“Look, I didn’t see you and—” he yelled back with an attitude.
“Shut the f*** up! And get over there!” I yelled, interrupting him midsentence. Pointing toward the street, I continued to maneuver him into a position that would allow me time to react. He walked backward into the street, and as my eyes swept the area I felt like a part of me had stepped outside of myself and was watching everything that was occurring. I tried speaking to myself, “Let it go, you’re wrong, you need to just let it go,” but I wasn’t listening.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said trying to defuse the situation.
I snapped out of the combat trance, and my rational inner voice told me to let it go.
“Go! Get out of here! Now!”
He jumped into his car and drove away. My hands started to shake, and a thousand pounds of weight fell upon my shoulders, forcing me into a patio chair. I’m so f***ed up, I said to myself. Or maybe I said it out loud; at that point it was impossible to separate reality from delusion. I can’t go home this way; maybe I shouldn’t go home at all? As I contemplated the irrationality of my behavior, my dogs came to my side, each leaning on the chair as if to say, We’re here, too.
I found out at an early age that nothing is more dangerous than a cornered beast. Size and strength are indifferent when humans or animals are trapped. They’ll fight with extreme violence to the very end because they have nothing to lose but their lives. I used to think of this only in the literal sense, but now I realize it’s far more dangerous when a man is so mentally or emotionally wounded that he feels his life has become meaningless. I first witnessed this in my father’s eyes and later reconfirmed it on the battlefield as I stared into the faces of enemy fighters who absorbed round after round, yet still kept coming. Men in this state of mind neither understand nor accept the threat of physical violence or pain being used against them; it only strengthens their resolve.
I sat for two hours before returning home to ensure I left any residual anger in the street and out of the home. I couldn’t let the rest of them know that I was still locking myself in the upstairs office, yet trying to figure a way out.
21
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
It is a brave act of valor to condemn death, but where life is more terrible than death, it is then the truest valor to dare to live.
—SIR THOMAS BROWNE
I returned to Virginia and managed to keep it together at work, but each week I’d receive disheartening news about another friend being wounded or killed. As I struggled to put it all together I reached out to an old mentor, only to receive word that the son of another close friend, who was killed the year before Chief and Chris lost their lives, was continuing to have difficulties adjusting to the loss of his father. His family was still having trouble, too; it was demoralizing. I began to realize how truly ignorant I was about the total effects of war. The more I thought about it, the more depressed I became, until irrational thoughts of responsibility started to fill my mind. I remembered the day he was buried, and how I felt the war was finally over for them when in reality their battles were just beginning. Hearing the sons and daughters of close friends and teammates were suffering made me feel as if I had somehow abandoned them—but what could I do? I was still trying to deal with keeping my Jekyll and Hyde temperament hidden from my own family. One moment I’m loving and joking, and the next I might be broodingly angrily or locking myself away. I allowed the deployments and isolation to separate me from my family, and I didn’t know how to get back.
Work had become a way to pass the time until I made it home to a bottle of vodka and anything in the medicine cabinet that would help me to sleep through the night. When not at work, I’d sit on the couch shifting my eyes from the scenes outside the window to pictures of Korrina and the kids I hung on the wall for inspiration, but it wasn’t working. I found myself constantly thinking about how the slow decline of my father nearly destroyed our family, and how the pattern was repeating in my own. His battles may not have been as up close and personal as mine, but it looked like the end result might be the same. I wondered how much longer it would be before I couldn’t walk away from a confrontation and my anger would turn to violence. I had already begun to experience explosive episodes of rage, and despite my best efforts I couldn’t stop myself from self-medicating with alcohol. I was lying to the folks I loved the most, and with Korrina thousands of miles away there was no way for her to know any different. Every few days a friend would stop by or invite me to dinner, concerned for my well-being, but I deflected their concerns and locked myself away. I was self-destructing and I knew it; I just wondered if I would end up wrecking my family in the process.
I felt alone and scared of what I might do. I wanted to call Korrina but knew it would only increase her stress and in turn increase my feelings of despair. I turned the television on, but the snowy screen and constant sound of the static failed to provide their normal relief, so I drank until the bottle was nearly empty. I remember getting up and walking into the bedroom, thinking I would finally be able to close my eyes. I spotted my weapon case peeking out from under the bed. I’m still not sure what I was thinking, if anything at all, but for some reason I carried it back to the living room. I placed it on the coffee table in front of me and unlocked it. Next thing I knew, I had the pistol in my hand and had pushed a magazine through its handle, loading the gun. Like so many times before, I felt as if I were watching myself from across the room. I remember thinking I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t sad; in fact, I had no emotion whatsoever. I was indifferent to everything around me; all I knew was I needed help before I hurt someone. I gripped the pistol and went back to staring out the window. The phone rang, and I felt that instead of ignoring it, I had to answer.
“Marky, this is your mother. Something told me to call you,” Mom’s voice said over the receiver.
“Something or someone, Mom?”
“Oh, you know, it was either God or one of the invisible men your sister talks to when she’s here with me, but at my age I can never tell which is which,” she said, laughing. “Besides, I know they’re just messengers from God. Now if I can just get them to tell her to remember to take her medication it would be much easier for both of us.” I couldn’t believe she was able to laugh in spite of all the difficulties she’d encountered as a parent of a schizophrenic daughter, a husband suffering from dementia, and a house full of youth trying to reform their lives.
“Mom, how do you do it?”
“Do what, mijo?”
“How do you keep going? Life’s been hell, but it always seems like it doesn’t matter to you.” My voice was starting to crack as I tried to hold back the tears.
“Mijo, I don’t do anything. When things get too much, like they are for you now, I ask for help. You know, people want to help. You just have to let them know how.”
“I need help, Mom.”
“I know you do, mijo, that’s why I was told to call you.”
We talked for hours, and I listened to stories about my father and how he always let his pride get in the way. She mentioned how he gambled the car away when I was much younger, something I never knew about. We talked about the drunken fits, which nearly put her in the hospital, and the other problems she still encountered as she balanced time between Dad and my sister. It tore me up to hear about it, but Mom talked as if she were telling a story about work or the meaning of the priest’s homily.
“Mom, why do you talk about Dad that way?” I asked. “You speak about him as if he’s a saint, even when you’re talking about how much of a devil he’s become.”
“Marky, that’s the only way your father knows how to let me know he needs help, and I’m just trying to be there when he calls.” She paused for a few seconds to let the frustration she heard in my voice settle. “In his spirit your father is still a good man, and that’s all that matters, at least to me. Now promise me you won’t ask of Korrina what your father asks of me. It’s time to swallow your pride, mijo, and accept som
e help.”
“I promise, Mom. I promise.” Just as I hung up the phone, the sun started to break over the horizon. I went up to the third floor and watched it cast its light across the ocean, thinking about what I had promised.
JOURNAL THERAPY
During the years that I served, the military was accustomed to utilizing two components in the treatment of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), pharmacotherapy and psychotherapy. Being a medical provider, I knew that most of the psychiatrists utilized pharmaceuticals as an adjunct to alleviate some of the more disruptive manifestations of combat stress while concentrating their time with the patient on treating the underlying condition. Although I knew I might benefit from the use of meds, I wasn’t willing to consider taking any type of psychiatric medicine, at least not initially.
Early on I had been given various sedatives in the treatment of my insomnia. Initially the drugs provided some relief, but it didn’t take long before they’d lose their effect, leaving me mentally and physically groggy. I blamed the failure of the sleeping aids as my primary reason for adding alcohol to my nightly routine, so I was uncomfortable with the idea of having another class of drugs enter the mix. If the mainstay of treatment was psychotherapy, why cloud the issue with meds? It might not have been the best approach but it was the only one I was willing to accept. Despite realizing I needed help, I wasn’t willing to completely trust my care to another provider or admit to friends and colleagues what I was going through. My mind was made up: no medications, and any care I received was going to be a clandestine operation.
I had heard that one of the psychologists who came to the clinic a couple of days a week wasn’t the typical touchy-feely psych provider, which is exactly what I needed. After casually bumping into him in the hallway, I briefly explained my situation and the embarrassment and shame that accompanied it. He was obviously familiar with requests for anonymity and agreed to meet me in his office under the guise of sharing a lunch break.
Much to my surprise, he never asked me how I felt, which was a huge step toward earning my trust. Instead he concentrated on taking a history of all the events that had happened to me over the last decade—the blasts from RPGs, all the hits I had taken over the years in everything from from parachuting to hand-to-hand combat training—and, of course, an overview of my physical health. It was a comfortable blend of clinical evaluation and informal therapy. We were just starting down the road, but I knew it was time to unlock the passenger door and let someone join me on a hellish ride inside my mind; he would be the first.
My therapy included a series of written homework assignments, which at times added to my anxiety as I concentrated my writing on specific events. The goal was to modify my pattern of thought in order to deal with the shame and guilt I was feeling, yet I was finding it extremely hard to place some of it down on paper. It was easier for me to talk about it in his office than write it down in a journal. Somehow my writing not only made me acknowledge everything I was feeling but also confronted me with the totality of my symptoms, making it impossible for me to deny or diminish them any longer.
When I was able to write, I couldn’t stop until I began to feel paranoid or ashamed. My reactions, thoughts, and feelings were all tied to circumstances related to the special operations community and classified operations. More often than not I’d find myself shredding what I had written. Although I never wrote anything that was the least bit compromising to national security, I felt as if I were being disloyal to the country and community I loved. Just thinking about the situations that drove my actions made me feel as if I were betraying an unspoken code of sacrifice.
One of the things we don’t do in special operations is discuss our work or publicly give an opinion that might stain the community. Sure, there was storytelling, but nothing of importance or remotely detrimental to the history and image of the SEAL Teams. Yet here I was journaling about what some might perceive as a weakness smattered with personal perspectives on everything in the community that caused me consternation. Although we operated as a team, I had been trained to be self-reliant as both a SEAL and a medical provider. I was given the tools to deal with stress, compartmentalizing the pain so I could continue on, but for some reason I couldn’t do it any longer. Writing it all down demonstrated my shortfalls, making me feel inadequate and as if I didn’t belong in the first place.
Maybe that was it; maybe I was great at being neither a SEAL nor a medical provider. Maybe my attempt at balancing two obligations diametrically opposed to one another and never fully committing to either produced inadequacy in the world of the elite. As my writings transcended my assignments, I realized I wasn’t some prodigy. In fact, I was never the best at much of anything. I was just someone who had a strong work ethic and was able to endure times of personal degradation and humiliation to accomplish a goal. It wasn’t talent or aptitude that got me there. It was because I was either too stubborn, foolish, or determined not to give up, and more importantly because someone was always there to help me through it.
The more I wrote, the more I realized everything I achieved was due to the support of others. My mother and brother helped me escape the problems I faced as a young kid. The marines at the battalion helped me make it through the Reconnaissance pipeline. Hell, I never would have stood a chance in BUD/S if it hadn’t been for the support of my boat crew and class, and the SEAL Teams were no different. Each of my teammates always kept me sharp, and when it came time to move on they made sure my transition was a success. Medicine was much the same; half the class studied with me my first year, while four friends kept me from falling apart the second. I had accomplished a lot of things in my life, but none of it was on my own. It was finally starting to register; I wasn’t Superman or the messiah, and there was nothing I could have done differently that would have saved my teammates’ lives. However, just as I was finally learning how to accept it, the past would add a whole new layer of guilt.
PENDING TRANSFER
I was standing at the doctors’ station writing a set of patient orders when my phone began to vibrate with an incoming call. Mark Denny, who I might have only known for a short time, and I had become good friends, so despite having a full waiting room I decided to take the call.
“Hey, Doc, I got a good deal that you might be interested in.” His voice was fragmented from the poor reception I always seemed to have on base.
“I have you broken and unreadable, over,” I answered jokingly as I walked outside, trying to get a better signal.
“No, I’m serious this time,” he answered with his typical laugh.
Although Mark worked at the Pentagon, his position kept him in contact with the navy surgeon general, so I knew whatever he was calling about was either important or an epic practical joke. “I know you’ve been living alone since Korrina moved to San Diego. Some of the programs are starting to grow, so we were wondering if you’d be interested in moving to the Beltway.”
“Who’s we, and what kind of programs are we talking about?” I asked, suspicious about how much of a good deal this might not be.
“Spec ops programs,” he said before his voice was drowned out by a pair of F-18s flying overhead.
I couldn’t make out everything he said, but what I did hear sounded interesting. In spite of the progress I’d been making with my psych appointments I’d wanted a change in scenery, and there was more than enough support at NNMC, the National Naval Medical Center, to handle anything a sailor might need.
“Mark,” I yelled into the phone, “I’d like to hear more. How about I call you later tonight. I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying, and I’ve got patients stacking up.”
“Sure, call my cell.”
* * *
I called Mark on my drive home, and he told me they were looking for someone who would be able to provide both medical and administrative support to a gamut of programs supporting the special operations community. Over a series of conversations my name kept coming up, and after speaking to
the DSG (deputy surgeon general), he agreed that I’d be a perfect fit. Normally the navy doesn’t allow someone to transfer with less than two years on station, but since the detailing shop would be receiving the request from the DSG’s office, exceptions could always be made. I told Mark to pencil me in, but there was still one more person I had to speak with before they could cut me orders.
* * *
The time difference made it ideal for calling the West Coast. Korrina would be ending her workday and on her way home for the weekend. She’d just come off a hard week treating a flood of illnesses and injuries related to Hell Week, but Mark needed an answer by Monday. I thought about waiting a couple of days before bringing this up, but with Korrina the only thing worse than bad news is bad news delivered late. After everything we’d been through, she wasn’t going to be happy to hear that I was considering returning to SOF no matter how long I waited. We talked for over an hour, and after I explained to her that this position was more of a desk job managing operational functions than a deploying billet, she reluctantly agreed. I’d begin planning my move to D.C. in the coming month.
22
A CROSS TO BEAR
The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.
—NORMAN SCHWARZKOPF
I sat down behind my desk and listened to the voice messages while the computer came to life. I was off to a late start after working the evening shift the night before and had a flood of e-mail and voice messages to sort through before I could grab a patient chart and get to work. The messages were pretty standard: routine updates from the nursing staff, corpsmen, and other departments and, of course, one hypochondriacal patient asking about his test results. The final message was from TJ, my old friend and colleague. He and Mark Denny were in town and wanted to pay me a visit. Great news, but a little surprising; I had just seen them both of them a couple of months earlier when I was at the Pentagon for a conference.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 26