Voices From the Shadows
The Special Operations community breaks its silence — real stories of invisible wounds, fractured families, and the courage to heal.
Personal Account of Silence
Cultural norms on the Team: “Mission first,” “Never weak,” “Handle your own problems”. There is a saying out there that “The job suffers last.” Whatever else happens in your life, it had better not impact your job. If it doesn’t, then it’s your business; if it does, then it is everyone’s business. Weakness is not tolerated - it is despised. Despised probably isn’t a strong enough word. During selection/training, weakness goes hand-in-hand with quitting or poor job performance. No one wants to do someone else’s job or carry their load. Continued weakness or not shouldering your load is a one-way ticket out of the teams, with pain along the way. Self-reliance is a valued skill, along with problem solving. The expectation is of a member finding a way - in training, in combat, or elsewhere.
Stigma Story #2
The roots of stigma and silence within the special operations community can be traced back to the very creation and need for these elite organizations. Our country desired specialized forces to carry out the most extremely sensitive, high-profile missions that would ensure a certainty of victory through absolute secrecy in some of the most austere hostile environments in the world. Our country’s statesmen knew during WWII that in order for the US to remain a global political and economic powerhouse, we needed to carve out a group of innovative and fearless men. Men that could shoulder the highest levels of pressure, stress and responsibility without regard of self-preservation. To accomplish US goals, objectives and strategies with little to no guidance, resources or support.
The Cost of the Mission: A Special Forces Soldier on War, Family, and the Price Nobody Counts
I. READY: The summer of 2007, I deployed to Baghdad, Iraq as part of a B-Team — augmentation and sustainment for the Special Forces ODAs operating in our area of operations. I had spent two years earning the right to wear the beret. Two years of training that pushed me past every limit I thought I had, and then showed me I had more. I was ready. I was excited. Whatever waited for me downrange, I believed I was built for it. What waited for me at home was a wife of eighteen months, a five-year-old son, and a three-year-old daughter. They were stationed in a state a thousand miles from where either of us had roots, a thousand miles from the people who would have shown up when things got hard. My wife would manage all of it alone. I knew that. We both knew that. And we both told each other it would be fine. We were both lying, and we both knew that too.
ADHD Was Just the Beginning
Caveat: I’ve taken many of the terms used in my writing from Dr. Cano, and I am using them because they ring true.
We tell kids lots of crazy things. You need glasses… 4 years later you outgrow them. How is that a thing? My all-time favorite was the removal of my wart. I was 8 years old I suppose and had just moved to South Georgia with my family as we transferred with the military. I had been dealing with a poorly behaved, somewhat recalcitrant wart. I couldn’t tell you what finger it was even on anymore. I had endured many useless applications of acid to burn it off, etc.
We tell kids lots of crazy things. You need glasses… 4 years later you outgrow them. How is that a thing? My all-time favorite was the removal of my wart. I was 8 years old I suppose and had just moved to South Georgia with my family as we transferred with the military. I had been dealing with a poorly behaved, somewhat recalcitrant wart. I couldn’t tell you what finger it was even on anymore. I had endured many useless applications of acid to burn it off, etc.
Push On or Throw In the Towel
HAHA, I said laughing as the temperature dropped. In order to keep from freezing I lit a candle
to get warmth in the igloo. Then like being squeezed in rear choke, I realized that those painful
itchy numbing appendages I knew as my toes, are just part the drivetrain on this meatsuit that
belong to Uncle Sam. Toes that were once carefree and easily cleaned in any first world country
scenario are now having to be managed hourly. Toes are one of the many tools of the machine
used to grip the ground beneath the terrain as I painfully recall the reality of being a pack-mule
in my uncle’s Service. I’m a machine, trained to the highest standards, meant to perform in any
environment without the assistance of world class gear, or world class coaches.
