We Are Not Four Letters

“When educating operators on Operator Syndrome, the most common response is: How did you know? This response is usually expressed with a tone of relief and a subtle smile. For the operator, it marks a moment of validation and a glimmer of hope: Maybe I’m not alone.” – C. Frueh

I came to as I was being pulled out by my plate carrier strap from the MATV. I can remember the fire, the smoke, and the feeling of my arm soaked from the elbow down. Days later, I ripped a stitch, still not knowing how we got out or what truly occurred.

I rolled over in bed and kissed her in a way she can’t recall me ever kissing her before. She said the passion was different, rougher—but she expected something different, since less than 24 hours earlier I was flying out of Afghanistan.

A devilish smirk as we went through the door seconds after we breached. The voices over the comms were overshadowed by the screams of shock and understandable fear. A flash, and we were back in the HELO laughing, not a care in the world.

Standing in the middle of Lowe’s, screaming at each other. You say it was my idea, that I drove us there. You say I’m crazy and that there’s something wrong with me. I say, “fuck you,” and walk home. It’s brushed off as we roll over and end the night.

We enter BIAP…

While these are my own stories, they are similar to far too many. Yet many more jump to the conclusion that this is the result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder—a term coined not only to define a generation of warfighters, but also to box them into a medical prognosis that often does more harm than good.

PTSD is an oversimplified label that fails to capture the complexity of what we’ve lived through. But we are not broken. We are not defined by four little letters. This same definition is used against us in jobs, relationships, parenting, and care. Not many have gone beyond the term. Few, like Chris Frueh, have—and for them, I am forever grateful. They offer a different perspective to advocate for us, and most importantly, different methods of care.

This is not just trauma. It’s the wear and tear of relentless deployments, sleep deprivation, blast exposure, and a life spent in high-stakes environments. It’s the shift from battlefields to grocery store aisles, from gunfire to the silence of a dark bedroom where the echoes of the past never quite fade.

Acknowledgment is not weakness. Seeking better answers is not an admission of defeat. It’s time we redefine what it means to come home—not just for us, but for those who stand beside us, who love us, and who refuse to let us be reduced to a diagnosis.

We are more than the scars, the fights in parking lots, the restless nights, and the moments we can’t explain.

___________________________

Clay D is a father and veteran of 5 war zones with 9 combat deployments, 3 brothers KIA, and 1 Divorce. Most of his adult life was spent in the Middle East & South East Asia.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.