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Active-duty service members and veterans thinking of harming themselves can get free crisis care. Contact the Military Crisis Line at 988, then press 1, or access online chat by texting 838255.
“Depression still the same, about a 7?” he asked.
We had both been through it a million times and it showed—on his part, at least.
“Yep,” I said. Already wondering, what’s the point? You can’t help if you don’t actually care.
“Sleep the same? About 3-4 hours? Have you tried mixing melatonin with the Benadryl?” he asked, not looking up.
“Just makes me drowsy,” I replied.
Each appointment with VA was another nail sealing the coffin shut, suffocating any hope that they could help me.
I deployed twice to the Persian Gulf on board the USS O’Kane as a cryptologic technician. Operation Inherent Resolve began a few months into my second deployment. The operation was fed to us via live stream.
Many celebrated the deaths, but I like to hope that I wasn’t the only one affected by them. One particular bombing haunts me: there was a little boy on his bike and someone, I assume his mother, was running to him. I still carry his small ghost everywhere I go, and dread the day my son starts riding a bicycle.
I spoke with our chief corpsman about how I needed help. He seemed to think I just wanted off the ship. I assured him that putting my burden on my comrades would just make me more depressed in the long run, and that wasn’t what I wanted.
He prescribed Prozac; it ended up making me emotionally numb. I exercised to make myself feel. It didn’t work. I stopped the pills.
Within a few weeks, I had locked myself in my division’s office in the middle of the night and gently inserted a razor blade into my wrist. I looked away from the razor, preparing to pull. Luckily, my eyes landed on a birthday card my nephew had drawn for me in crayon. I put the razor away.
It was years after honorably separating in 2015 that I told anyone about the bombing or the suicide attempt. I tried to deal with it on my own and move past it, but I couldn’t.
I struggled to keep a job. I started using my GI Bill for nursing school, just to end up too depressed to continue. I felt, and sometimes still do, like any day now I’ll just wake up back on the ship.
After a year or so, I couldn’t take it. I tried VA. The first psychiatrist I saw diagnosed me with PTSD like it was the common cold, dismissing me with an Ambien prescription. It helped, but I was afraid of becoming dependent, so I never refilled it. Other therapists were quick to push religion, which doesn’t align with me. Aside from that, their help was mostly handouts and suggestions for activities like equine therapy.
Most of the time, I walked out with homework to do and discuss at the next visit. When the next appointment came, I’d share my thoughts, and an awkward silence generally followed until the session ended. It was also common for therapists to suddenly move out of the area, forcing me to start over. I saw five or six therapists in total, then gave up.
At one point, I read that Grand Rapids, Michigan, ranked among the best places to live for veterans, so I moved there and tried their VA. The receptionist looked at me like I had to be lost, and asked to see my discharge papers. I left and never went back.
A year later, a friend of mine committed suicide, drawing me back to my hometown of Cadillac, Michigan. I couldn’t hold a job, my car got repo’ed, I stayed in a friend’s spare bedroom—drinking and smoking.
As the anniversary of my friend’s death approached, survivor’s guilt weighed heavily on me. He was much younger than I was, much more ambitious, more capable. I would have given anything to trade places with him. I drank alone the night of the anniversary of his death; the next day I learned yet another friend had committed suicide.
Around this time, I thought about committing suicide at VA, as a form of protest.
Luckily, I met my wife a few months later. With her, I found a reason to hang on, but I still struggled. I failed a drug test, lost my job, and my wife and I moved into her parents’ house.
She encouraged me to use my GI Bill again, but instead to try creative writing and English, which I’m passionate about. I did well, but I also became a first-time father during this time.
Although I love my son, Samson, having a boy complicated my PTSD. I didn’t feel like I deserved him, and I was afraid he would just be taken from me. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression that I couldn't bring myself to leave the house, let alone hold a job. My wife encouraged me to seek treatment once more.
When I scheduled an appointment through the Saginaw clinic, a concerned veteran asked me if I had filed for disability. He assured me I had a compelling case and should pursue it. Toxic pride had kept me from pursuing disability benefits because, well geez, I only just had to see some people die from a distance, where other guys had their buddy blown up in front of them.
Eventually I realized trauma is trauma. It’s not a contest. That Saginaw veteran referred me to the Wexford County Veterans Services Office, where a staff member guided me through the disability process.
The staff member was both a Vietnam and a fellow disabled veteran. It took him about 30 seconds to call out my fake smile and reassure me that he knew I didn’t feel like smiling, and that’s alright. I wasn’t just a number; he humanized me and I instantly trusted him.
I decided that if a Vietnam veteran saw validity in my claim, then toxic pride was indeed my undoing, and it had kept me down long enough.
Shortly before my son’s first birthday, I was granted 100% disability. I saw another psychiatrist, who regularly pushed melatonin and Benadryl. The medications managed some of my symptoms but also created new ones. I stayed on the same dosage of Lamictal for about three years, but I was still overwhelmingly depressed so I increased it by 50mg. Unfortunately, my back pain worsened significantly.
The psychiatrist tried adding to my prescription list. Wellbutrin made my anxiety worse; mirtazapine made me feel like my intestines were strangling themselves. The urge to commit suicide was unbearable.
Ultimately, I realized I was just trading my problems for different problems and wanted to try going without medication. My psychiatrist strongly advised against it. I told him I didn’t like that he kept pushing meds on me, that it’s a big deal what goes into my body, and that “I don’t like being told what to put in it.”
I wanted off all the pills, at least for a few months.
Although he advised against it, he told me I could just cut the Lamictal. I had horrible irritability, anxiety, depression, insomnia, and vivid nightmares for a few weeks. I distracted myself by channeling everything into writing fiction. In a period of three weeks, I wrote and self-published my first work.
The best thing I learned from VA therapists was that putting your head under cold, running water “resets” your system during panic attacks, helping you regain control.
I combine sensory distractions with mindfulness techniques. I carry a stone to rub—kind of a weird outlet, but it helps my concentration, as does focusing on something like tree branches in the wind and counting the different shades of the leaves. I use deep breathing exercises and music; Radiohead is particularly soothing.
I try to put all my attention on my kids or on writing. Still, a lot of the time, I can’t handle it. I isolate myself and smoke. Marijuana messes with my memory way less than the pills, despite the stereotype. Besides, I’d rather be a little sluggish than have my intestines twist.
I am finding my own way without VA.
Last year, hours after my final appointment with VA psychiatry I was still stewing, wondering, “Am I the only one? Or is everyone dealing with this? If everyone’s dealing with this, then holy shit, what the fuck?” I thought about my experience with the older veterans. Because of them, I know help is out there. I know change is possible.
However, I was still infuriated over my experience with VA. I started wondering what the psychiatrist had been writing in the appointment notes, how much attention he even paid me. So I went online and looked it up. The first thing I read nailed the coffin permanently shut, ensuring I’d never bother them again:
“Patient said he doesn’t like being told what to do.”
This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mollie Turnbull. Hrisanthi Pickett wrote the headlines.
Editors Note: This article first appeared on The War Horse, an award-winning nonprofit news organization educating the public on military service. Subscribe to their newsletter.
