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David Hardt

Every penny counts.

Ever since my wife and I got married, we have diligently spent time making sure that every penny we spend is allocated properly so that we don’t end up in the red at the end of the month. Every month we religiously sit down and go over the bills. From there we start breaking things down. This month we will be blessed with the birth of our child. It will undoubtedly be the start of many months of further budgeting as diapers and other baby items become necessary.

In October I will have severed five years in the military, and during those years the only time I was financially stable was while I was deployed. When you come back from your tour there is a certain reflex that tells you: “You deserve something.” Usually the impulse leads to buying cars or electronic devices, getting geared up. Some men even spend money getting back into the dating world. Just like anything, there is recourse for every splurge — responsible or not — you make finically. In my case, certain situations while deployed had me coming back to what I call “a cold, empty vault.” On both of the tours I have been on there have always been sad stories of spouses taking a service member for all they had, leaving nothing but debt, which in turn led to anger that sometimes overflowed when the service member returned. It is no secret that when soldiers come back domestic abuse can occur. Money is a big issue along with spouses being unfaithful.

This week I decided to talk to some other service members and military spouses to see how their families manage financially.

One service member’s wife, speaking anonymously, said, “I don’t like it when he goes on tour, but in reality, him being gone helps the family out immensely.” Another married soldier, speaking anonymously, said, “I hate living from check to check, adding to not being home, always out in the field. The ridiculous stresses of the job often make me wonder if this is all worth it.” One soldier, who wanted to be referred to only as Jake, said, “I live in the barracks, and even though I am good about saving money, I am always finding myself eating meals ready to eat or pawning something of value just to stay afloat.”
I didn’t request a spending report from these individuals, so I can’t say if they’re good stewards of their money. I just wanted off the cuff answers. Sometimes you can get a complainer, and sometimes you can get a dead honest answer; it’s just the way it goes when doing a report of any kind

To report fairly, I made my way to the other side of the pay scale. A senior enlisted, soldier who wanted to be referred to as Mike, said, “There is no reason why soldiers should be eating MREs or pawning things to stay afloat. The job of a leader is not just to make a soldier combat effective, but also teach life skills such as money management. OK, granted, when we are deployed the pay is better, helping out at home. But let’s look at the big picture. You didn’t join the military to be rich; you joined to serve your country, and sacrifice comes in many ways. The military offers many things you won’t get in the real job market. If you take (into consideration) the benefits you receive, you’re really not doing so bad.”

Taking into play both sides of the pay scale, there are financial woes among men in the ranks. Over the years, the government has helped service members with raises, and there should be more in the future.

The other day I talked to a financial advisor. I gave him our financial records, and from there he gave me some answers and solutions to making life better. He held nothing back, pointing out that having a house off post that tops my BAH is one of my biggest issues. He said that married soldiers as well single soldiers who have come to his office all have seemingly the same issues; they just can’t keep up with the ever-changing economics, such as the rise in gas and food and, for some, rent prices as well as mortgages. His advice to soldiers is pay close attention to your spending. The rule: “How much you spend matters much more than how much you earn, and in your case as a service member more than not, you’re staying on a tight path. I have seen men coming in saying that if their car broke down the payments just to fix the car would have their family not eating. Saving just twenty-five bucks a week can add up over time. You just must be disciplined and always be thinking ahead.”

He finished by saying that from the reports he has read government officials are trying to get things changed for soldiers, but he thinks the war really is a prime factor. The military is just living in the red.

One of the things I am most proud of is owning a house. Living off post makes me feel like I am still a part of the civilian world. Over the last few months I have refinanced my home and started fixing things up, trying to push the value up. The only problem with upgrading a house on a strict budget is you may start something and finishing it could take awhile simply because you can allocate only a certain amount to the project. Living on a military salary is very interesting. You learn quickly that every day you must live by the rule.
This article is not really to complain about how little service members make or how some families struggle paycheck to paycheck. Rather, it’s a reality check about the facts of life and, for me, having a child and learning how I am going to provide. Some people say, “Don’t have a child until you are financially ready.” But will you ever be totally financially ready? Probably not. I look back and remember when I was young, living in an apartment that was $350 a month and there was really no ceiling on my how much I could make in my job. The reality of the situation is if you bite off more than you can chew you’re going to pay for it in the long run. My wife and I live from one day to another. Doing this we have really learned a lot from each other and have become more of a team.
There are a lot of pros and cons with military pay, and there is no price you can put on a life, but in contrast to the real world, things are not that terribly bad.

Baby diapers, baby food and about a zillion other things will be on my family’s expenditure list rather than pizza, burgers and my beloved Diet Coke. My child doesn’t have a choice into which family she is being born; however, I have a choice to go the extra mile to see that she never goes without. I have failed many things in life, but failing my daughter is not an option.

David Hardt

Time to cross that bridge

I will always remember the last day I coached girls’ high school basketball. It was the last game of the season, and we were going against an undefeated rival team — Redlands East Valley High School. During the season, the young ladies on my team fought every game to the end. They won some remarkable games and lost some nail-biters, but they never gave up.

The season prior to my coaching the girls had a very scary record and lacked motivation and dedication. On this night as the team sat quietly in the locker room, you could sense the energy. The team knew it was the last game I would coach them, so it was important that I give a speech that I hoped they would carry with them throughout their lives. I leaned up against a locker and just looked at the girls and smiled. I knew we had come a long way and had been through more drama than a daytime soap opera. If you have ever coached girls’ sports, you know that one has to learn quickly that listening is the key and to never ever have that shocked looked. It just leads to more conversation. My assistant, Mica, who was a star player on the varsity team and later went on to be an outstanding college player, was in the locker room. I remember saying to her just before the speech, “This is it. I just hope I have the right words.” She smiled and said, “You always do.” I took a deep breath and gave the speech.
“In life everyone will cross a bridge. That bridge may be big, or it may be small, but no matter the size of that bridge, the most important thing to know is that when it is time to cross it things will be different. Never look back; always look forward. Believe in yourself and stand for what you believe in. Basketball to me is like life. Some days you will have good days, and other days may not be so grand. Everything takes practice and a lot of perseverance. I will never forget the journey and what I have learned. I will take it with me and apply it to my life.”
I didn’t intend for any of the girls to cry, but it happened. Because of that speech and during that time in my life I learned a great deal about who I was and what I was capable of doing. I was on top of the world. I had taken a team that was nothing and brought it to a place where it had a chance of beating the best team in the league, and they did.

Years later, I am sitting in CIF awaiting my name to be called to turn in my equipment. Any soldier will tell you that the process can go either way — downright terrible or unbelievably easy. Most of the time when you hear someone telling another person that he is ETSing the next words out of the other person’s mouth are usually, “Have fun at CIF.”
Lately, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about my military career — the things I have done and accomplished. So as I sit in my chair in this big open warehouse where soldiers come to in-process and receive their initial gear while others are there to turn in their equipment so they can ETS and move on into the real world, I ponder the speech I made almost six years ago. If you are wondering how I remember it all, I have it on videotape. The bridges I have crossed in my life have always brought a wide range of experiences — some bad, others wonderful. Looking back at that speech and looking at my life right now, I am about to make my way across one of the biggest bridges I will cross.
The other day my psychologist asked me some questions about where I was in the clearing process, making my way to my next destination.

For most service members, clearing might not mean anything, but to me it does, and my psychologist helped me understand why I was feeling the way I was. In short, I had been spending hours and hours cleaning my gear even though over the years I had always done proper cleaning at the end of the month, eliminating dirt and dust from piling up. Every day I wanted to make my way to CIF I just paused and thought, “I am not ready. I need to do more.” Some may think of this as a compulsive cleaning issue, but it was more than that. I knew deep down that making my way to CIF would bring me to a bridge that would lead me to somewhere I wasn’t completely emotional ready for. As my psychologist explained, turning in my gear would represent my time serving, the things that I had worn in combat and in training. As much as my life in the military has been an experience that I wouldn’t want to happen to anyone else, I still have a tiny pride that just maybe I could shake what was going on with me. The reality of the situation was that it was no longer time to fight a war in a far off country or go through the daily grind, but rather fix my mental and physical wounds that are so deep and need healing. I tell myself seemingly more times than not, “If I don’t face my demons now, they could forever control me.”

While at CIF, I happened to meet some really great people and learned that I wasn’t the only one moving on in life and facing challenges. In the following weeks, I will make my way to where I should have been two years ago. Once there I hope to find the resolve to rectify my life and by doing that be a responsible father to my daughter, Madison, who will be born in just 30 days, and also be a husband to my wife, Alicia, who has been there every step of the way. I finished up at CIF, but not without some bumps here and there. I know that the people at CIF deal daily with soldiers, and the stresses are sometimes immense.
I want to say thank you to some of the people who took time to listen to me while at CIF and helped me get through the process. First and foremost, the floor supervisor, also Jessica the manager, and my fabulous and funny turn in lady in lane 9, Kassidy. I have started my journey over that bridge. I don’t know what will happen, but as usual, I will bring everyone along for the ride. Enjoy!

David Hardt

I see the light

After finishing the open MRI, my next step in the process of trying to find out what is going on with me was scheduling an electroencephalogram, or EEG.
According to WebMed.com, an EEG is a test that measures and records the electrical activity of your brain. Special sensors, or electrodes, are attached to your head and hooked by wires to a computer. The computer records your brain's electrical activity on the screen or on paper as wavy lines. Certain conditions, such as seizures, can be seen by the changes in the normal pattern of the brain's electrical activity.

There are several reasons an EEG is prescribed. An EEG is used to diagnose epilepsy and see what types of seizures are occurring. In fact, it is considered the most useful and important test in confirming a diagnosis of epilepsy. The EEG also is used to check for problems with loss of consciousness or dementia. It helps determine a person's chance of recovery after a change in consciousness. An EEG can indicate if a person who is in a coma is brain-dead. It is also used to study sleep disorders, such as narcolepsy, and to watch brain activity while a person is receiving general anesthesia during brain surgery. And an EEG can help find out if a person has a physical problem (problems in the brain, spinal cord, or nervous system) or a mental health problem.

The night before the test I did my research so I would be at ease. not to eat or drink foods that have caffeine (such as coffee, tea, cola, and chocolate) for eight hours before the test. They also instruct you not to take certain medicines, such as sedatives and tranquilizers, muscle relaxants, sleeping aids, or medicines used to treat seizures, before the test. When I was told that, I looked over at wife and smiled, “Looks like another sleepless, restless night in Tacoma.” I am often asked: “When do you sleep?” Well, even with medicine I can stay up for more than 30 hours. To get to a good night’s rest I just double or triple my intake. The key word is “rest.”

Since the electrodes are attached to your scalp, it was really important that my hair be clean and free of sprays, oils, creams, and lotions. But I shave my head, so all this wouldn’t be a problem. Having an idea of what was going to happen during the test made me feel like it would be a breeze.

We arrived at Madigan and made our way to the test center. As we waited, I thought about my travels in the system and about all those who are still in limbo. I know my goal is to get myself healed, but just knowing there are service members sitting somewhere and they are possibly going nowhere enrages me to no end. I can name these individuals, and I see their faces. It’s really depressing.

So the technician called my name. As I made my way through the door the technician, who happened to be rather giddy, informed me that my wife could be in the room during the test. So my wife and I made our way into the room. In the small room were a table and a computer as well as some other equipment. My wife sat in the chair next to the computer, and I was instructed to get on the bed and lie down. The technician then came over to me and cleaned off my head. Next she put the electrodes on my head. I couldn’t see them, but my wife said there were about 20 to 30 and that I looked like some kind of creature of the abyss. Lying on a table shouldn’t seem that difficult, but because of my sinuses my nose was stuffed up, making it uncomfortable already. Still very giddy, the technician started to give me the instructions. But to tell you the truth, I was just trying to breath. All I heard was a voice similar to an adult Charlie Brown.

The test started, and within seconds it was like being sucked into a tunnel with a lot of lights going off and on. The strobes were so intense I seized up, gripping the bar on the side, and wiggled around, almost like I was trying to get away. I started sweating, and then like some terrible movie, I started seeing things when the strobes flickered. In reality, it was just images piercing my thoughts. Some images were of doing patrols in Iraq — but from a distance, almost like I could see myself. The other images were of my sitting with a bunch of soldiers waiting in line at mental health. The other images were of disturbing things I have seen in battle. To respect my younger readers, I will not share those, but let’s just say death is not pretty. I started getting angry. This emotion was on dot with what happens when I have an episode. My mind started to race; images started flying, and then just like in one of my episodes, I went blank. I can’t tell you what happened for about two minutes, but I can say I was not there. I came to and looked over at my wife, who was sitting there watching the screen. I asked her, “Did you just see that?” She replied, “It is too dark. I can’t see you over there.” If she didn’t see me there was no way the technician had a visual on me. This was important; this was it. I had had one, and I didn’t explode or do anything. The test wasn’t over. The strobes kept coming, and more visions came. The technician asked me to breathe — not a problem. I was already breathing hard. I could hear the lady tapping away. My head seemed like it was on fire. I didn’t remember reading about that, but later I read elsewhere that such feelings were normal.

The test was almost over, which was good because I wasn’t feeling too well and I wanted to get up. The technician made her way over to me and told me that it was over and started to undo my wires. I got up slowly, so that I wouldn’t end up on the ground. I got off the table and made my way over to my wife. I asked the technician, “Ma’am, did you see that?” She replied, “No, I didn’t see anything, but if you would have had a seizure I would have immediately gotten medical personnel.” I smiled, “That is good to know you’re on your game.” I wanted her to annotate what I had experienced in her records. I thought it might help whoever was on the other side to get some kind of read. As I talked to the very nice lady for a minute, I noticed my wife looking at the paper that had my name on it on the desk. Basically this paper was a referral paper. It had all of my medical information, what I need and other important information. We finished up there and made our way home. While in the car my wife was silent, which was a little odd, but I wasn’t going to bother her. She is getting to that point in the pregnancy where talking, especially with me, can be bothersome and annoying. Finally, she broke her silence. “Hey, did you read the top of the paper that was on the desk?” She had the same look I get when I unmask some kind of story. I replied, “Nope, didn’t do any looking around or scanning papers today.” She then dropped what made me almost forget to get off the highway. “The paper said, ‘Well known soldier.’” I looked at her in disbelief. “What? Well known what?” She replied with a grin on her face. “Looks like you’re rather popular in the system.” I think I was quiet for the whole ride home, but not after telling my wife I was proud of her for reading a paper that just happened to be backwards. It so happens that my wife is a little investigative reporter.

Later that week while at my psychologist appointment, whom I would like to add is absolutely brilliant, I asked what that all meant. He gave me the dead honest answer. “You have been in the system for some time, and I am sure you know the rest.” I didn’t feel the need to push further with anymore questions, because he was right — I knew what it meant. You can take it two ways: “You’re a real pain in the butt, and you’ve been around since the dinosaurian age.” Or you can take it like: “You’re really one popular, top-notch pain in the butt.” No matter how they title me, I don’t care. I actually get a kick out of it. I am just encouraged to know that maybe with all of my sessions I will be able to feel the way I used to feel. I do believe it will happen — in time. Thank you for all of your prayers and your encouraging e-mails as well as phone calls.

David Hardt

The old saying goes: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” After my experience in the MRI machine from hell, I knew I would have to get this test done. However, according to TRA medical imaging, it’s estimated that 30 percent of the general public may experience claustrophobic symptoms and/or anxiety reactions during an MRI exam, so I am not alone on this issue. So how would I get my MRI done? I called my case manger, Pam, and explained what had happened. Again, Pam diligently went to work and found a place where I could have an open MRI and then sent me to where I needed to go. Not really knowing what an open MRI was, I started looking into it. What I found wasn’t too concerning, so my anxiety for the test decreased.

For those who don’t know what an open MRI is, the setup is similar to a regular MRI, but instead of having your whole body wrapped up like some kind of burrito, there are no sides to the machine — only a huge oval magnet that you lie under.

The day of the test came, and of course, my wife, now eight months pregnant, came along to give me some moral support. Not being at Madigan, I wasn’t sure what kind of service I would receive. My assumption was that it would be radically different from treatment on post, which to date has been remarkably above reproach.

Still having some anxiety about the test, I sat in the lobby waiting and thinking about how terrible the last test had been. In the waiting the room there was a big flat-screen television, which happened to be playing a movie with scenes of crashing waves and beautiful nature. I guess this was to calm people down and take their minds off the tests, but instead, it annoyed me to no end. My name was called, and like usual, I was thinking about something and therefore was distracted as if on a different planet, so she had to call my name twice. I got up, turned around, kissed my wife, and said sarcastically, “Wouldn’t it be great if I came out healed?” She replied smiling, “Now that would be something to write about.” Led by the technician, I walked away. I went into the little changing room and put on my outfit for the test. On the bench in the changing room was a list of songs that I could choose from for my test. This was nice; I could listen to music and take my mind off things.

I walked in the room, and this time the monster in front of me was just like the picture I had seen on the Internet. However, I quickly found out some things were slightly different. The technician explained to me what was going to happen. She said I was going to take several tests and that during the test a needle would insert some goop into my system so they could see brain activity. I got on the table and lay down.
Everything was OK, but then out of the blue the technician came over and placed a face mask on me. It was basically like a radio device of sorts. As soon as she put it on, things got ugly. The number one rule for me is if I can’t move my head or I feel trapped I start to panic, and after about five minutes I did. I asked politely, “Is there anyway I can do this without this face mask?” She looked at me and said, “You should have asked for some drugs to knock you out.” I laughed and replied, “Uh, that wasn’t the question I asked, ma’am?” She walked over to the table, coming close to my face mask. I looked through the football-like bars, and the look on her face was like she was saying, “Ha, ha, you’re all strapped in, and you can’t get out.” And then, almost as if in a kindergarten teacher’s voice she asked quietly, “Do you need someone in here while you take the test?” I responded in the same quiet manner, “Yeah that would be great.” She smiled and then went to the lobby to get my wife. While she was gone I started to move a little and then a lot. My body was telling me to find a way out; it was a weird, uncomfortable feeling. After a second I started to take some deep breaths. While doing that, out of nowhere came this voice. The technician’s loud, god-like voice came over the sound system, “Sorry, your wife is pregnant; she can’t come in.” I replied, “Oh yeah, well, let’s get it done.”

I made it through the test, but barely. I was getting close to calling it quits, but I knew that by doing that I would just be causing trouble for myself and for those who were trying relentlessly to get me help.

Last week I finished the article giving folks the title of my next article, but due to the volume of e-mails over the week giving me advice about getting an open MRI, I thought I would share this experience with you.
In the past few weeks I believe there has been a change in my care, and my wife and I are very pleased. The stresses that culminated from the neglect in the mental health program dealt with some serious problems. These problems were not just my problems, and the stresses overflowed and were affecting my very pregnant wife.

The one thing that I want the mental health professionals to know is that when you mistreat the service member a ripple affect is felt in the service member’s family. Men in combat have spent many months away from their families, and when they come back there is a lot of fixing to do, and stresses are high. The chance of problems occurring after the honeymoon stage is over is almost a guarantee. Men will come home and think that they’re right in the head or that they’re strong enough to deal with what is going through their heads. Some men can fix their problems on their own, but almost more often than not the issue will evolve and grow. The hype and the adrenaline will wear off. It always does. Reality will sink in, and there they will be someday, sitting in a chair, and they may break down. I have seen it. Some of the hardest men I know have cried their eyes out and asked why these things are happening and why they can’t stop them. Sooner or later, their only fix is non-prescribed medicine: beer, fast cars or loose, immoral women — whatever takes the issues away for the moment. Some men have seen things that they can’t even describe, and when they describe it, they seem to instantly go back. When a man finally admits he has issues and takes that step forward, knowing damn well that there is a good chance that he is going to lose creditability or possibly his career, it is imperative that every mental health professional know that a good percentage of the men who are in front of you just didn’t wake up and come into your office. It took them a lot of time and possibly encouragement from loved ones. I often tell my wife that I wish I could get all of the health professionals in an auditorium and discriminate to them a census of what service members feel when going into care. The one thing you don’t want to do is treat us all the same, because we know what it feels like to be treated like s***, and for once we want to be treated right and be given the respect we deserve. For all you know, what you say may save a life. We did our job fighting for our country away from our families. There is no damn reason we should be fighting another war on our own soil. I suggest, in a professional, respectful manner, that when you put your badge on in the morning that you read it and live by the slogan that is in small print.

David Hardt

No way out

Most people have fears. Some fears are the dentist, roller coasters, sharks, heights, clowns, spiders. You name it people are afraid of it. Before going into this test week, the only thing I was terrified of was jumping in the ocean and getting eaten alive by some sea creature. The tests that I would undergo would be MRI and EEG, and then I would take a trip back to TBI. Before any test, I make sure I do research and ask questions to those who will be giving the test. I think it is very important that you know what is going on so if things go bad you might have an idea of what happened. You can call it paranoia, but I call it being prepared.
The first test on the list was the MRI. I made my way down to nuclear science and checked in. I wasn’t nervous, rather calm. The technicians came in — one young woman and one man; he was in training. There was a look on their faces that gave me the impression like I was just about to undergo some huge surgery. The technicians led me to the back where there was a room I would go into. In the corner was a nice chair with some blankets and a holding rack for an IV. I knew from reading that I was going to sit down and get some goo pushed through my system, and then in about an hour I would make my way to the next phase — the MRI. The technicians were outstanding, informative and never once made me feel uncomfortable. After about 20 minutes, they basically left the room and let me relax. They turned down the light so that I could take a catnap; they wanted me to just relax, so I did. I didn’t fall asleep; rather, I just sat there and thought about my life, my wife, and my future. It was the first time in a long time I was alone and really had time to sit back and think about my life. It is amazing when you have time like that the things you start to put into perspective. After an hour or so, the technicians came in and prepped me for my trip to the MRI table. If you have ever had a brain MRI test, you will completely understand the following terrifying moments.

I looked at the machine and shrugged my shoulders. “Hmm, this shouldn’t be too bad,” I said. The technician greeted me with a warm smile and said good morning. I remarked, “Am I on another planet? You all are really great.”
I got on the table and got comfortable. I closed my eyes to relax, and while I did that, the technician started to put the straps across my body. From what I understand, this is done to keep your hands in as well as to keep you from moving a lot.
At first I was calm, and then within seconds the machine started moving into what I call the little hole from hell. I thought I was only going to go in halfway, but before you know it my whole body was in the hole. I opened my eyes, and like a little a shock hitting my body, I felt as if I was drowning and suffocating. I started to move. I suddenly forgot where I was, and then survival instincts went into play. I started sweating and from there started breathing hard.
I couldn’t do it anymore; I needed out. “Get me out of here.” No one heard me because the sound of the machine was so loud. Then I started to think, “Holy crap, did he leave the room?” I started to get dizzy. I tried to close my eyes and think pleasant thoughts, but when I reopened them I felt like the little hole in the wall I was in had gotten smaller. I yelled one more time, “Please get me out of here.’’ The technician heard me and came to my rescue. The technician was always in the room; I want to make that really clear here. I just didn’t know he was.
The machine pulled me out, and I jumped off the bed and stepped away from it. My whole body was soaked. I looked at the machine as if it was some sort of monster. I then looked at the technician and said, “I guess I can survive two combat tours, but spending 35 minutes in that thing whooped my butt.” The technician, who was a man, could have given me a look like, “Dude, man up.” But this technician didn’t; he smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not the only one who is claustrophobic.” With his gentle ways, the young man made me feel better, and for once in a long time it really counted. The next test wouldn’t be much easier.

Next week: I see the light

David Hardt

Cat’s out of the bag

Over the last month I have shared my struggles of going through mental health, and during this time I have learned a lot — some good and some straight out appalling. Today I received a call from Doctor E. This doctor had spent some time reading The Ranger and found my articles sad and disturbing. Doctor E. invited me to his office to discuss my situation. When I have been called by a ranking official in the past, it has always been by a person who is recommending that I stop writing or, better yet, someone threatening me with some sort of punishment. I believe whole heartedly that men who have put their lives on the line undoubtedly have the right to speak their minds, but of course, in a professional, educated manner, making sure that when you open your mouth your foot won’t be inserted a short time later. You also must make sure you’re above reproach and know that what you say is open to everyone in the world, and that means your words can be used against you at anytime. Writing on such a thin line is difficult, but to know that when I open my e-mails there are people who are being touched and finding courage to face the things that I have encountered over time in the service, it is worth every ounce of punishment that comes my way.

In this meeting I had a chance to share my experiences while going through the mental health program. As usual, my wife came along. As I have said before, she is like the alarm clock for when I am going to have an episode. I really wanted her to be there because my wife is fed up with how things are going, and she is ready to join the fight. I basically let the cat out of the bag about everything that had happened and what was going on with others making their way through the system. Doctor E. didn’t shake his head or write down notes. He listened, and he treated me like a man and showed complete respect for my position. I will say, however, that at first I thought his asking me to come in would give him a chance to convince me in a nice way to stop talking about the system’s failure to give proper treatment. The doctor gave me the story on how he went about getting me to come in. The only thing in the story that really struck a chord with me, as well as with my wife, was all the people he contacted just to get me there. The one thing that threw up red flags was that he had sent my articles about the system to Public Affairs. I sidelined the thought that this man was trying to get me shutdown and let the meeting take place. In time I will ask him what his intent was by doing that. The one thing I have learned from writing in the paper is that if what you’re writing about could cause an uproar or open the gates to investigation people will go to any length — even being nice — to shut you up. I honestly think Doctor E.’s intentions are good, and I believe he will do the right thing and get me where I am supposed to be. But honestly, how many times have I written that same line? I almost feel like a liar when I write that. Now that is sad.

The meeting ended but not without a grand finale. The next part I write will shock some of you, and others will just say go figure. During the meeting, the conversation came up about my experience at the place where I last was receiving treatment. While trying to receive treatment, I was given an early diagnosis by an individual my wife and I refer to as Doctor Evil. From this place I was given a referral to the University of Washington to get treatment from one of the best psychologists in the country, Dr. Marsha M. Linehan. Doctor E. was really glad that I was going to see her, but then while I was in mid-sentence, he asked the question of the day. “Do you know why you are going there?” I looked at him and then looked at my wife and said, “Well, I have this temporal lobe issue going on.” The doctor had a look on his face as if he had something to tell me but I had to say the magic words to get the answer. After telling Doctor E. in not so many words “No, I don’t know why I am going there,” he said, “I know why you’re going there.” I laughed. “At least someone knows something.” He went to get the referral paper. He wasn’t gone long, but something started to make me think something wasn’t right. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew something was coming, and oh boy, it did. He walked in the room with a paper in his hand. It was like on a television show when the doctor comes in with important information — key the music. He put the paper in front me, and there it was in bold print — words that practically paralyzed my thought process. It was written by Doctor Evil, the one who had told me that in his professional opinion it was looking like temporal lobe seizures. Like a good little investigator, I researched the topic, and sure enough, Doctor Evil was on it. All of the symptoms matched, and for once I was getting to know what was going on with me upstairs. On the referral paper was written: “Patient needs care at the University of Washington, Dept. of psychology Dr. Linehan for treatment of his personality disorder.”
On the line below the provisional diagnosis, which is basically an interim statement of what he thinks I have, it read in uppercase letters as if it was slapping me in the face: ADJUSTMENT DISORDER WITH DISTURBANCE OF EMOTIONS AND CONDUCT.

In my mind, this is where the meeting ended and where the nice, gentle, and compassionate Dave needed to start flexing his disapproval of this lame, loose diagnosis. But before I could get into my business mode, Doctor E. quickly gave me insight. He completely disagreed with this diagnosis. Granted, he did admit that he didn’t have all of my information, but he knew this loose diagnosis was off. And he wanted to make sure this was rectified. After some time, he explained what he was going to do. Basically, he wanted me to give his people a chance to give me treatment. If you have followed me for the past few months, you know I have been through just about every possible treatment that a person can undergo, and no one has been able to handle me. If I am not in the right place with people who understand what is going on when I have one of these episodes, people will most likely pick up the phone and call the police — like the last place where I received treatment. They were not ready even though I had given them plenty of warnings. They ended up calling the police. Later they completely denied they had done so, but I saw the lady dialing the phone. Anyway, that’s over, and I have moved on.

But let’s go back to Doctor Evil’s loose diagnosis. By the way, my mother and father got a kick out of this. At the same time, both are enraged at this and feel like the system has failed me, and they feel hopeless in the matter as well. I took some time to do some research on this personality disorder and some of the history that goes behind it with men in the service. What I found floored me, and I couldn’t even talk to my wife for an hour. This is what I uncovered. I also talked to men and women who were kicked out of the service for this. Their stories have brought enlightening information to the forefront.

Understanding this loose diagnosis and the criteria, if you know me you will laugh so hard you might cry. I did. The information below comes from the American Psychiatric Association (aka APA).

General diagnostic criteria
Diagnosis of a personality disorder must satisfy the following general criteria in addition to the specific criteria listed under the specific personality disorder under consideration.
A. Experience and behavior that deviates markedly from the expectations of the individual's culture. This pattern is manifested in two (or more) of the following areas:
1. cognition (perception and interpretation of self, others and events)
2. affect (the range, intensity, liability, and appropriateness of emotional response)
3. interpersonal functioning
4. impulse control
B. The enduring pattern is inflexible and pervasive across a broad range of personal and social situations.
C. The enduring pattern leads to clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.
D. The pattern is stable and of long duration and its onset can be traced back at least to adolescence or early adulthood.
E. The enduring pattern is not better accounted for as a manifestation or consequence of another mental disorder.
F. The enduring pattern is not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance or a general medical condition such as head injury.

I am not a doctor, but what I am seeing is completely not matching up with the things that have occurred and the things I have experienced. I am going to put my faith in the new direction my treatment is going and hope someone takes more time listening to me rather than just loosely diagnosing me.

Like a professional reporter, I sought those who have been thrown out of the military because of this issue. I am always picky about who I interview and make sure the stories are right.
The following information is revealing.
I talked to a highly educated military paralegal. We sat down and had a great lunch. What I learned follows. Due to the content of his statements, I will keep his name private to save him the pain of retribution.

Question #1: So what is a 5-13, and how many young men are being discharged from the military due to this? And what does it really mean?

The paralegal replied: “Regulation 635-200, Administrative Separations is what covers this issue, specifically Chapter 5, sub-paragraph 13 of AR 635-200. This section is titled ‘Separation because of personality disorder.’ In short, this means that you are being separated because a qualified mental health professional has diagnosed you with a pre-existing mental condition.”

Question #2: What does this mean to a solider?

Paralegal: To be honest, there are some service members that have this issue and there are men with PTSD. Basically 5-13 is failure to adjust. In reality, when you hear of a soldier getting the boot it is under this clause; in reality, there is no real failure to adapt section.

Question #3: What is experience with command and psychiatrist in your professional opinion?

Paralegal: Usually, in my experiences, the psychiatrist that is working with the soldier communicates with the service member’s command. To not make this process rather complicated, if by chance the commander just desires to get rid of the service member it is a good chance they will diagnose the service member rather fast. The good thing in this whole operation is there is really no harm because 5-13, unless there is other documented misconduct, carries with it an Honorable Discharge.

Question #4: So if they diagnose me with personality disorder knowing that the service member has been to combat and has been involved in a combat related injury, how does that work?

Paralegal: This is a very tricky question, and many men I have talked to feel betrayed by the mental health professional because of it. But because the lack of education or sometimes advocacy, these men go through the process and say and do nothing. If you are chaptered out with this 5-13, don’t think the VA or military is going to be cutting you a check for disability; that won’t happen.

Question #5: What would be your advice for those who feel like they are getting the raw deal from the military and the VA?

Paralegal: Since you’re not using my name and you are a dear friend of mine, Dave, I would tell a service member to really look at this process in two ways. The VA is a good place but backed up. Over 22,000 service members, (according) to what records say, have been discharged with issues since the war started, but I think the number is way higher. Some service members legitimate, some not so. The system is packed, and waiting could take forever. I recommend to get some action that speaks volumes. As you say, Dave, a lot when we talk: Go talk to the men and women in the black suits or dress suits. Basically, contact your elected officials, and from there heads will start rolling, because no one wants to be under the microscope, and as you know it already is. You will be amazed what happens when an issue like this hits the big papers. I will say I have seen success stories; there are few, but there are some.

Questions #6: I have known you for some time, and I have never really talked shop with you about subjects like this, but I believe you are a man who does his job and has conviction. This my last question. How many times do you think people in your profession see these things come across their case files and want to do something, but since speaking up and taking action sometimes results in consequences, the paralegal just does what he is trained to do?

Paralegal: Complacency is a sin many of us deals with, but often or not, the men and women I work with will fight to do what’s right. And that is why I wholeheartedly believe in this system. Dave, my last recommendation is don’t let someone say that when you were a boy your life was a mess and because of that you are the way you are. I know you, and many thousands of others know you. Fight it. I know in due time things will get better.
I learned a lot from my friend and have gained knowledge that will lead me through the next phases of this hell-like roller coaster. There will be a good ending, because I won’t accept anything less. You know, I didn’t grow up in the “Brady Bunch” household even though I was told I did by many of my friends. Still, my family life was great, and to this day my parents are role models for me. Not once have I ever been asked about my childhood, only how I did in school. The good news in all of this is my case manger has gone out and started knocking down doors and getting things done — even while she is on leave. Why can’t everyone be like this woman?
The update as I write this is the principal doctors are going to have a telephone conference and start working jointly to get things going in the right direction. I have been told that they will get that diagnosis off my record and put the right one on there. Hours ago I sat on my porch thinking to myself: “I can’t believe that I have served my country, doing my tours, get blown up, and receive a Purple Heart. I am a soldier who for almost four years has not had more than one negative counseling packet — no breaking the law, always trying to be a good, moral person. This is what I get? Some doctor wants to say, ‘Nope, you’ve been this way all along.’”
What this doctor didn’t realize is that all of these years I have fought this thing tooth and nail and while fighting this monster I have slightly lost who I am. When that explosion occurred on that hot, humid April in Iraq, I knew immediately something had changed. I wasn’t the only causality of that night. Many miles away in the good United States this issue would be affecting everyone around me. To this day, my rock is my wife and the fort I have made at home, where I find safety. I know who I am and who I was, and only God knows what is in store for me and who I will be on this road. I believe God has brought me to this point for something, and if it is just to raise hell and get health professionals to wake up and start treating every single warrior like he deserves, then I accept this mission. The next few weeks should be a good ride. Again, thanks to everyone for your support and another thank-you to my paralegal friend. (Final note: Just in case there is a search party for him, you won’t find my paralegal friend on post. You don’t think I would be that silly, do you?)

David Hardt

Big shoes to fill

During the last few weeks I have been undergoing some tests and faithfully taking my prescribed drugs. While doing all of this I started thinking about the fragility of life. The other day while attempting to sleep I looked at the ceiling and mumbled to my wife who was wrestling to get to sleep as well. Pregnant women don’t sleep a lot, so we often end up staying up talking the night away.

The topic of this conversation was about the heart. It wasn’t about our marriage and who’s giving or who’s not; rather, it was about my discussing my fears of what the medicines I take make me feel like. The conversation was simple. “I often feel my heart pounding so fast it feels like it is going to explode. I lie here, and in the silence I get nervous. I start thinking that what if it’s too much and bam my heart stops and I am gone.” My wife put her hand on my shoulder and rubbed my neck. “You need to relax and think about how great of a dad you’re going to be when Madison gets here,” she replied. My wife has a way of taking my mind off of things and bringing my intense moments of anxiety down. I often try to go to sleep on my own — without my drugs — hopingdreaming that some how, some way the days of going to sleep will come back. To those who can sleep, I say don’t take it for granted. Not being able to sleep is a nightmare I wish on no one.

While getting ready for the day the next morning, I turned on the television, and there on the screen was breaking news: "Meet the Press" host Tim Russert had died of a heart attack. I sat down on the bed and just stared at the television. I couldn’t believe it. I had just watched him on a program the previousfollowing day. I got my wife’s attention. “Babe, Tim Russert died of a heart attack. Can you believe it? We just watched him yesterday.” If you were to ask my wife who Tim Russert was a couple of months ago she would have had no idea, but since I spend many hours watching political shows on television, she knew what this meant to me. Some people get upset about their favorite superstar passing away, but for us aspiring journalists this was a devastating blow. In short, Russert was the example of pure, honest journalism. But there was more to his tragedy that hit me; it was the timing. Father’s Day was on the horizon. From what was reported, Russert had just returned from a vacation in Italy to celebrate his son's college graduation.

Having the opportunity to write a column every week, discussing issues — some Army driven and others personal — has been a blessing. As often as I write about my public life, not many people know the father behind the writer. Knowing my father and knowing how his life influenced me will help you further understand where I get my passion and desire to share the truth and hold nothing back. Being able to sacrifice my comfort zones for the over all mission, whatever that may be. Sometimes in life it takes something terrible for people to start looking at those who have raised us. In this case, the death of Russert and his dedication to his family, specifically his dad, Big Russ, brought me to write this article.

My farther is in my writing. It may sound odd or abstract, but he is. My dad’s heart, his fight to go against the grain even though the repercussions are harsh — that comes through in the lines you read from me each week. My father stood behind a pulpit for 25 years and preached to people who would later on stab him in the back. As a young man, I witnessed the frustration and sadness in his face as well as in his voice, but not once did he retreat or find an excuse for the treatment he received. My dad went to work every day with a mission, and that was to help the world. Not to save it, but rather just lend an ear and offer his wisdom to those who desired it. I remember sitting in the church listening to my dad and thinkingsaying, “I hope I can talk like that and have people listen.” My dad’s leadership took a church of 100 and grew it to many hundreds. My dad was humble and never let the success get to his head. By doing that he taught me that just because you succeed, it does not mean you have arrived at your destination. There is always much more to accomplish. My father never pushed me to do anything, unlike some fathers who push their sons or daughters to play sports or, in my case, do the church thing. Instead, my dad told me that he would support me in whatever I did. My dad’s tolerance and patience when I was acting foolish was incredible.

My father wasn’t a happy man when I joined the military, but he was confident the Army would train me to make it through anything. His worst nightmare came true when I was deployed to Iraq. It was then that I learned about the pain and suffering my father had experienced been through in his life because of his brother being killed in combat. I knew how much this worried him, and doing that to him didn’t make me feel too good. But at the time, I knew joining the military was the right thing to do. In short, my dad has been the one man who has inspired me to take a chance, to step out and face the world regardless of the odds. He is a man who is set in his ways, but he has the heart of a lion. And he has given me the gift, the ability to reach, teach and try my hardest to tell a story about the life I live and the things that move me. I hope that I can be as good of a father as he is. Those are big shoes to fill.

David Hardt

The toughest mile — sacrifice

Sometimes you must sacrifice one thing for another. In the last couple of articles, I have talked about my challenges in the mental health world and have deviated away from my aspirations for Fort Lewis’ Army 10-Miler team. Why is that? The number one reason is because I believe the truth needs to be told about what men and women are going through when they come back from war. The stories I have heard are heart wrenching and make my issues often look like nothing. I don’t go to treatment looking for a story, but sadly, the story has been there all along. This past week I have been taking the medicine prescribed for my condition, and in doing that my body has been taking a hit. In my training I was getting in approximately 40 to 70 miles a week and becoming a running machine. I had been running two races a weekend and coming in in the top ranks. I finally had gotten down to my race weight, 180, and everything was in tune. Just like a good dream interrupted, the reality of the next part of my life hit. Anyone who takes medication for his or her mental well-being knows that there are side effects, and some of those can dramatically affect your daily life.

The other day while cleaning out my medicine cabinet I took a moment and looked at all of the candy that has been prescribed to me over the last couple of years. The one medicine that is a blessing from the medicine gods is Seroquel. Most PTSD men whom I have come across are unable to sleep, and this drug helps them. If I don’t take Seroquel, I can stay up for up to 48 hours or longer. While in Iraq conducting operations day and night, some missions had us stay up for up to a day or longer. Having this condition, which was due to my accident during my first deployment, was actually beneficial for the wartime environment. However, I believe that pushing my brain to operate like that increased the other issues that have come about, but that’s just my view on it. So I put all seven orange, plastic containers on the table and just looked at them and said out loud so that my wife could hear me, “If we recycled these containers we just might have enough to get some money back.” My wife shouted back, “There you go being crazy again; you sure you used all those things?” I started laughing and then shouted back, “Yeah, the extra 20 pounds on my stomach is evidence.”

Every month it seems like I am hit with another pill to take, and from that I go through the ups and downs of taking it. Some of the wonderful medicines I have taken include: meloxicam, clonazepam, sertraline, diclofenac, bupropion, aripripazone, seroquel and the new one that nixes every other one, except seroquel, is the horse pill divalproex. Meloxicam has had some very scary side effects, but I will share that story in the future. So far some of the effects of being on this drug have been weakness combined with vomiting and confusion, fever, chills, body aches, weakness, lack of coordination, extreme drowsiness, depression, anxiety, and other emotional changes. I told the health professional what symptoms I was having, and she told me she would talk to the head boss man. Well, I haven’t heard a word back — go figure.

When the system fails to check up on you or they don’t disseminate the information properly, you must do what you must, and that is do your research and talk to those who actually care about your health. Sadly enough, more often than not I have ended up reaching outside of the Army mental health program to seek advice and direction. There is one soul whom I have failed to mention before who has been my lighthouse in the fog when things seemed bleak: my case manger. Through all of this, she has gone out and tried her hardest to get me where I was supposed to be. At this point in the game, my case manager is the only one I really trust. I know when she goes to work that she is doing all she can to get me treatment, but she can’t control the people on the other end, and that is where the problem has been. When all of this is done, I will know that my case manager is the one professional in the system who made it all happen.

So after that tirade of words, what has happened to my running? Well, my whole body hurts, and doing just a single exercise takes more effort than it ever has. I have found myself using the pool and trying other ways to keep in shape. I don’t give up, but the reality of the situation is I will not be running a sub 70 minute 10 miles anytime soon at this rate. I struggle every day to have the energy to do anything. I have the heart, but I don’t have the energy. You can’t even imagine how depressing that is to me, and it really has played tricks on my mind. I wake up, get dressed for the run, and as soon as I hit the road, it’s just not the same. I have spent more time reading and writing and focusing on other things. My goals have changed, and instead of trying every week to go out and win a race, my goal is to wake up and face the race that is in front of me — the race to find a balance that will represent the next part of my life. That life will include my wife and my baby, Madison. Having those two in my life and being able to function in society beats coming across any finish line or breaking any records. I love running, but sometimes you must sacrifice one thing for another — whether you like it or not.

David Hardt on Mental Health

Know thyself

When you tell a trained, educated health professional that there is something seriously wrong and you feel like there is something that is about to happen that may be out of your hands, you would think that red flags would go flying up and serious action would be taken. I have had the experience of working with individuals who sat in front of me listen to what I was saying, nod their heads, jot down some notes, and then, like some politician reading from a , say, “Well, we have some medicine for you.” It took seeing only two people in the mental health world to realize that I needed to start writing down what was going on with me and what was out of the norm.

I remember hearing a story of a young man who was going through the system. He was crying out for help and telling people that he was hopeless and losing control of his life. His story sadly came to an end; this young man killed himself. How many out there are saying they need help and the person in front of them is just thinking about what he will be doing over the weekend? It is just plain bulls***. As reported by Army Behavioral Health, in 2006 there were 102 confirmed suicides among active duty and activated reserve component soldiers — the highest number of cases since 1990. In addition, 89 suicide deaths were confirmed in 2007, and 32 cases are still pending.

I remember the first time I told a health professional, “Sometimes I get this feeling like something is going to happen. There’s a sense of losing control, and this monster comes out, but only for a couple minutes; then it goes away.” This was after my first deployment. The mental health department at that time was not prepared for what would be coming in following years, not just from me but from thousands of men and women facing these demons of war. During my second tour in Iraq, the monster that had come out slightly in the past years grew; it was now more alive than ever. While in Iraq on my second tour I remember sitting in the lobby awaiting the mental health professional to see me. I wrote down on a pad of paper that I had with me what was going on. That day the same thing happened to me that had happened to me years before: nothing but handing out pills like it was candy.

I came back to the United States and made a point to find help for this thing that comes up in me. I ended up at mental health talking, and it was there that I think hopelessness turned into rage and the monster came out. The odd thing was that when I went into that room to talk to that health professional, I told him like I told the rest, “I have these triggers, and I can’t control them. I am just telling you so you won’t be afraid when it happens.”

Over the last few months, my wife has been able to identify when these episodes are about to occur. So basically, my loving wife has been like the alarm clock going off so that people will know when that monster is about to blow. As I make my way through the health system, I find that the words I am saying are not registering with the professionals. Since this has been going on, I have spent a lot of time writing every day what is going on in my head, how I am feeling. I make sure that when I talk to people who are in the position to help I get their names. I also make sure that they write down what I am saying, and I make sure that they know that I am trying to be responsible by finding answers and that they are responsible to take what I am saying seriously. Have they? Hell no. Sure enough, last week what I had been telling them over and over again finally happened. Were they ready? Hell no.

The story I want to write would have certain people who sadly have failed to do their jobs scrambling trying to get all of their stories together so they can make it sound like it was all my fault when in fact the evidence weighs heavily on the system not doing its job — taking my words and really hearing what I felt was going to happen. I know my readers want to know, but I must be careful because I still am at the mercy of these people, and until that is over I must be tame with my words. I must write responsibly even though my disappointment and astonishment overruns my thoughts. I will say one thing: I don’t recommend any health care professional lay a hand on any PTSD soldier unless you believe your life is in jeopardy. Some of us are fragile and at our end. Some of the warriors I am going through treatment with are tired of being patronized, misunderstood, loosely diagnosed, and ignored. Tread lightly, I say, tread lightly and respect those who may have given up everything to be there in front of you — to face their demons.

This week is what I have titled “test week.” I will undergo some head scans. I pray the test will give the doctors an idea of what is going on and from that the healing can really start. I don’t know what is in store for me, but I am positive that I can slowly get back to where I was years ago. I just must have patience. It may sound easy, but it is not.

So what is it? Well, the early diagnosis, which I completely agree with, is called temporal lobe seizures. In brief, a temporal lobe seizure is an electrical abnormality causing a temporary movement disturbance that often involves a change in a person's behavior, unusual sensations, or various other symptoms. Before I get about a thousand e-mails from loyal, concerned readers, let’s remember that this is an early diagnosis and that I haven’t completely lost it. Every day I learn something new about myself, and from that I am growing stronger. And for that I am grateful and blessed.

David Hardt

Visible and invisible wounds of war

You may look at a soldier who suffers from PTSD and think, “He seems perfectly normal.” For some the wounds are deep and penetrating, and for others the wounds are as clear as day. This Memorial Day weekend had me thinking back to the middle of May 2007, when I found myself shuffling through the monotonous days dealing with the actuality that we had been extended till September. In addition to being extended, we found out that our brother company down the road, fighting honorably, lost six men by roadside bomb. This was just the start of the death of that month. I took time to glance at what I wrote that day; reading that brought back a great deal of reflective emotion. The article on May 17, 2007, showed my further deterioration as a man and as a solid solider.
Today there are men all over this country doing the same thing, grieving and trying to find answers. The question is: Will we ever find the answers that we seek? The answer for everyone will be different. Some men seek the answer to why they survived the close IED while their brother next to them died or possibly the lucky sniper who took down the guy standing only inches away. Some deal with the painful guilt of killing young and old Iraqis, finding out later that the people they had killed were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some face nightmares that are so bad they cause them to fear sleep. Some men must drug themselves just so they can go to sleep. For some, going to the mall is like going on a mission — always on guard, ready to react. Men lose their trust in people or even the government for that matter. Men distance themselves from loved ones, finding it impossible to relate anymore. For some the tour is not over; it will never end. In the movies you see the credits acknowledging those who have contributed; in my mind my movie has no end, and the only credits I see are of those young boys, fathers, mothers who have fallen in battle.

Last week I barely scratched the surface of what I experienced on my first tour. The tragedy in my case is I am one who fell through the cracks in the mental health department, and later when things got increasingly worse and I felt things were spinning out of control, I found myself getting swallowed up in the unit’s training. The stigma from then hasn’t changed much, but men are becoming brave and saying, “I need help.” Last week I talked about how angry and disappointed I was in how things were going, but there’s one thing I have learned: I am not the only one who is scared to death that we men who have came out of the fold and are dealing with being ostracized are going to get a half-ass treatment and then kicked to the curb, because we are no longer combat effective. Last week I said that I was way past sitting in a circle and expressing my feelings, but guess what? I am sitting there along with some awesome, brave, hurting men. I found it rather funny that the health professionals knew who I was and that they had read my articles. In fact, as I walked by the conference room I noticed that there was a copy of The Ranger on the table, and the page was turned to my article.

Regardless if they know me or not, I am no different from those who are in that circle. I am there for one thing — to find answers. And some of those answers are coming from those in that circle. At this point in my life I am doing my best to follow the advice: “Take what you can from every moment you’re there.” That doesn’t mean sit there like a journalist and get stories, but rather learn to heal and try to find the answer. I have a long way to go, and I know that the men who are in that circle are on the very same lonely road. While on an early morning run this Memorial Day, I spent some time at the local cemetery. The flags were placed at the graves of the men who had served and some who had given their lives for this country. As I walked through the cemetery, I found myself thinking about all of the struggles and suffering these men had been through and how some of them probably dealt with the same demons I deal with. As I made my way out of the cemetery, I found myself doing what I do well, and that is talking to myself. “Who will tell these heroes’ stories,” I mumbled to myself. It was like a light had turned on in my head: “Who will tell the story of those like me?” I ran home and sat down at my computer. I tapped my finger on the keyboard, and then on the blank screen I typed the words, “Who will tell my story?”

This Memorial Day I was consumed with sadness over those who went before us and fought the fight and may have never had their stories told — the story after the war and what men go through. While in Iraq I wrote about fighting the fight and taking it to the enemy. Today, I started to write about what may be invisible to those who see me. Everyone has a different way of healing; this is mine.

I want to thank everyone for the overflow of e-mails I have received. The advice and encouragement have been uplifting. Some of you men have encouraged me to be the voice for those who have been forgotten. I am honored to do that responsibly, but I encourage every man to fight for what you deserve — just as you fought honorably abroad.