A Second Chance at Life
Yesterday (July 9tth) was a sad anniversary for me. Why? It would be the first time I would intentionally try to take my own life. Many people do not understand what could lead someone down the path the attempted or completed suicide, so I will use my life as a way to try and bridge that gap between survivors and the public. For days, I fought for my life in the intensive care unit after suffering a long and troubling span of months.
Between 2008 and 2009, I was deployed to Western Iraq, al Anbar Province to be exact. Although I was an Airman, I volunteered to deploy with a Marine Corps combat unit. There were a lot of things that happened during my time deployed. For 204 days, I experienced several life-changing events, some good, some bad. When I returned home in April 2009, I thought I was leaving Iraq alone. I was sorely mistaken.
Almost immediately, I knew something was not right. I began having vivid nightmares about things that had occurred while overseas. Initially, I thought nothing about it and continued about my days. Then I noticed my drinking was increasing. At first I thought it was the thrill of being back home and being around alcohol as it was banned in Iraq. But my intake continually increased. I would drink during weekends when going out to clubs with friends. Then I would drink on evenings while home alone. Eventually, it got to the point where I couldn't begin my day without drinking. Finally, it got to the point where I would drink to forget the hellish nightmares I was experiencing.
My mood and behavior also began to change. In an effort to escape the replaying scenes in my dreams, I would stay awake for days at a time. This began to affect my ability to think clearly, to make the correct choices when necessary, and to function to the best of my ability in my job as a military intelligence analyst. For months it was not noticeable, but once I made the move to my new base an hour outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, it became an ever-present issue. We worked 9-12 hour days, six days on, 2 or 3 days off, with shifts that rotated every four weeks. Adding in my commute, I was at a 15 hour workday. By this point, I had gotten back with my now ex-wife, whom I had separated from prior to going to Iraq. I was able to hide my symptoms well from her, but those at my workplace began to take notice.
Life at home was also a factor in my ill-fated decision to try and end my life. I was in a highly abusive relationship, and when I reported to my unit as told during numerous briefings, no one believed me. Because I was a male, and I was physically larger than her, no one believed that I could be a victim of domestic abuse. This took a toll on me mentally because no matter what I did, my unit next believed a word I said, instead opting to place harsh restrictions on me such, down to where I could live, when I could go to the home on base I was paying for, but most tragically, when I would be able to spend time with my then-toddler son.
One evening at work, things went south and fast. I was a Mission Intelligence Coordinator for the MQ-1 Predator. Although we were in Iraq, we flew our unmanned aerial vehicles in Iraq and other parts of the world. While flying a late-night mission, after days of being awake, I incorrectly identified two individuals on the ground as enemy combatants. My crew, who had trusted my impeccable performance to this point, began running the checklist to fire a Hellfire missile on their position. With just seconds to spare, we aborted the mission as we saw American troops arrive at their position as these were two scout personnel. I had nearly committed fratricide, where you unintentionally fire on your own people. The following night in our post-flight briefings, after the mission had been reviewed, I was called out by my leadership to explain what had happened. I had no recollection of the event. Up until this point, I believed I was able to handle what I was experiencing on my own. But now I was going through extended periods of time where I could not account for what had happened. Sensing something was wrong, they decided to ground me pending an investigation. This was devastating as work was my escape from my abusive relationship and the things that plagued me as I slept. Now I had lost that.
Weeks of this elapsed, where I would make the long commute into the barren desert, running on minimal sleep, just to sit at a desk and do nothing or useless training scenarios. During this time, my unit was also avoiding my many requests to spend some time with my son. They had said time and time again they were working on it, but to wait it out. They tore me away from the one thing in this world worth living for: my son. One evening, after we reported in for our midnight shift, I again asked the operations chief for a response; he blew me off with the usual message of "we're working on it". That was the final straw, and the last thing I remember for the next several days.
After having numerous people recount the next few days, I am able to retell what I experienced during my first severe blackout. After reporting in and speaking to the ops chief that night, I got in my truck and left work without saying a word. I went to an ATM station back in Las Vegas, withdrew the $500 maximum from my government issued credit card, and began the cross-country drive to Aurora, IL, a western suburb of Chicago. For hours, no one knew where I was. They alerted my now ex-wife, and then my mother. They issued a BOLO alert with local police as they declared me AWOL (absent without leave). Nearly half a day had passed before a message appeared on Facebook. It was a plea for help. I finally opened up, but after doing so, I completely dismantled my phone as I know how easy it is to track a mobile device. I continued my nearly 30 hour journey and arrived at the doorstep of my mom's house the following evening. After speaking to my leadership, she quickly did as they requested and took me to the nearest Department of Veteran's Affairs hospital psychiatric unit. While there, I slept for the 5 days I was inpatient, barely waking to eat or use the bathroom every so often.
The military had sent two high-ranking enlisted personnel to retrieve me after nearly a week, one of which being the same ops chief who had blown me off. I knew things were bad, but in that moment, I was not in the mindset to process my situation. We made the flight back to Nevada, and instead of taking me back to base, they delivered me to yet another psychiatric hospital, this time under civilian care. Instead of trying to figure out what happened, they passed me off. During that stay, I was finally diagnosed with the same diagnoses I continue to live with today: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, major depressive disorder, insomnia, and schizo affect. I didn't understand it, and I repeated my habits as when under the VA's care. I didn't attend groups, and I barely spoke. I was placed on three new medications, two for my mood and one for sleep. I didn't like the way they made me feel so during those few short days, I stopped taking them.
Still in a semi-blackout state, I was discharged and my First Sergeant came to pick me up. Prior to dropping me off, she had taken me to pick up a three month supply of each medication. I had decided to move in with a friend whom I had know since coming into the military. Upon my arrival to his home, he was celebrating his birthday and several people were in his garage hanging out. I bypassed everyone, walked into the kitchen to get a tall glass of beer, then retreated to my room. Feeling as though my entire life had collapsed, I saw only one way out.I had gone from an award-winning Airman who was rated near the top of his field, an active member of the community, and most importantly, a father, to having absolutely nothing at all. My unit could not relate to my experiences of being in Iraq as most of them had never left the comfort of flying from the middle of the Nevada desert. They didn't believe I was continually being physically and emotionally abused in my home life. They instead chose to ignore everything I had tried to tell them, effectively turning their backs on me. I had reached my breaking point. Without a second thought, I downed all three 100-pill bottles of medication, aided by by glass of beer.
A few minutes had passed and my friend's girlfriend began to wonder where I was. Wanting to invite me to the party, I'm told she came to check on me in my room. Upon entering, she saw me lying face down, empty bottles by my side, barely breathing. Without hesitation, or help from anyone else at the party, she loaded me into the back of her car to drive me to the Nellis Air Force Base hospital. During that few short minute drive, I had stopped breathing on my own. After reaching the emergency room, doctors drug me out of the back seat, as she had called ahead and they were waiting for me. For minutes, they struggled to revive me. My heart had also stopped beating by now. They continued to bring me back. By now, someone had notified my mother of my condition, not optimistic that I would survive the ordeal. After several minutes, they got my heart restarted. I was still on a ventilator as I could not breathe on my own yet.and would not be able to do so for days. The next 24hrs were critical, touch and go and I literally fought for my life. The following day, I opened my eyes for the first time and began to respond to staff, and now my mother who had arrived by my side in under a day's time. I spent several days in the ICU, unconscious in a medically-induced coma. Once I stabilized me, they released me to a different civilian psychiatric unit.
I was very hesitant to share this story as I've rarely spoken openly about my suicide attempts. But over the past few months, I've seen the good that can come from being transparent as I traveled my home state of Illinois, telling my story to students and veterans. Many people are unaware what to look for in someone who may be experiencing a mental health crisis, they do not know how to respond, are unsure of any resources, but there is hope. There are more people taking interest in mental health these days as we continue to lose 22 veterans a day to suicide. For the everyday person, I would recommend taking a Mental Health First Aid Training class, which you can find at a free or relatively cheap price. Even if you can't get to a class, just be a listening ear. Sometimes just being a trusted friend, someone who listens without judgement, can help. If you know of resources, you can recommend them but do not be overbearing with your beliefs.
Mental health is blind, it respects no socioeconomic status, does not care the color of your skin or how much you have in your bank account. If can affect anyone, and it's estimated that one in five adults suffer with some diagnosis. Be supportive. Educate yourself. Spread the message that it's okay not to be okay. We all have our battles to fight. I am blessed that I have survived this and a subsequent suicide attempt, which is why I'm a Social Worker now. I do not want to see anyone go down the same path I chose twice in my young life. Life is precious, and if we try, we can get through it together.
Between 2008 and 2009, I was deployed to Western Iraq, al Anbar Province to be exact. Although I was an Airman, I volunteered to deploy with a Marine Corps combat unit. There were a lot of things that happened during my time deployed. For 204 days, I experienced several life-changing events, some good, some bad. When I returned home in April 2009, I thought I was leaving Iraq alone. I was sorely mistaken.
Almost immediately, I knew something was not right. I began having vivid nightmares about things that had occurred while overseas. Initially, I thought nothing about it and continued about my days. Then I noticed my drinking was increasing. At first I thought it was the thrill of being back home and being around alcohol as it was banned in Iraq. But my intake continually increased. I would drink during weekends when going out to clubs with friends. Then I would drink on evenings while home alone. Eventually, it got to the point where I couldn't begin my day without drinking. Finally, it got to the point where I would drink to forget the hellish nightmares I was experiencing.
My mood and behavior also began to change. In an effort to escape the replaying scenes in my dreams, I would stay awake for days at a time. This began to affect my ability to think clearly, to make the correct choices when necessary, and to function to the best of my ability in my job as a military intelligence analyst. For months it was not noticeable, but once I made the move to my new base an hour outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, it became an ever-present issue. We worked 9-12 hour days, six days on, 2 or 3 days off, with shifts that rotated every four weeks. Adding in my commute, I was at a 15 hour workday. By this point, I had gotten back with my now ex-wife, whom I had separated from prior to going to Iraq. I was able to hide my symptoms well from her, but those at my workplace began to take notice.
Life at home was also a factor in my ill-fated decision to try and end my life. I was in a highly abusive relationship, and when I reported to my unit as told during numerous briefings, no one believed me. Because I was a male, and I was physically larger than her, no one believed that I could be a victim of domestic abuse. This took a toll on me mentally because no matter what I did, my unit next believed a word I said, instead opting to place harsh restrictions on me such, down to where I could live, when I could go to the home on base I was paying for, but most tragically, when I would be able to spend time with my then-toddler son.
One evening at work, things went south and fast. I was a Mission Intelligence Coordinator for the MQ-1 Predator. Although we were in Iraq, we flew our unmanned aerial vehicles in Iraq and other parts of the world. While flying a late-night mission, after days of being awake, I incorrectly identified two individuals on the ground as enemy combatants. My crew, who had trusted my impeccable performance to this point, began running the checklist to fire a Hellfire missile on their position. With just seconds to spare, we aborted the mission as we saw American troops arrive at their position as these were two scout personnel. I had nearly committed fratricide, where you unintentionally fire on your own people. The following night in our post-flight briefings, after the mission had been reviewed, I was called out by my leadership to explain what had happened. I had no recollection of the event. Up until this point, I believed I was able to handle what I was experiencing on my own. But now I was going through extended periods of time where I could not account for what had happened. Sensing something was wrong, they decided to ground me pending an investigation. This was devastating as work was my escape from my abusive relationship and the things that plagued me as I slept. Now I had lost that.
Weeks of this elapsed, where I would make the long commute into the barren desert, running on minimal sleep, just to sit at a desk and do nothing or useless training scenarios. During this time, my unit was also avoiding my many requests to spend some time with my son. They had said time and time again they were working on it, but to wait it out. They tore me away from the one thing in this world worth living for: my son. One evening, after we reported in for our midnight shift, I again asked the operations chief for a response; he blew me off with the usual message of "we're working on it". That was the final straw, and the last thing I remember for the next several days.
After having numerous people recount the next few days, I am able to retell what I experienced during my first severe blackout. After reporting in and speaking to the ops chief that night, I got in my truck and left work without saying a word. I went to an ATM station back in Las Vegas, withdrew the $500 maximum from my government issued credit card, and began the cross-country drive to Aurora, IL, a western suburb of Chicago. For hours, no one knew where I was. They alerted my now ex-wife, and then my mother. They issued a BOLO alert with local police as they declared me AWOL (absent without leave). Nearly half a day had passed before a message appeared on Facebook. It was a plea for help. I finally opened up, but after doing so, I completely dismantled my phone as I know how easy it is to track a mobile device. I continued my nearly 30 hour journey and arrived at the doorstep of my mom's house the following evening. After speaking to my leadership, she quickly did as they requested and took me to the nearest Department of Veteran's Affairs hospital psychiatric unit. While there, I slept for the 5 days I was inpatient, barely waking to eat or use the bathroom every so often.
The military had sent two high-ranking enlisted personnel to retrieve me after nearly a week, one of which being the same ops chief who had blown me off. I knew things were bad, but in that moment, I was not in the mindset to process my situation. We made the flight back to Nevada, and instead of taking me back to base, they delivered me to yet another psychiatric hospital, this time under civilian care. Instead of trying to figure out what happened, they passed me off. During that stay, I was finally diagnosed with the same diagnoses I continue to live with today: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, major depressive disorder, insomnia, and schizo affect. I didn't understand it, and I repeated my habits as when under the VA's care. I didn't attend groups, and I barely spoke. I was placed on three new medications, two for my mood and one for sleep. I didn't like the way they made me feel so during those few short days, I stopped taking them.
Still in a semi-blackout state, I was discharged and my First Sergeant came to pick me up. Prior to dropping me off, she had taken me to pick up a three month supply of each medication. I had decided to move in with a friend whom I had know since coming into the military. Upon my arrival to his home, he was celebrating his birthday and several people were in his garage hanging out. I bypassed everyone, walked into the kitchen to get a tall glass of beer, then retreated to my room. Feeling as though my entire life had collapsed, I saw only one way out.I had gone from an award-winning Airman who was rated near the top of his field, an active member of the community, and most importantly, a father, to having absolutely nothing at all. My unit could not relate to my experiences of being in Iraq as most of them had never left the comfort of flying from the middle of the Nevada desert. They didn't believe I was continually being physically and emotionally abused in my home life. They instead chose to ignore everything I had tried to tell them, effectively turning their backs on me. I had reached my breaking point. Without a second thought, I downed all three 100-pill bottles of medication, aided by by glass of beer.
A few minutes had passed and my friend's girlfriend began to wonder where I was. Wanting to invite me to the party, I'm told she came to check on me in my room. Upon entering, she saw me lying face down, empty bottles by my side, barely breathing. Without hesitation, or help from anyone else at the party, she loaded me into the back of her car to drive me to the Nellis Air Force Base hospital. During that few short minute drive, I had stopped breathing on my own. After reaching the emergency room, doctors drug me out of the back seat, as she had called ahead and they were waiting for me. For minutes, they struggled to revive me. My heart had also stopped beating by now. They continued to bring me back. By now, someone had notified my mother of my condition, not optimistic that I would survive the ordeal. After several minutes, they got my heart restarted. I was still on a ventilator as I could not breathe on my own yet.and would not be able to do so for days. The next 24hrs were critical, touch and go and I literally fought for my life. The following day, I opened my eyes for the first time and began to respond to staff, and now my mother who had arrived by my side in under a day's time. I spent several days in the ICU, unconscious in a medically-induced coma. Once I stabilized me, they released me to a different civilian psychiatric unit.
I was very hesitant to share this story as I've rarely spoken openly about my suicide attempts. But over the past few months, I've seen the good that can come from being transparent as I traveled my home state of Illinois, telling my story to students and veterans. Many people are unaware what to look for in someone who may be experiencing a mental health crisis, they do not know how to respond, are unsure of any resources, but there is hope. There are more people taking interest in mental health these days as we continue to lose 22 veterans a day to suicide. For the everyday person, I would recommend taking a Mental Health First Aid Training class, which you can find at a free or relatively cheap price. Even if you can't get to a class, just be a listening ear. Sometimes just being a trusted friend, someone who listens without judgement, can help. If you know of resources, you can recommend them but do not be overbearing with your beliefs.
Mental health is blind, it respects no socioeconomic status, does not care the color of your skin or how much you have in your bank account. If can affect anyone, and it's estimated that one in five adults suffer with some diagnosis. Be supportive. Educate yourself. Spread the message that it's okay not to be okay. We all have our battles to fight. I am blessed that I have survived this and a subsequent suicide attempt, which is why I'm a Social Worker now. I do not want to see anyone go down the same path I chose twice in my young life. Life is precious, and if we try, we can get through it together.
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