with anything resembling a battle-buddy was little more than trolling each other on social media.  I couldn’t share these feelings with my wife or my family; I was their protector. I couldn’t let them get a glimpse of this toxic mass welling up in the corners of my mind.  I attempted to open up to a few in the mental health community, but I could see the panic in their eyes when I got even remotely close to real talk.  No, it was clear-I was on my own, because I am a Fixer.

A tool we often use in the military is dark humor.  We say horrible things, not because we mean it, but because it helps us to chip off little pieces of our darkness in little bite-size morsels.  If we slip up and say some of it in front of the uninitiated, we’ll get weird looks or uneasy laughter, or maybe they will ask us what the fuck is wrong with us. When we find a kindred spirit and can use it in the company of each other, however, well…the phrase “I laughed till I cried” gets a new meaning.  I used really dark humor as a defense to shield others from my pain, and it worked for a long time.  I became known for my dark humor, but no one took it seriously because in all honesty, it was usually pretty goddamned hilarious.  Then one day, it stopped being funny.

So you take the mentality of the Fixer, the one who will never hesitate to help others even when they are the ones who probably need it more, and you remove just about every link they have with the life they’ve known for as long as they can remember.  You’re thrown into a strange world where it feels like everything you’ve done for decades means about as much as a fart in the wind.  You know all the kitschy tropes: suicide is never an option; 22 until none; don’t take the coward’s way out; don’t use a permanent solution for a temporary problem; pick up the phone and call someone, the list goes on and on but none of it ever really feels genuine.  The fact of the matter is, suicide IS a solution.  I’m not saying it is a good solution, but for some people it presents as the only one and if you fail to understand that then you will never relate with them.  I wouldn’t be writing this shit and you wouldn’t be reading this if suicide wasn’t a solution.  People use it as a solution every day, but no one is willing to talk about it as if it is a REAL THING. 

Most military commanders, mental health providers, and non-profit organizations mean well, and they usually do their jobs the best they can, but they almost all fail when it comes to this: real talk.  At the end of the day, they all must cover something in order to be able to provide their services: they must cover their own asses.  In today’s climate of over-reaction, if anyone in a professional environment hears the word suicide combined with anything resembling the words ‘thought’ or ‘ideation,’ their butts usually pucker up as though they’ve been rubbed with Preparation H lipstick.  They have a formula to address the issue immediately, because something is malfunctioning inside you and if they don’t follow the program they can get sued. This is the ultimate fear of the Fixer: we share the horrible shit that lies in the dark, crusty blackness of our hearts, and the reaction is to lock us up or drug us up.

We’re not going to let you do that.  We’re not even going to give you the option.  We know what to say and when to say it.  We don’t have the luxury of taking a knee, we are the Fixers.  We have people that depend on us, people that deserve a proper Fixer.  As soon as we see the flash of the eyes that signals your panic at the situation, the second we hear you even start to ask the bullshit formulaic “do you have a plan,” we are out of there.  You probably won’t even know it at the time, but you’ve just been written off.  When a Fixer reaches out to you, it will be subtle.  We just gave you a glimpse into the murky depths of their soul, and you reacted in a way that shows your lack of understanding, so you won’t get another shot at it.  We are Fixers, and you clearly don’t have the tools we need.

Is part of this problem an overabundance of pride?  Absolutely.  We are proud to be Fixers, it is what we were put on this earth to do.  This pride can often mean that we aren’t going to admit to not being able to fix ourselves.  Why?  Because that noise, we’re Fixers.

I am not suicidal, for the record.  But I have contemplated it before, plans and all.  I have had friends and family do substantially more than just contemplate it, and I hope that I am at least in part representing a part of them and their mindsets with this writing.  Most of them were Fixers too.  How have I found a way to move on?  I didn’t, because the concept of moving on implies that this is a black and white problem with a finite solution.  What no one seems to understand is that I’m not broken, I am aware.  I am a fixer, so I will examine all possible solutions.  That doesn’t mean I need medicine, and it doesn’t mean I need to be in some treatment facility.  I am simply trying to come to terms with the daily pain involved in The Grind of human existence in my own way. 

Everyday life for most people, let alone an overloaded Fixer, can be a drudging, incessant Grind.  If you can pause The Grind for a moment, you can see the beauty that comes out of it, but if not, you can begin to simply crave SILENCE.  Failing to understand this is how you create more distance with overloaded Fixers.  Realize that REAL TALK is what we need, not thoughts and prayers. 

Why did I choose The Grind over The Silence?  I have been blessed with a disproportionate amount of love from my incredible wife, beautiful children, and loving family.  I was fortunate enough to have the funds available to get involved in a community that is even more close-knit than many military units, and I have been provided with educational resources that allowed me to find my own path through the darkness.  Even with all of these available supports I struggled, so imagine a person missing any of this, but still dealing with being a fixer.

I say all of this not to scare you; many reading this will probably be shocked at my disclosure.  Some won’t understand, and that’s OK.  On the other hand, if you are a Fixer and your duffel bag is getting full, hopefully you will know that you are not alone.