The Broken Soldier

Today my wife and I had an argument. Like most of our arguments these days this argument sprung from the stresses and pressures of my physical condition. In the heat of this argument my wife made an interesting statement. An observation really. An astute one. “You aren’t yourself anymore.” She’s right.

Before this injury, and the symptoms that seem to grow in number and intensity each day I go untreated, I was happy. I was strong. I was active. Friendly. Trusting. Generous. Productive. Valuable. At the time I left for WTC I was incline bench pressing 375 pounds. I could leg press close to 2,000 pounds. I was running 3-5 miles a day. I was well on my way to earning my fourth college degree: a masters degree in Military History. I had a 3.9 CGPA on a 4.0 scale. I was working freelance waiting for OCS to start. Writing. It was easy. And well-paying too. My plans were well thought out. The toil, which wasn’t too much toil for me, served to lay the foundation upon which my wife and I would build our life together. The mistakes and missteps of youth and the consequences of them were well on their way to becoming distant memories. Life was as close to perfect as one can expect. So was I.

The MIARNG killed me. The good parts of me anyway. I’m a broken man. Depressed and miserable, and depressing and miserable to be around. I can barely lift a milk carton. I lie down between 20-24 hours per day each and every day. I’m distrustful, somewhat paranoid (I say somewhat because my feeling is rationally justified), and cynical. Our financial situation precludes meaningful shows of generosity. I don’t do anything anymore. I am almost completely useless to my wife as a husband. And I’m a drain on her physically, emotionally, and financially. I’d kill myself, but I fear Hell may be slightly worse.

This is my reward for choosing to serve my country for a second time. This is how the promise of medical care is kept. I used to be a patriot too. I loved this country. I loved its people. I loved its military. That part of me is dead too.