The Biscuit Party
By:
Javan Bair
This is an unabridged and very honest
recollection of three men attempting to vacation during the summer of 2020.
This story is being presented to you by one of those men.
These events, while at times whimsical and
humorous have deeply impacted my views on suicide, servitude, and that which is
truly important to me.
“Hey, dipshits!” I shout from my front porch as
I watch my friends Brett and Carlin drive right past my house, slam on the
breaks, and perform an illegal u turn in the middle of the street. Witnessing
this caused my soul to feel at ease. They still had the sense of reckless
abandonment that I had been needing in my life for a while. As I watched these
two block the road in front of my house, I had the much needed realization that
after all, nothing had changed and that was indescribably comforting…
As I jumped into the backseat of Carlin’s Subaru
Forester (more commonly referred to among the three of us as the “mobile home
2.0”. The original mobile home was a 2005 Ford Mustang that that we had quite
literally driven the brakes off of. But that is a story for a whole other time).
I took a good look at my two friends. It had been a little over a year since
last time I had seen these two, and I quickly noticed that they were both
wearing those corny ass, gas station “VETERAN” hats. “What the fuck are you two
wearing?” I ask. “Veteran hats, dude!” They both exclaim. “We got you one too!
Thank you for your service.” Brett slapped the hat on top of my head. I looked
at myself in the rear view mirror and laughed, hard. Not a single one of us took
ourselves too seriously. Nothing had changed and that was reassuring.
Brett and Carlin had just come home from
Afghanistan and gotten out of the Army about a month before all of this.
Come hell or high water, we were taking the road
trip we had been talking about since we first met in basic training. But, both
hell and high water came very hard just months before our trip in the form of
COVID. We were taking this trip in the midst of a global pandemic and there was
not a singular fuck to be found amongst the collective three of us. Even if
every conceivable business and establishment was closed down across the country
we were making our way from Colorado, down to Dallas, and over to
California. Resiliency in conjunction with the proper amounts of stupidity
and stubbornness can sometimes cause life changing events to occur.
I had been out of the Army for about a year at
this point. My life had calmed down significantly since I said my final goodbye
to the center of the Universe. Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I had replaced the
barracks with a little townhome. It was a townhome surrounded by homeless
people, so in that way it wasn’t much different than the barracks. I was in
college and writing essays about contemporary art. I went to a play and enjoyed
it thoroughly. I owned Chaco’s and wore them proudly. My life was almost
unrecognizable to the one I had led as a Paratrooper. Admittedly, I was slightly
worried that the boys and I may not mesh the way we did before. But before I
knew it, we were all smashed off of Miller Lites and I was chasing Carlin down
the street with the cover of a street side utilities box. Nothing much had
changed aside from the world around us, and that was calming.
The Mobile Home 2.0 was hurdling down I-25 South.
The highway was empty in either direction. There was so little traffic on the
road it felt surreal. We had no agenda other than achieving a sense of
escapism. We were unknowingly on our way to take the controversy ridden country
by storm in a Subaru Forester. It is the perfect premise to the great
millennial novel. Nothing made any goddamn sense. Chaos was a normality.
Uncertainty had encapsulated the aura of all that surrounded us. Considering
the circumstances under which the three of us met, nothing had really changed
at all.
******************
The first stop was the big D, and I am talking
Dallas. We were on our way to see Uncle Matt and Aunt Nancy. Brett and I are of
no relation to these two wonderful people. They are Carlin’s aunt and uncle who
had invited us into their home for Easter the year prior. The second most
unholy Easter of my existence. But that story much like the Mustang with no
brakes, is a story for another time.
Despite the Easter we shared together, they had
once again extended an invitation to their favorite degenerates.
The second night at Uncle Matt and Aunt Nancy’s
we decided to go out and decided to take part in our collective past time. We
were going out to see how many different places we could find to get drunk
inside of. “But how did you do such a thing in the midst of a global pandemic?”
Simple. We were in Dallas. And Dallas did not seem to give a fuck about COVID.
We were pre-gaming our night of projected
debauchery by having some back porch drinks with Matt & Nancy. That’s when
Uncle Matt leaned over to me and said, “You’re out of the Army now too, right?”
“Hell yes.” I replied. “Do you partake?” Matt gestures as though he’s ripping a
joint. “Yes, sir.” I replied. My man did not pull out a joint. He pulled out 2 edibles.
To be more accurate, he pulled out two Rice Krispy treats that were each the
size of a VHS tape and said, “down the hatch.” And down it went. Because, when
in Dallas.
Our Uber pulled up. We piled in and headed to
the bar. One of Dallas’ finest was behind the wheel of this particular Nissan
Altima. His driving was erratic to say the least. But homeboy’s subpar driving
skills were now the least of my problems. Uncle Matt’s cinder block of an
edible was now taking a hold of me. I’m in the backseat of a strangers car and stoned
out of my ever loving mind. As I’m trying to make odds or ends out of who the
fuck the guy driving the car is or how I know him, another thought had entered
the chat. “What part of the country am in right now?”
The car comes to a literal screeching halt.
Partially because the driver was all the way turned around in the back seat
talking to Carlin and myself instead of looking down the road. But this close
call of a potentially catastrophic accident was not totally caused by this
man’s lack of awareness to the fact that he was driving a car, but partially
due to a sea of people that were making a wall of human beings that stretched
across almost every part of the Dallas Fort Worth freeway system. If you’re
unfamiliar with this particular stretch of highway. There are no useful
analogies that do it justice other than, “it’s big as fuck.”
Thousands of people were joined in protest over
the death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis Police Officer Derek
Chauvin. They stretched across nearly every avenue of travel on this monstrous
freeway. As I mentioned earlier, the good people of Dallas did not seem to give
a singular fuck about COVID. But they cared deeply about what happened to
George Floyd. They were out in literal droves taking part in one of the largest
human rights movements (in terms of the sheer number of participants) that the
world has ever seen. Maybe it was Uncle Matt’s brick of weed that I ate, maybe
it was the overarching seriousness of the situation and what it meant for the
future of our country. Maybe it was simply astounding to see that many people
standing together on a highway. Nevertheless, the situation was prolific. As far as prolificity can be experienced while stuck in
traffic for any reason. Distress was in the air. Tension encapsulated the
ambience. The chaos of the world we had been trying to vacation from had
slapped us in the face. We were looking for a place to party while the world
seemingly fell apart around us.
Outside of a bar in Dallas stood Carlin, Brett, and Brett’s
friends Joey. Joey met up with us later in the night and offered to be
our DD for the evening, which was wonderful because I don’t know if I could
withstand anther existential breakdown in a strangers car. We were all making
our way to Joey’s truck and our night was coming to a close. But while we were in
route to said truck, the man with the biggest dick in Dallas decided to do a
drunk burnout in the middle of a decent sized group of people. The crowd booed
and yelled obscenities at the driver of this all white Jaguar as he laughed and
continued to drive through the crowd. In addition to the burnout that made
everyone woman in attendance swoon so hard their panties went missing, this
clown hurled an empty beer bottle from his window. The beer bottle flew by my
face and smashed on the wall behind me. Before I had the opportunity to say a
word, one particular insult hurled by none other than Brett, changed the
trajectory of events in that parking lot and created one of the more absurd
memories that lives inside of my head. “I hope your mother gets cancer.” Shouts
Brett. The tires of this Jaguar screech in response. The statement may come
across a bit severe on paper. But I must admit that is the fastest I’ve ever
seen words provoke a man to get out of his own car while not even in park yet.
So, if you’re ever in a position where you need to start a fight in record time,
feel free to borrow that adage. “Who the fuck said that?!” Hollered a man that
looked like Don Johnson fucked a Cocaine Cowboy. “I did.” said Brett. Then
proceeded the normal pre brawl shit talking between the two. I saw the driver’s
friend who closely resembled a boot barn mannequin get out of the vehicle thus
causing Carlin and I to pipe up. And just as we were all getting ready to have
a good old boot scooting boogie of a good time with these Dallas boys. Boot
Barn mannequin looks at Brett as he was standing there pushing Joey back and
forth while making race car noises with his mouth. At this time it is important
to note that Joey is in a wheelchair. It is also worth noting that Joey was
also talking shit as Brett “revved his engine”. In response to Brett and Joey’s
antics, Boot Barn audibly said, “fuck no.” And got back in the passenger’s seat
of his best friends ride. Once Don Johnson realized that even the dude with no
use of his legs in our little group was ready to get in the mix, he hurled a
few more insults at us and dipped.
I’ve told that story probably a hundred times to try and
adequately convey the blatant absurdity of that short yet ridiculous
occurrence. Never in all my life have I seen a fight avoided in such a
preposterous manner. My friend was using his disabled friend as a potential
battering ram. That kind of shit does not happen outside of some very dark
corners of the internet. That story may seem pointless other than conveying a
sense boisterous masculinity, but it reminded Carlin, Brett, and I that we
still shared a sense of unique cohesion and brotherhood that will stand in the
face of anything.
******************
After a few days it was time to leave the fine city of
Dallas and embark on the latter portion of our journey to Southern California.
Most of the drive was spent discussing the state of the country. It was after
all falling to fucking pieces around us as we drove across it. Specifically,
the topic of racism. Considering what we saw on the highway in Dallas and saw
unfolding all over the country, it was certainly worth talking about. And after
hours of discussion, we came to the realization that if more people learned the
importance of drinking black coffee from Drill Sergeant Wiggins like we had
several years prior, the country would be far better off.
We were nearing the end of our time at basic training on the
nation’s one and only Sand Hill located in Fort Benning, Georgia. The last week
or so of basic training is spent cleaning weapons and playing “fuck-fuck” games
because your Drills are bored. And one particular private’s lack of motivation
for cleaning his weapon presented the rest of us with the opportunity to behold
the most spectacular “fuck-fuck” game I have ever seen.
In basic training some privates are given the role of
“platoon leader”. At this point in time Carlin was the designated leader of 3rd
platoon. He was ensuring that everyone was actually cleaning their weapons. He
recognized that Phinney was not cleaning his weapon. Phinney was a shit-bag.
So, this type of behavior was not surprising from a kid that showed up to basic
training with a Ranger tab already tattooed on his chest. But once again,
another story for another time. Carlin tells Phinney to clean his weapon like everybody
else. Phinney responds with, “Fuck off you black piece of shit.” My friend
Carlin is a lot of things, but a piece of shit is not one of them. Especially,
when the only factor that led you to that conclusion about his character is
based on the color of his skin. The fact that Carlin did not obliterate all
five-feet and two-inches of Phinney that very moment, must have taken a great
deal of self-control on Carlin’s part because he is built like the Dallas
freeway system. He is a big fucking dude.
Carlin walks over to Brett and I as we were cleaning our
weapons. He sat down and didn’t have much to say. It was immediately apparent
that something was wrong. We inquired about his issue and Carlin explained to
us what Phinney had said to him. It took me off guard. I have never been on the
receiving end of a racial slur that meant anything. Sure, I’ve been called a
“mick” but I didn’t immigrate through Ellis Island and I’ve never worked on a
railroad so it’s never had the gravity to hold me down. But seeing the look on
my friends face after someone like Phinney who was built like a pre-pubescent
boy with the face of an ogre tried to make Carlin feel inferior based on his
physical appearance. “Fuck no. Fuck Phinney. Let’s take care of this.” That’s what
I was thinking. But I am irrational, impulsive, and have a propensity to make
awful decisions. Brett reminded me that when we get caught fighting, and we
would have been caught, it would be the same as all the other times that fights
had broken out. We would collectively get punished and nothing would get
resolved. And I must admit that beating the racist notions out of Phinney with
little bars of Irish Spring was such an appealing idea to my erratic
sensibilities. But I am happy that I listened to Brett and let our loose
cannon, alcoholic of a Drill Sergeant handle the situation.
Drill Sergeant Wiggins face was strewn with the look of
disgust that quickly turned to anger when he heard of a racist in his platoon.
A look of anger that is unique to man that has multiple deployments, divorces,
and a plethora of demons under his belt. A look that you can only find in the
eyes of a man that would probably kill a homeless person for a pack of
Marlboros. “Phinney, get the fuck over here!” Wiggins voice thundered through
out the company area as everyone fell silent. Phinney’s tiny ass scurried over
there and stood at parade rest as Wiggins maniacally peered at him under the
brim of his brown-round. After he tells Phinney to stand at the position of
attention in the middle of the company area, he instructs Brett and I to go and
gather “every single black private in this company.” And so we did. We ran to
all four platoon bays and told every black guy we saw, “Drill Sergeant Wiggins
wants all the black people downstairs now.” We did not have a single fucking
idea what for, we were simply the messengers. But just take a moment and
imagine two white boys running into the racially eclectic rooms that platoon bays
are and requesting that all of the black people, and only the black people, go
downstairs at the request of a man we all knew to be mentally unstable.
Phinney stood at attention, facing a formation. A formation
that was comprised of every single black kid in our Company. Drill Sergeant
Wiggins walked back and forth between Phinney and the formation. “Phinney, do
you have any idea why you are in this situation?” asked Wiggins. “No, Drill
Sergeant” Screamed Phinney. “No? You have no fucking idea why I have gathered
all of these fine young African American men in front of you today?” Wiggins
asked in a calm yet volatile fashion. There is a certain rhythm one becomes
accustomed to in the vocal deliveries of a drill sergeant. The rhythm is a
stream of calm and calculated rhetorical questions that result in a chaotic
outcome for those being questioned. We all knew something was coming. “Phinney,
go ahead and tell this formation what you said to Private Page.” Said Wiggins.
The well-deserved look of fear in Phinney’s eyes as he stood with his jaw on
the floor will reside in my mind for the rest of my days. “Uh, uh, uh… I didn’t
say anything to Page, Drill Sergeant.” Lied the coward. “Oh? You didn’t?” Asked
Wiggins. If you listened hard enough, you could hear Phinney’s knees knocking
together. The chaos had entered the room. “You are fucking telling me that you
did not call Private Page, your platoon leader, ‘a black piece of shit’ after
he asked you to clean your weapon?” A noise of collective fury arises from the
formation of young angry men that Wiggins assembled. It was at this time that
Wiggins gave every member of this formation permission to take turns hazing the
ever living dog shit out of Phinney. This went on for a long time, a very long
time. It was truly a pleasure to witness. Wiggins had pulled up a chair and
watched as these young men commanded Phinney to degrade himself in the presence
of those he had very recently seen himself above. In Wiggins hand was a cup of
coffee that he would sip from as Phinney had what I imagine was one of the
worst days of his life. And then he uttered a joke that should be immortalized
in stone, as far as I’m concerned. “Phinney. I like my coffee like I like my
women… not fucking racist!”
******************
The rest of the trip was spent in Gavin Newsom’s
social experiment, better known as the state of California. There were only a
handful of establishments that were open to the public at the time. But that is
not to say that there were not memories made out there. Classics such as,
Tina’s outdoor sleeping habit, more marijuana escapades, Brett’s upper
decker’s, and a slew of other stories that are once again reserved for a
different time. What we were able to do was eat a lot of biscuits.
Eating biscuits: an analogy for lifting weights
with the boys. Brett came up with this name for weightlifting years ago and it
stuck. In fact, we eventually dubbed the entire process of exercising as some
sort of biscuit variant. There’s cardio biscuits (running). There’s riding
biscuits (biking). And there is the scared tradition of throwing a biscuit
party. A biscuit party occurs when two or more individuals join together in the
process of the iron discipline. We would lift weights together and share ideas
just as some of the world’s finest philosophers before us. Although our
philosophical dialogue may have differed from that of Socrates or Plato, I’d
like to imagine a world where Socrates would have made line crossing jokes
about becoming Plato’s stepdad in the name of good natured shit talking.
The Biscuit Party had adapted to the gym
closures that were in place due to COVID in California. We were eating our
biscuits in Carlin’s stepdads garage. He had one of those midlife crisis weight
collections that every older man has but never uses. A handful of dumb bells, a
standalone bench, and a cable machine that we had to dig out under piles of
tools and other garage shit. But it got the fucking job done. We were getting
in solid workouts. We were sweating out the remanence of the prior nights
Miller Lites. We were poking fun at another purely based on physicality over
the sonic backdrop of an eclectic playlist that contained everything from Rage
Against the Machine to Levin Kali. It felt familiar and we all fucking needed
that.
The next several days in California seemed to be
somewhat free of the calamity that was occurring just outside of our own
perspective. COVID hit the United States and the country collectively shit on
the ideas and principles of civility. Protests and riots were consuming the streets
of every major city in the United States. Our president became one of the most
polarizing figures in the history of this nation. Biden and Pelosi took a
figurative knee in solidarity with the African American community by draping
themselves in Dashikis rather than fixing the issue of police
brutality. Modern Medicine had become an enemy. A piece of cloth meant to
be put on ones face became the principle talking point of democracy among
people that live in an oligarchy. And an all but seemingly never ending
conflict continued to wage on in Afghanistan. 20 years. A lifetime longer than
some of those that died fighting it.
As the trip was finally coming to a close and I
was having the surreal experience of walking through an empty airport, about to
board a socially distanced airplane (By the way, being forced to sit at least
six feet away from the farts of a stranger was the best part of the pandemic) I
realized that I was heading back to my mundane state of existence.
******************
Before Brett, Carlin, and I embarked on this
escapade of ours, my life was much like most of the world’s during the initial
quarantine period. Life had begun to feel mundane in the midst of an eerie
silence that seemed unshakable. The foundation of immediate gratification and immediate
stimulation to which I had become so accustomed, had been ripped out from
underneath me. Every day began to blur into the next with faint hints of
excitement.
At first, I enjoyed the lack of structure that
the quarantine provided. Never in all my life had I felt so unrestricted. I
felt like I had really tapped into my ancestral hippy roots. Rock climbing,
mountain biking, smoking weed, day drinking, recording podcasts, and not
working were all I had to do. Life was really hard. I felt like the nihilist
from The Big Lebowski, just drifting along the top of the pool in a floatie.
And the Dude may have been facetious when he said that “(nihilism) seems
exhausting”, but I can attest that purposelessly drifting about took its toll
on me.
*A Morning in the life of…*
Wake up. Feed the dog. Make coffee. Stare out
the window at a world that is just as still and lifeless as the day before.
Your introspective moment of poetic clarity is swiftly interrupted by an
aggressive need to take a coffee shit. Run to the bathroom. Remember that you
ran out of toilet paper. Notice that the paper towels have also been depleted.
Give your butt a pep-talk about what’s about to happen. Grab your car keys and
head to the store right across the street. Run inside with such ferocity that it
looks like you have something of the upmost importance to announce and you’ve
been doing cocaine all night. Frantically search for toilet paper. Be made a
fool by an aisle of empty shelves that once held that which you need the very
most. Make the decision to buy a pack of Vanity Fair napkins to wipe your ass
with because you deserve the very best. And the excitement of your day has
elapsed.
Right before this lock down I finally decided to
meet with a therapist to see if she could help me unscramble my eggs. The
first 8 sessions went off without a hitch. I was able to finally confront all
the wild shit my mom put me through in the name of her own resolved mental
issues. I was able to confront the fact that my biological dad is always going
to be a letdown. I was able to begin to grip the fact that I am the product of
his weak pull out game (my words, not my therapists) and that is where our
connection ends if I want it to. We talked through abortions, arrests, and
countless other mistakes. I didn’t necessarily feel on top of the world, but I
felt like I as making my way there. That all came to an abrupt stop with
quarantine.
There I was with all the freshly awoken demons
from my past and limited resources to keep them quiet. I’d be remiss if I
didn’t admit that I was dancing with thoughts of suicide. The world was dark
and I felt hopeless.
As for Brett and Carlin, they left for their deployment
during a time where if you squinted hard enough, America still looked like
Budweiser and hotdogs. They came home and it was far-left vs. far-right
politics and chaos. The United States has long been on the precipice of
encountering the type of chaos that engulfed 2020. But the dynamic shift that
occurred in the time these two left in July of 2019 and returned home in June
2020 is enough to knock any person off of their feet.
They spent months overseas with not so far off
dreams of a DD-214. Every day there is the thought of that sweet document that
frees you from the pervasive and precarious bullshit of the Army. Discussion of
the dreams of what one will do with their post military existence comprise most
of the conversations between soldiers. Some people want to live in the woods,
grow weed, and wear overalls. Some want to go to college and remember what it
feels like to be the only person in a room with tattoos. Some want to go to trade
schools and make a shit load of money. Some want to go back home and never
leave again. Some want to get home to that sweet, sweet girl that would never,
not in a million years, ever cheat on them. But none, not a single one wanted
to come home to a place that was almost unrecognizable.
The evidence wasn’t necessarily persistent, but
I could see my friends struggling to cope with this new way of life. Hope for
the memories of home that every soldier carries with them in the vein that
world will not move on without them had been crushed in.
These two were hurting and it was beginning to
scare me. I couldn’t help but be plagued with the thought that one day soon I
might get one of those devastating phone calls that live with you forever. I
didn’t want to notice it, but the look inside the eyes of someone that is
grasping for straws in an effort to stay alive are unmistakable.
I’m thrilled to announce that three of us are
still here with no plans to leave this wonderful life anytime soon. The Biscuit
Party is a permanent fixture in our existences. We are the result of keeping
yourself surrounded by a healthy support system. Something that is
unfortunately rare among many veterans who end up feeling ultimately lost.
******************
Soldiers and suicide coincide comfortably with
one another. The loss of a service member at a measure of their own hands has
become an unfortunate backdrop to the perpetual state of war we find ourselves
inside of.
The pandemic changed and altered the state of
many elements once believed to be constant. But certain pillars of American
life such as soldiers and suicide became stronger than ever. “The active-duty Army
has seen a 30% increase in 2020 in deaths by suicide, from 88
deaths by suicide in 2019 to 114 this year.” (Brook, 2020)
Statistics like that take me back to a particular instance to which I can
nearly pin down the reason for this increase in soldier suicides.
******************
It was a strange time to be a soldier in Bravo
Company. Every moving body in the company was jammed shoulder to shoulder in
the Battalion’s conference room. We were summoned there in order to discuss the
unsavory results of our command climate survey. See, once a year the Army asks
all of the members of every unit to anonymously rate their leadership. And from
2017-2018 Bravo Company was led by a Captain who shall remain nameless. He had
made the existence of all the soldiers underneath him painfully exhausting.
Presenting ridiculous demands from his subordinates in the absence of his own abilities
as a leader. He created an ultimately toxic environment that ate away at the
morale of his company. When it came time to review his leadership, it would be
an understatement to say that he was crucified. He was less than pleased when
presented with our review of his command. As a result, were being scolded by
our leadership while they went through a PowerPoint slideshow comprised of the
“offensive” answers we provided during the survey. Some of the answers were
humorous. Some of the answers were nonsensical. But one answer carried a level
of honesty that still resonates with me to this day. This young man described,
in graphic detail, how he dreamt of shooting himself in the head in our Sergeant
Major’s parking spot early in the morning, in order to ensure that his dead
body was the first thing he saw when pulling into work. When our commander put
this answer up on the screen the mood of the room was split. Some of us laughed
simply because of the level of spiteful absurdity it must have taken to write
that statement down. Some of us hung our heads in disbelief that even after
being presented with such a detrimental review of our commands performance, we
were still being screamed at for the “immature” and “negative” nature of our
responses. We were ironically being scolded by the very leadership that was too
prideful to see that they were the ones largely responsible for provoking these
types of suicidal thoughts. And I was busy thinking about my friend who told me
he wrote that answer. A layer of depth was added to the realization that this
whole situation was simply picturesque of a much larger issue. Despite it being
a consistent talking point, mental health issues are still being handled so
poorly in the military. “The evolution of modern industrialized warfare’s
capacity to kill, maim, and terrorize has exceeded the limits of human
endurance whereby psychiatric casualties have outnumbered the total of
combatants, both wounded- and killed-in-action, since the Second World War.”
(Russel et al. 2018). There seems to be two approaches to dealing with mental
health issues: either these issues are being ignored completely or acknowledged
in the worst possible manner.
******************
There is nothing like it. It is a miserably
unique experience. The feeling on the inside of a chapel that is holding the
funeral service for a soldier that took their own life is unforgettable. The
ceremony itself is rigid and structured just as everything else is in the
military. But the humanity of the situation always finds its way inside. And
for some there comes a moment where it sinks in and they realize they have been
here before. Standing at attention in the middle of the afternoon as we honored
the life of another soldier that succumbed to the temptations of suicide. Once
again we gather around the muffled tears of the spouse and children they left
behind. As we do this time and time again, there must finally be an
understanding that there is a problem at hand.
With all sincerity, I hope that this piece,
through its anecdotes, perspectives, and curated evidence serves as a timely
reminder to never forget the hardships that this country faced before the
COVID-19 pandemic. In particular, the crisis surrounding the rising loss of
those that keep us. Casting political beliefs and notions aside, there are only
two real keepers of the American way of life, the soldier and the statesman.
The presence of power yields the presence of safety. And the safety of the
nation relies heavily on those that uphold a sovereign oath to the constitution
that they carry with them. The presence of the people is all that is worth
keeping safe. Monuments, artifacts, and statues have all crumbled with the
passing of time, but the citizens of these United States continue to evade
demise. It is my greatest request to plead for reciprocity for those that serve
because without it, the very foundation upon which we stand will crumble
entirely. May we adapt our methods of mental health treatment for veterans so
that they can grow old and tell tales of the unmatched resiliency that carried
them through wars, a pandemic, and all of the other tribulations of a life that
is simply yearning for their continued presence.
A few resources for anyone (veteran or
otherwise) that are in need of assistance:
https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
https://www.taps.org/suicide/?gclid=CjwKCAjwybyJBhBwEiwAvz4G79jNhM2qU3ncUww9haU8TA7690CIMSeL1y5vHfRzruCkSVo4TioqPRoCEd0QAvD_BwE
https://www.veteranscrisisline.net/get-help/hotline
Veterans Crisis Line Phone Number:
1-800-273-8255 (Press 1)
Or you can email me: javbair@gmail.com
I am certainly not a therapist, but I would love
to help in any way that I can.