NUGGET NUMBER 4: COMING HOME

My father suffered quite a bit from his experience with combat, and I had no idea about it for most of my life.  He was a man of very few words, especially the serious kind.  On the rare occasions that he was not working, the words he did say were always jokes.  I think I could always sense a sadness behind his humor, but never understood where it came from.  I thought that would change after I joined the military, and it did-to a point.  Despite our common bond of being in the military, there was still a distance from him that I thought I would never understand.  As I gained more experience in the military, he gave me a few glimpses into that distance that I failed to understand at the time.  My favorite was this priceless gem that he shared with me right before going overseas for a tour in Korea:

“I’m gonna tell you just like my dad told me before going to Vietnam.  When you’re over there, you do whatever you want.  But if you bring one of them home, I’m kicking your ass.”

I began to think of these tidbits like a video game, as though they were rewards for leveling up.  From time to time early in my career he would bestow a funny story or saying from his military days, but the sadness I felt in him always remained unspoken.

I know he opened up to me right before I left for my first combat tour, but the adrenaline and excitement (that’s the wrong word, but to my knowledge there isn’t a word for shit-your-pants-and-vomit-while-having-a-raging-freedom-boner) of the time was so overwhelming that I couldn’t tell you what he actually said.  I think he was trying to warn me about something, but my mind was too focused on the fact that I was on my way to bring the Toby Keith lyrics to the sons of bitches that had just sucker-punched us on 9/11.

Things happened on that tour that changed me forever, some of it most likely very related to my father’s words for me.  Lives were lost, explosions were exploded, and shit hit fans.  There were a few moments that might be what professionals might call a “mental break,” but it all seemed like it was what we were supposed to be doing.  The weirdest part was how it all became so goddamned brain-numbingly routine.  In the moment, even the craziest shit seemed almost normal, in a fucked-up way.  I don’t feel like what I went through was anything special or different than most others, so I can only imagine how it was for those who were much deeper in the shit.  What I can attest to is that coming home was the first time that I saw how different we had become from the rest of the population.

The early years of the war(s) were an amazing time to be a soldier in America.  The amount of hero worship we received coming home made us feel like we had accomplished something for a grateful nation.  The benefits were everywhere. 

• On a plane, first class passengers would fight over who got the honor of giving up their seat to a soldier in uniform.
• At a restaurant (unless you were within 10 miles of a military base) if you were in uniform of had a sufficiently military haircut, we rarely paid for meals even if we insisted to pay.
• Free drinks at bars, parades for returning units, songs on the radio, and other…amenities flowed like water.   

While all of this let us know how grateful our countrymen were for our service, there was still a distance between us and everyone else.  As much as we would like it to, a first-class seat on a flight does little to erase the images of blood and smoke in our minds-but the person who gave up their seat, they’re sitting back in coach thinking they just solved all of our problems with one magnanimous gesture. 

It’s hard to put a finger on exactly when the feelings began, but it was early in my return home.  I think it was partly the realization that while we had been fighting and dying in the desert, everyone else had gone on with their lives like nothing was happening.  

How do you explain the smell of burning blood to the uninitiated?  When they invariably ask you how many towelheads you killed, how do you stop yourself from trying to beat the ignorance out of them?

There was a feeling I had never experienced at this point, sort of a mixture between rage and depression.  I didn’t know what it was, but I wanted help with it.

When you come back from a combat tour (and now whenever you go to see a military doctor), you are given a stack of questionnaires.  These forms are supposed to identify people at risk for PTSD, TBI, combat stress, and a myriad of other mental issues.  These forms do not work, because we all know how to answer them in a way that keeps us from having to see the behavioral health specialists.  Coming home, the more experienced soldiers spoke about how to answer the questions so that you could finish the process and go home rather than subjecting yourself to the bullshit involved in the military mental health system.  In my naivete however, I thought that answering honestly might actually help me deal with the feelings I was having.

I answered honestly about having disturbing images and thoughts, and for my honesty I was rewarded with a trip to the shrinks.

After three hours of waiting to be seen, I was ushered into an office where a rude little private began asking me the same questions from my questionnaire, over and over again.  This private was much lower ranking than me, had never been anywhere but basic training and trade school, and was talking to me like I was a lab rat.  His every breath in my presence made the anger sharks swim faster in my head, but I tried to keep it together.

Shithead Private: (incessantly clicking his pen) “So, I guess you’re having thoughts about hurting people…what’s up with that?”

Me in my head: “Yeah, I’m thinking about stabbing you with that goddamned pen right now, does that count?”

Me out loud: (realizing this was pointless) “Nope.  I must have filled in the wrong circle.  I’ll be leaving now.”

On my way out of the office, two of the doctors were joking about which cocktail of drugs was most effective at making soldiers comatose.  Not removing the means to reproduce from these two remains one of my deepest regrets to this day.

It was clear that I was on my own to figure out what was going on in my head.  I began treating myself, using doses of copious amounts of alcohol.  While fun, this treatment regimen had more than a few negative side effects.

I had begun to just think this was to be my new normal, when I was finally able to reunite with my father for the first time since coming home. 

On a beach in Mexico, we sat watching the waves and telling war stories.  I learned more about my father in those few short days than I had in my entire life.  We laughed and cried together, commiserated on the meaningless loss of lives, and shared the inability to share this part of our soul with anyone else.  Talking to someone who could feel beyond my words helped me release the pent-up anger that had been building inside.  On the last night, we had said everything there was to say, so we just stared at the ocean together.  He looked at me with sad, knowing eyes.  He patted my head and grunted before walking back to his camper.

I remained on the beach, drinking a beer and staring into the gentle waves.  A warm sensation began building in me as I started to think everything was going to be all right.

As I let my thoughts wander, about 20 yards behind me a child lit a Mexican firecracker to start off his New Year’s celebration.  The explosion instantly took me back to pants-shitting adrenaline, resulting in my beer flying through the air while I dove for cover.  Sand fell from my face as I raised my head, looking to see what the damage was.  None of the few remaining on the beach had seen my combat-trained reflexes in action, so I stood up, dusted myself off, and went to look for some Mexican earplugs.