Journal

The traumatic event happened on August 8th, 1993, in Mogadishu, Somalia.   We were issued an M16 rifle.  On August 8th, 1993, my fellow soldiers fell victim to an explosive bomb; they were patrolling the streets; we were a police company.  Their names are SPC Mark Gutting, SPC Keith Pearson, SGT Christopher Hilgert, SSG Ronald Richerson.  The entire 977th Military Police Company was traumatized.  I served my fellow soldiers twice daily; usually, lunch was a MRE.  I knew my people; before that day, I had strong connections. I was happy up beat soldier, but after the event, I felt the anger of 130 men.  When I remember trying to bring up my unit's spirit by smiling, I would get yelled out.  During the deployment, I learned to change, keep to myself, and express little to people around me. During deployment, I would fall into deep thoughts, read novels, and avoid social interactions when not working in the kitchen.  Time rolled on, and the day of Rangers came to pass.  When I was in university with the UN, I felt that our units were in a city of millions were at risk of attack.  When we first went to the UN compound, we got mortared nightly.  We were called to the hallways to be accounted for—the battle when our rangers came under attack.

I remember going to the rooftop and seeing the helicopters and soldiers entering the city.  I brought a small portable TV with me to Somalia.  The military was broadcasting a TV signal, from which they would play CNN.  I remember passively watching the small TV and watching our battle on CNN in real time.  I also remember seeing the two pilots hung from the bridge on TV. The city's residents dragged our pilots through the streets, stripped them of their clothes and dignity, and they hung their dead bodies from the bridge in their grime-streaked vigilance.   I thought to myself during such times, if I got attacked, what would it be like thinking to myself what it would be like? How would I react? I often wondered, if I die, what it would be like.  I felt nervous but ready and proud to serve the men who lost their brothers to war.  To some degree, I did not feel worthy to be there; I felt I had to serve my unit their food and be there for them for support.  My roll was small but feeling the negative emotions of the unit really disturbed me to some degree. 

I remember we had a pit close to our MKT (Mobile Kitchen Trailer) where the waste would go.  I remember our bathrooms were the port-a-potties.  We were prisoners in the compound; we could not go anywhere but from the kitchen to our bunks.  One day, I went on a ration run; this was something different.  I remember SSgt King was driving, and I went on this ration run.  When we loaded up the Deuce and Half, I had to guard the food in the back; with my M16 loaded, SSgt King told me to guard the food as we drove through the city.  I remember seeing the Somalians looking at us and thinking, how do I know what the enemy looks like? They all look the same; the only way is to spot someone's aggression.  Nervously and without incident, we arrived, and I was so relieved we made it, but it did take a lot of energy out of me, and I did not want to seem unreliable, so I said little that day.  I remember going home before Christmas and being with my grandmother. I was so happy I was safe at home from combat, but I was a bit sad for the men who did not make it to their families.  Little did I know I would return to combat zones three more times in my military career.  

My next traumatic event was on my last deployment.  When in the country, I felt a sense of isolation.  I worked twelve hours a day, six days a week, and I would focus hard, but I lost a lot of energy and found myself having a hard time staying focused.  I worked hard, trying to stay alert.  I lost a lot of weight, thinking this was a good thing.  I lost the ability to focus my vision on text and needed glasses, but I never needed glasses, so this confused me. I remember I saw someone leave their reading glasses out, and I took them, not knowing who they were, but I felt I needed them to read my computer screen.  I don't recall anywhere I could have bought reading glasses.  But I really didn't know it at the time, but I was suffering from type 1 diabetes.  The doctors did an antibody test on me and found IA-2 antibodies in my blood, meaning that I had an environmental infection that caused diabetes.  I know I worked in a trailer under a vast radar dish for the extent of six months.  Robert Robson from the Nebraska National Guard was also working at the same desk on a different shift from what I heard and got sick after deployment. I think it was multiple sclerosis, but another Master Sergeant, whose name I can not recall right now, did not get sick.  I lost contact with just about everyone back home.

I kept contact with my parents, but not one person outside of that I would communicate with, which made me realize that I had lost focus on what was necessary. I felt closer to death than at any other time, and I saw myself dead, and outside of my parents, I felt an emptiness.   After returning to work, no one understood my illness, and even worse yet, they did not associate my service with my disease.   In Qatar,  planes would come in with the dead designated for the States; yes, I felt terrible for our fallen men and women. That is the mistake I made when filing for disability when I came home from the desert.  I filed for PTSD, and I remember VA staff getting mad at me for filing for PTSD.  I remember reading that I was a liar in my reports. I told my supervisor, I had caught diabetes in the service she called me a lier, for now I know to keep things to myself, its pointless to tell anyone.  I enrolled in Veterans Service to help with the transition, and I remember getting kicked out of the program for they did not associate mental health with the service.  It's my fault that I am not communicating what is happening to me, but I must keep a positive attitude and seek self-improvement and self-education, which I did, and now I have my bachelor's degree. I do have intense feelings of depression, but I do things to try to shake what I feel at that moment, and I am trying to identify my triggers.  

Another stress related to my service is my low blood sugar; just this week, I remember my bottom jaw completely numb and tingling, my elevated heart rate, my heart racing, my thoughts turn to eat, eat until the pain goes away, make it go away is in my thoughts, yes I go on a binge eating, but it almost primal. It messes with my blood sugars, I suffer, and a lot of stress happens because I need to control it; my feet hurt, cracks in the skin, burning, my fingers numb, ringing in my ears, and low energy, but if I manage this stuff, life will be good again, so they tell me.

In 2019, Pete Jelen retired; he was a Marine core member and would refuse to talk to me and solicit a few other coworkers to do the same, including Robert Rhea, Kim Garradine (supervisor), and others.  Stonewall was the treatment I received at work.  Pete Jelen held his ground until he left the organization.  I remember a conversation I overheard; he said he stopped communicating with me when I was at the end of the machine, just finished replacing a belt, and yelled fire in the hole; I spoke up without holding back, which made the man nervous.   I remember at its peak going into work, and no one from my department would communicate with me.  The feeling was odd.  I felt as if I was back in country Somalia, and there was something more I could do. I must work harder.  I felt the silence of my unit in Somalia; I felt like I was right back in that damn kitchen.