The Broken Soldier

I got up at 3 p.m. today.  If Sarah hadn’t come up to thank me for the posters I ordered for her still unfinished office, I’d still be sleeping, or trying to in a semiconscious not-quite-sleep but not-quite-awake state.  It’s been this way for the past several days.  I just stay in bed.

Nothing is really helping with the pain.  I still have the neuropathic pain I had before the surgery.  And now I have post-op pain too.  Still nothing from the Army about treating my depression - which I’m sure is part of the problem, not causally, but in how I’m handling it.

I keep hearing ‘hang in there.’  Why?  To what end?  What the fuck do YOU know about it?  Have you ever been where I am?  Small measures, less than bandaids for a sucking chest wound, are having little positive effect.  Serving only to postpone the inevitable ruin.  Ruin I didn’t create, but ruin my wife and I will be responsible for for the rest of our lives. I’ve been destroyed for doing what’s right.  Doing what’s good.  And those responsible do everything they can to justify doing as little as possible to help.  How could I not be depressed?  Or as an Army doc put it ‘dealing with an Adjustment Disorder’ - cuz AD, unlike depression, is non-compensable.