Sigh

by Shaker Ginmar—liberal pinko commie hippie feminist female combat veteran who loves zombies and werewolves and hates trolls, twits, and MRAs.

[Background reading: The Startle Reflex.]

A few months ago, I had to fill out a post deployment questionnaire. It was depressing in and of itself, and made more so by the fact that the NCO and clerk who came out to my house to help me with it were so nice. Another reminder of all you leave behind, again. Just fix me, goddamit. I still remember the cadence from Basic: Pick up your ruck and follow me/I am the Infantry. Not exactly accurate in my case, but the spirit's there—and the willingness. Indeed, there's something freeing about it. Leave behind all the fetters of gender and nicety and push yourself to your limits; no sleep, no rest, mile upon mile of road going by, the dust turning to grit in your hair, the dirt solidifying on your face. Endured, it's a trial; remembered, it's an honor. And...lost...oh, God, it's a tragedy. I'd sell my house, my possessions, sign up for another eight-year hitch, hit the plane for the desert, anything…if they'd just listen to me—and then fix me up.

And so, I told the DOD that I had so much pain from my back and shoulder that it woke me up at times, makes me walk hunched over. There was no place to put the experiences with contemptuous doctors, who looked at X-rays for soft tissue injuries, who ignored the paperwork filled out by a doctor who observed bruises and swelling after I nearly got tossed out of the gun turret of a Humvee swerving wildly back and forth going north to Baghdad. The gun shield broke loose and slapped around and knocked the .249 off the pin, and I was suddenly wrestling with about seventy pounds of heavy metal—more than half my body weight. It was only when my helmet threatened to go flying that I gave up and unloaded the weapon and dropped back down into the vehicle. The next day I had to have help sitting up and getting out of my bunk.

As for the psychological stuff, well…finding that soldiers have service-related illnesses is against VA guidelines. It means that bonuses have to be withheld. Those bonuses are awarded not for treating and healing soldiers, but for meeting budgetary guidelines. (If a soldier commits suicide while pursuing a claim for benefits, the VA stamps their folder, "RESOLVED" and the Army doesn't count the death as a service-related suicide.)

I gave paperwork to my shrink to fill out a month ago. She said she'd fill it out, call my unit—I gave her the number—and then send me copies. I called my unit yesterday. They hadn't heard from her. The deadline is Thursday. She could have called me. She didn't. As always with the VA, they play passive, forcing injured soldiers to push and push and push, even while they struggle to survive against an array of self-destructive illnesses and symptoms. This is the woman who threatened to commit me when I reported my symptoms to her. She put me in a therapy group full of female veterans who'd…never been in a war zone, much less any hostile action. When they asked me why I was there, I told them, and they complained to the shrink that I was triggering them. Well. So much for that therapy group. She wants me to try it again. With two suicide attempts under my belt, I'm sure the VA has high hopes for stamping, "RESOLVED" on my claim soon.

I'd rather fight insurgents. They're not as evil as bureaucrats, and you get buddies, a helmet, ammo, a vest, and a weapon. I've shown the fucking VA a video of some of the shit I went through—courtesy of a jittery civilian who found himself in something that could have taken place in Mogadishu in the early Nineties—and they looked at it and said: "So…did you have a traumatic childhood?" The classic diagnosis of PTSD includes what's called a precipitating event. Confronted with actual proof, the VA moved the goal posts, spending what turned out to be two years on fighting rather than treatment. It only cost me my mental health, my career, and my whole life.

I haven't slept all night. I hear things in the dark. Sometimes I see them, too. Sometimes it's full daylight when I see them, too. I smell smoke and burning asphalt. The scent and taste of copper and sand and heat fill my nightmares, and highways turn my heart into a hammer stroke. I was a soldier once, and strong. I don't know who this person is now, looking out at me from the mirror, these exhausted mornings. Even the nightmares are somehow better than the overwhelming exhaustion.

If you care about veterans, don't wait till it comes down to saluting at a grave or a flag-draped casket, once or twice a year. Turn those yellow ribbons red for the blood that's been spilled, and add just one pure drop of white for the ideals we thought we had, the hopes we cherished, and the bright light on every far horizon.

(Cross-posted.)