Gone But Not Forgotten

“My dad once told me that his biggest challenge after returning from Vietnam had been coming to terms with his own callousness. He’d made a deal with the war and traded his humanity for a ticket home.”

Tucker Elliot, “The Rainy Season”

I have to tell myself every day that you’re gone. I need the reminder so I don’t go accidentally scrolling down to your name in my contacts list as to send you a text about something funny I saw on the Internet this morning. You’re not here, and even though that blue Ford Focus isn’t sitting out front, your tools still rest on the shelf in my garage that you said you’d grab next week. I see you in statistics, old photos, the ceiling fan you hung in my bedroom, your t-shirts, and every time I catch a glimpse of a flag waving outside of a store front, or being hoisted up a pole in a schoolyard. Remember the night we sat on two squeaky barstools and you grilled me on why I didn’t ask the girl I liked out on a date as I nervously peeled the label off my beer bottle? Then you grabbed my phone and I begged you not to text her what I was too afraid to say, knowing deep down you had the guts to do a million things I could never do.

You were brave. I don’t know if it was from the time you spent serving your country overseas, and the things you tried so hard to forget of what you had seen, or because some people are just born brave like soldiers. You were a solider, and my right hand. My best friend who became a casualty of war— and though I didn’t lose you on the battlefield, the sunny spring day I kissed your casket after Taps had been played, I knew that the demons you wrestled with inside your mind the past few years were more frightening than any roadside explosive or sniper attack you’d ever encountered.

You had PTSD. Most people knew the textbook term, but didn’t understand how to translate it into every day life. They urged you to sit in an empty seat at the bar; not knowing you couldn’t have your back to an open doorway. They called you impulsive, reactive, short-tempered; not knowing that every day you spent looking down the barrel of a rifle in Afghanistan meant kill or be killed. There, you were Staff Sergeant Langhorst. When you came home, you were Michelle.

You were a college graduate, employed fulltime, had countless friends, family members, and loved ones that always knew they could count on you. You were an active member of the LGBT community. You loved a project. You loved your dog even more. She gave you responsibility and purpose, and another reason to spoil someone. You loved doing for others, as though it fueled your existence. Though you had your struggles, your bad days, your challenges, never did I think my 31 year-old best friend would become one of those twenty-two veterans a day who decide the pain they carry becomes too much to bear.

As a proud, retired veteran, I couldn’t help but begin to think about the ways in which you were being cared for upon your return. For the millions of Americans who fight every day to protect us here at home, I wondered who was fighting to protect them and you when your days of combat were over. Though the Veterans Administration provided you with financial support and medical care, I wondered if these things were truly enough to help you successfully readjust to civilian life. You quickly went from being a wellrespected, high-ranking military personnel, to an every day citizen virtually overnight. Back home as you made a life again, no one could see on the outside, the immeasurable sacrifices you made for their freedom.

“I spend countless nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what more I could have done.”

You lit up in the presence of other veterans and active military personnel. It was if they spoke a language only you knew how to communicate. It put you at ease. It made you feel understood. You loved being a part of the Wounded Warrior Project, a non-profit organization that is committed to providing veterans a variety of different supports in their community. The opportunities you were given to connect with other veterans in activities that catered to your hands-on personality were some of your favorite memories. I can’t thank them enough for the light they put in your eyes. You, and the myriad of other veterans aren’t just a statistic. You are people.

You are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, lovers, and friends. You are heroes. You are not just a number in a study. You are a life lost to a greater tragedy of a safety-net full of holes, that need repaired with the greatest sense of urgency possible.

The complexity of the needs of Veterans who return from war are some of the most difficult to pinpoint an understanding of, and often can be masked with pride, avoidance, and other mechanisms which don’t let others know the full picture of their pain and suffering—even the ones who they are closest to. Those who on the outside seemingly have it all, can still fall victim to the travesty of mental health disorders like PTSD, needing more than just medication or outpatient therapy visits to fight their battle.

Suicide doesn’t just affect the people we lose to it. Because you see, the day I lost you, a part of me died too. I spend countless nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering what more I could have done. Maybe if I would’ve asked more questions. Maybe if I wouldn’t have gone so many days without saying hello. Maybe you’d still be there. Though I know all the worrying and overanalyzing in the world won’t bring you back, I want you to realize how much you were loved.

Part of loving you is carrying on your legacy and your passion for helping fellow veterans. I want the world to know how important you are, and how there are so many others just like you, fighting the same fight every day. Some who may be reading this feeling identical to the way you did. Some who are the caregivers to veterans, or have them as family or friends. Those who knew that same girl who was my partner in crime, and those who have lost someone too. If you or someone you know shows signs of struggling with PTSD or depression such as intrusive memories, avoidance, negative changes in thinking and mood, or changes in emotional reactions, don’t assume that they can simply manage it on their own, no matter how strong they may be. This disorder can be crippling, and it shouldn’t take the loss of a life to draw attention on what could or should have been done. Early intervention is key, and can make a huge difference for troops coming home and their years to come.

As the days carry on, and the waves of pain are sometimes insurmountable, I remember the gentle pat on the back, the reassurance that no challenge was ever too great for me to surpass, that reminder that I was strong, and that I was loved with a quiet unbreakable loyalty of a solider. You taught and instilled within me so much in your short time here, as a mentor, and friend.

Michelle, I thank you for your unwavering commitment to your country, and to me.