They come home as heroes. We – their families and loved ones hang banners, meet buses and wave flags. We are so proud. So relieved. We check their faces for signs of stress. We look at them with a magnified glass. Still, we don’t see it.
It doesn’t take us long to forget their reality. I bet you can’t wait to get a job, go to school, get married, have kids. Whoa, they say. Hold up a minute- I need to chill a little here.
So they party and spend their war money. We know the signs, we all read up on this before they come home. But, but, what about that job Uncle Mike wants to give you? We can’t seem to help ourselves.
They are depressed. They sleep. They lock themselves in their rooms and don’t come out for days, sometimes months. They go to bars and fight. They buy their dead buddies drinks and won’t let anyone sit on the bar stool where the drink is sitting. They cry.
I’ll take you to the VA if you need a ride, we tell them. We are met with a blank stare. Or worse. They can’t sleep. When they do sleep they have nightmares. They wake up swinging, hit whoever is in their way. Their guilt increases. They can’t help themselves. They drink some more. They take the pills the VA hands out like candy.
They are reckless. They cheated the odds before why not again? They ride motorcycles, drive fast cars, jump off cliffs with paper wings, walk dark alleys, sleep with strangers. Risk becomes their high.
They rant. They rave. They don’t give a fuck. They hate you. They hate life. Five, six, seven years later. Still holed up in a small, dark room. Can’t get dressed. Can’t watch the news. Can’t read a book. Can’t take a piss without punching the bathroom wall.
Our heroes. Who’re their heroes? Can’t be us. We haven’t done shit for them. Clean your room you’ll feel better. Get a haircut you’ll feel better. You just need to get a job, meet a nice girl, nice guy, get a dog, have some kids, you’ll be fine. Trust me.
They hurt themselves. Some of them need those scars on the outside to explain why the inside is so messed up. They long for war days. It was easier, they tell us. I’d rather be shot at all day long than try to find a fucking job in California, Nebraska, Oklahoma…pick a state.
This is a call out. I’m calling you out to get them some help. We owe them. If you are one of those people that says, I never asked anyone to go to war for me. Then I hope you never need my help. I hope you never need THEIR help. (and please don’t be my friend on anything)
Our heroes are dying before our very eyes. For some, suicide is the only way- because they can’t figure out how to live in this world. We can help them. But we have to be dogged in our resolve. We cannot give up because we hit a few bumps in the road. These are our sons, our daughters, our husbands, wives, nephews, nieces, cousins, neighbors. FRIENDS.
Please sign the petition to end this horrible treatment of our veterans and get them the help they need.
It doesn’t take us long to forget their reality. I bet you can’t wait to get a job, go to school, get married, have kids. Whoa, they say. Hold up a minute- I need to chill a little here.
So they party and spend their war money. We know the signs, we all read up on this before they come home. But, but, what about that job Uncle Mike wants to give you? We can’t seem to help ourselves.
They are depressed. They sleep. They lock themselves in their rooms and don’t come out for days, sometimes months. They go to bars and fight. They buy their dead buddies drinks and won’t let anyone sit on the bar stool where the drink is sitting. They cry.
I’ll take you to the VA if you need a ride, we tell them. We are met with a blank stare. Or worse. They can’t sleep. When they do sleep they have nightmares. They wake up swinging, hit whoever is in their way. Their guilt increases. They can’t help themselves. They drink some more. They take the pills the VA hands out like candy.
They are reckless. They cheated the odds before why not again? They ride motorcycles, drive fast cars, jump off cliffs with paper wings, walk dark alleys, sleep with strangers. Risk becomes their high.
They rant. They rave. They don’t give a fuck. They hate you. They hate life. Five, six, seven years later. Still holed up in a small, dark room. Can’t get dressed. Can’t watch the news. Can’t read a book. Can’t take a piss without punching the bathroom wall.
Our heroes. Who’re their heroes? Can’t be us. We haven’t done shit for them. Clean your room you’ll feel better. Get a haircut you’ll feel better. You just need to get a job, meet a nice girl, nice guy, get a dog, have some kids, you’ll be fine. Trust me.
They hurt themselves. Some of them need those scars on the outside to explain why the inside is so messed up. They long for war days. It was easier, they tell us. I’d rather be shot at all day long than try to find a fucking job in California, Nebraska, Oklahoma…pick a state.
This is a call out. I’m calling you out to get them some help. We owe them. If you are one of those people that says, I never asked anyone to go to war for me. Then I hope you never need my help. I hope you never need THEIR help. (and please don’t be my friend on anything)
Our heroes are dying before our very eyes. For some, suicide is the only way- because they can’t figure out how to live in this world. We can help them. But we have to be dogged in our resolve. We cannot give up because we hit a few bumps in the road. These are our sons, our daughters, our husbands, wives, nephews, nieces, cousins, neighbors. FRIENDS.
Please sign the petition to end this horrible treatment of our veterans and get them the help they need.
It is the time to examine why we are home of the brave and the free. We need to demand that programs to help our veterans.
ReplyDeleteThat's what this was all about- I hope you signed the petition- it's a crucial start to getting the attention we need. We need to keep our veterans from drowning in paperwork and giving up all together. Thank you for reading. Katie
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