emotional pain – Page 3 – CONUS Battle Drills

It’s Time for a Buddy System

I read a story this morning about a veteran who killed himself after his call to the VA for help went to voicemail. Besides the obvious reason for getting pissed off, I’ve been asking myself a lot lately, “what are you going to do about it?” I’m done bitching and whining, it’s time for action.

The DOD has no idea why soldiers are killing themselves more now than ever before. I know most of us think it’s because of the wars, but nope, there is no correlation between combat and suicide. They are also not spending any money figuring out the cause by the way.

The point is this: We need to band together as a veteran community and start taking care of ourselves; it’s obvious no one else is going to. There are a lot of great organizations out there like Warrior360 and 22kill that are veteran run and really doing a lot of good, but I want to take it a step further:

I want YOU to get involved.

Here’s what you need to do:

Identify a buddy, tag them in this post, or if you don’t have facebook, comment below. This is a public declaration that they are your buddy.
If you don’t have a buddy in mind, then please comment that you need a buddy and state your location and date of service. We will find you one.
You will talk to your buddy at a minimum once a week. You will ask difficult questions about their finances, relationships, and mental state
You and your buddy will answer honestly
If your buddy goes into a dark place, you are the first line of defense to get him help
You will take this role seriously

None of this is new to any of you, we’ve all done it before. We are making a formal buddy assignment.

It’s time for us to band together, set up our security perimeter and watch out for each other…no one else is going to do it for us.

———

Warriors Who Do Violence

Being a warrior that does violence is different than being a violent man; a warrior has empathy.

All throughout history societies have looked to men who were willing to do violence and written their stories down. Warriors have developed new and unique ways of fighting which we call art forms. Entire cultures centered around their warriors: the Spartans, the Huns, the Samurai, the Maori, the Vikings, the Knights Templar, the list goes on. In all ages, all regions, warriors have found their place among their fellow man.

I’ve come to believe that being a warrior comes as a predisposition, much like extroversion, You can train someone to be a soldier and do soldierly things, but only a few are actual warriors.

The warrior doesn’t fear death although he doesn’t yearn for it. If it comes, so be it, but better it be the enemy.

The warrior can measure his violence, but ask him and he cannot identify the maximum amount of violence of which he is capable.

When doing violence, the warrior is concerned only with eliminating the threat. He will not think about home or take the time to be afraid or sad. He is singularly focused and as the threat increases, his self preservation instinct decreases. If eliminating the threat requires his life then he will give it, if eliminating the threat requires he expose himself, then he will do it.

A warrior loves to do battle, but not against the weak, that is an act of a coward.

Finding someone predisposed to being a warrior is difficult, some even think they are until the threat presents itself and they come face to face with death.

Once a man discovers he is a warrior, once he has seen the world and the evil in it for what it really is, it is impossible to turn that off. Every situation, every environment, every moment he is analyzing threats, developing courses of action, and identifying weapons for his use. Always.

When I was just a boy, my family went to Madrid, Spain for a new years celebration. There were large crowds and I could tell my father was uncomfortable as he held my hand. Most of the group we were with were happily enjoying their time when a man dropped his keys in between my father’s legs. The man fell to his knees and started to feel around. Dad’s hand squeezed mine tighter as he began to back up. The drunk stood up, showed us his keys, and began to walk off when in an instant my father released my hand, grabbed the dude and slammed him violently against a nearby wall. As he bounced off the wall, my father grabbed him by the neck and slammed him a second time yelling, “Where is my fucking wallet?” The wallet flew out of the nearby crowd and landed at my father’s feet.

I remember distinctly the look of fear in the “drunk’s” eyes. He was taller than my dad, but he wasn’t a warrior, and when he met the ferocity of one, fear penetrated his core. All night they had been pulling this scam, but only the warrior who is always thinking of potential threats identified it.

Realizing that you are a warrior is a paradigm shift. You will never look at the world the same way again, and the overwhelming majority of the population doesn’t understand or see what you see. Their prescription for your “problem” will always fail because they are trying to get you to see the world the way they do. You are not them, you are different, accept that.

This does not give you carte blanche to act out, It takes more power and courage to show restraint than it does to be violent. Do not ignore what you feel and see, take control over it. Don’t be too proud to seek help.

The only way to live in this world as a warrior is to be stronger than your urges, more powerful than your emotions, exert control over yourself, like a fucking warrior does. Any weak minded fool can be loud and angry.

Don’t be an absent Father

Sometimes being a father can be disgusting. The following story is not for the faint of heart…

Afghanistan 2005

During the first Afghan elections, someone had gotten upset that a local Mullah was supporting the elections and placed a bomb under his chair. When he sat down during the full service, the bomb exploded, killing him and injuring people in the full mosque. When we arrived with the EOD team, the chaos had mostly died down, but the elders were very distraught. They were afraid that there might be additional devices and asked us to clear the mosque and see what we could find. It was precarious not just because the mosque could still be booby-trapped, but also because American soldiers were entering a mosque and that was generally considered a faux pas.

Myself, SSG Carroll, SGT Harrell and a couple EOD guys made our way towards the front entrance. I noticed bits of burnt flesh stuck to the window as we checked the door. As soon as we entered the building, I was hit by the smell. Imagine everything inside of your body, blood, bile, piss, shit, even skin and hair all exposed and charred and left for hours. My eyes began to water and I could feel my stomach churning already.

I looked around the mostly empty room and could immediately identify where the bomb went off. The columns on my side were mostly empty, but on the other side were still splattered with blood and small bits of flesh. Little pieces of bone littered the carpet and we moved slowly around the room. None of us spoke, besides the random “fuck” or “shit”, I think because most of us were trying to keep from lurching right then and there.

Once our initial pass was done, I approached the location of the blast and I felt a squish under my feet. I looked down and the carpet was so saturated with blood that it began to pool at the edge of my boot. I could tell by the aftermath that although his body had been blown to bits, a large chunk slammed into the column and blood poured out right where I was standing. Some poor soul had to drag what was left of him out.

I looked up in my disgust as the EOD approached the blast site. “You good?” I managed to utter without vomiting, he looked at me and nodded and I started towards the door to get out. Carroll and I made eye contact and I nodded towards the door as the both of us walked quickly to the exit. As soon as the door opened, Carroll looked at me and said, “That fucking sme…” he couldn’t finish the sentence before dry heaving. I felt my own stomach bubble as I watched him, “not in front of the mosque dude!” We both quickly ran down the steps into the courtyard to catch our breath.

CONUS Present day

The baby had something in his mouth as he sat in the tub. I didn’t notice it when I put him in there, but when I stuck the toothbrush in there, something came out with it and as I looked at his little face, I noticed something odd. “Are you chewing on something Ben?” He looked up at me and smiled while keeping his lips together. It forced his cheeks full…that’s when I knew. He wouldn’t let me in there, so I held his nose and when his mouth opened I went in and began fishing out this white gooey substance. It seemed like it kept coming forever. Jonathan saw me doing it and almost barfed right there in the bathtub. I had a vision of fishing puke out of a tub full of toys, and i’ve already had to do it with a turd, didn’t really want to do it with puke. “Look away Jonathan!” He turned and dry heaved in the corner as I finished clearing his baby brother’s mouth, who was now in full wailing mode. Turns out Mom gave him a baby-bell before bath.

——-

I was walking down the hallway when I felt something under my toe. I looked down and picked it up with my bare hands without even thinking about it. As I held this object I was able to examine it much more closely. It was a dark brown, almost black squishy ball. It was a bit moist, and oozed some juice as I squished it. My wife turned and looked at me as I held it. The concern in her eyes told me that she was having the same thought I was, “Is this shit?” There was only one way to find out for sure. I brought the small ball to my face and gave it a sniff.

…

whew…a cocoa puff.

Look, you can be an absent dad, making your wife take care of everything, but she will begin to resent you, the kids won’t know and trust you, and even though you’ll miss out on things like fishing out a turd from the tub, you’ll also miss out on all the wonderful things that come with being a dad.

There is no greater joy in this world than having one of your kids want to share their lives with you. Unless you make the sacrifices…the sometimes disgusting sacrifices…you’ll miss out on life’s greatest reward.

-LJF

Preventing Veteran Suicide

Suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Every day a veteran somewhere takes his life. It’s one of the most tragic circumstances and often the deaths that hit us hardest when we get that phone call.

I’ve had four friends take their lives. They all bothered me, but one in particular keeps coming to mind because he reached out to me years before and I feel like I could have done more.

Rob Kislow was a young private in my platoon when we deployed to Afghanistan in 2005. I had only been the platoon leader for a matter of weeks before we deployed, and I had been in the Army for less than a year. About a month into our deployment, our platoon was sent to support a special forces team in a rural part of Afghanistan along the Pakistan border.

My platoon was going to be split up into two separate units to run missions in the area and I took the mission that I thought was going to be the more dangerous one; I didn’t want to miss out on the action. On June 10, 2005, soldiers from Bravo company 3^rd platoon got into one of the largest firefights of that entire deployment, and I was hours away on a separate mission…on foot.

When I think of the worst days in my military career, June 10^th is always near the top of the list. I sat by the radio for hours listening to my guys get shot up, completely unable to do ANYTHING to support them. I watched as helicopters flew over my position heading to the fight, trying to find a way to get there to no avail.

The fight went on for hours, and I could hear the 9-line MEDEVAC requests come in with explosions in the background. One killed, two evacuated, several others injured but ambulatory.

SFC Victor Cervantes, a Green Beret just days away from going home, was part of the ODA team that came to join the fight in progress; he was killed by the enemy while clearing a wadi.

Rob Kislow was shot three times, once in the ankle, once in the wrist, and the third bullet penetrated his helmet and came out the other side, scraping along the back of his head. Rob saw the guy that shot him, but because the Afghan soldiers didn’t wear a uniform, he hesitated before taking a shot to avoid friendly fire, and was blasted by a burst of 7.62 from the enemy’s AK. PFC Collazo saw this and took the enemy out, thinking Kislow had been killed when he saw the helmet fly into the air. Collazo began to administer first aid and Rob was evacuated, eventually making it to Walter Reed where they determined that his leg needed to be amputated.

When we returned from the deployment, the company commander, 1SG, myself, and my platoon sergeant went to visit Kislow at Walter Reed. As soon as we walked in, Rob looked at the PSG and said, “Fuck You Sergeant!” We all froze and the big vein in the center of my PSG’s head popped out immediately, Rob continued, “You can try to smoke me all you want! I can do flutter kicks all day!” He began doing flutter kicks in his bed, the nub where his leg would have been flew up and down. We all had a good laugh, some hugs, and sat and talked with him for some time.

I don’t remember much what we talked about that day, but I do remember him calling for the nurse. He said something about “phantom pain” and “this fucking button isn’t working” referencing his medication dispenser, then yelled, “it’s a fucking TEN ok!” He seemed to be in constant pain.

I didn’t know what to do or say. I was a 23 year old kid and I had no training on how to deal with this. What did he need to hear? What could I say to help? I didn’t know, so I sat there in silence, hoping that just being there was enough.

Months later I got a call from Rob late one night. I was sitting on my couch watching TV when my phone rang. I answered chipper, but Rob was in a bad place. We talked for about an hour, most of which was me listening to him cry, “my fucking leg is gone sir! It’s fucking gone. I failed you guys. I should have been there. I came home too soon.” He repeated that over and over, and again I didn’t know what to say. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember hanging up and sitting there on my couch in silence. The TV was still on, but muted, and I thought about my friend…but I didn’t do any more.

If I had known that was the last time that I would hear Rob’s voice, I might have gotten into my car and driven the four and a half hours to Walter Reed. I was a single guy, I didn’t have much else going on in my life, I could have done it.

Rob battled with PTSD for almost seven more years after that phone call, but he never once contacted me again beyond an accepted friend request on Facebook. Two years ago I was stunned to find out that he took his life and his fiancée’s mother’s life too. I thought he was ok, I had no idea.

I’m not sure that I could have changed anything if I had been more involved, but because I wasn’t, that thought remains in my mind. It’s the reason I’ve made an effort to get back in touch with my old buddies. It’s why I have asked you to do the same, and it’s why I started this endeavor.

All the time, money, and effort put into making CONUS Battle Drills happen will be worthwhile if we can keep even ONE guy from taking his life. If I can help a guy through the stressful transition time to start a career, bolster his relationship with his wife, and connect with his children, maybe I can show them there’s hope after all. Maybe I can make it easier to take the time to deal with the demons in his mind. If nothing else, maybe I can show him that he’s not alone, there are millions of us out there that will call him brother.

So if you are reading this, get in touch with someone and let them know you’re there. It will be good for both of you, and if you have had suicidal thoughts, please call the number below and get help. Life is worth it, it’s beautiful, and you shouldn’t miss out.

1-800-273-8255

-LJF

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