This winter I showed up to the VA hospital complaining of Writer’s Block.

It seems like every time I move to a new place—now that I’m not drinking anymore—I must go through this adjustment period where, until my surroundings are familiar, and until my life feels routine, I’m on my guard all the time.

Even in a place as familiar as Richmond was to me, I still felt edgy and worried in certain everyday situations. For example, in a crowded restaurant, particularly a place with tile or paneled walls, I feel claustrophobic because of the sound. The echo of conversation, and the feeling that I can’t easily hear the people around me, makes me nervous.

This condition, which may be technically hyperacusis, probably comes from a few firefights where I lost my hearing because of the amount of gunfire around me. In one case, we had been shooting at the Taliban for hours, and we were ordered to move from the hilltop we occupied to a set of nearby buildings, wherein we believed there to be Taliban fighters.

I led the squad down from the hilltop, and along the way, I swept for IEDs with a metal detector. This metal detector shrieked when you waved it over metal. I was so deaf from the firefight I couldn’t hear my metal detector. At one point, Doc Rod came up. He pointed out a field up ahead and told me to watch out for IEDs up there.

I couldn’t hear him. It was as though my head were under the water of a pool and Doc Rod were talking to me from poolside. At last I understood that a villager had approached our squad leader and warned us about the possibility of IEDs on the route toward those buildings.

I had no idea what route the guy was indicating, and we also didn’t have much time to sit and figure it out. The whole point of this maneuver was to intercept the Taliban fighters as they retreated from their stronghold. I didn’t want the maneuver to succeed, because I didn’t want to lead my squad into the rear of a group of Taliban fighters.

Mainly I just didn’t want to get blown up. I was scared as hell, I wasn’t a good mine sweeper or way finder, and I really didn’t like having one of my senses compromised.

Not long thereafter I waved the metal detector over the soft sand of a creek bank—crawling up the creek bank seemed a good way to approach these buildings, but it also seemed a great place to plant IEDs—I waved the metal detector, and I thought I heard it shriek.

I lay knelt down in the creek and brushed away some of the soft sand until I found what looked like a severed black cable. I lay down to get a closer look. My eyes were fatigued, too, and I was just exhausted in general, and I really couldn’t tell if this thing in the sand was a root, or an old piece of cable that might lead to a pressure plate or a jug of explosives.

It didn’t take long for my squad to start asking why I was stopping. Not certain it was a root after all, I yanked the root out of the side of the creek bed. Then we kept going.

I took us through a few of the back alleys of a known Taliban outpost. I saw no humans, but I did see wheelbarrows and picks, the evidence of labor my enemy did to feed himself and his family. I was always unnerved by the evidence of humanity that we found during raids on those buildings.

That day, deaf in the alleys of the 60s series buildings, I was much more than unnerved. I was very tired and I felt like, whatever happened, I was relying on pure luck to survive, and I didn’t want to do it anymore.

I turned back to my squad, a few of whom—Doc Rod, my squad leader, probably Shane Belnavis—I could see in the alley behind me. I asked how much farther I was supposed to go. I was so deaf, however, I shouted the question. Doc Rod immediately raced toward me, finger on his lips. He may have hissed, “shut the fuck up.”

I got fired from my position as mine sweeper for my squad because of my conduct that day. The crazy thing is, when I heard the rumor that my squad leader was replacing me, my feelings were hurt. I felt relief, for sure—especially the first time we stepped out on patrol and I didn’t have to lead the way.

But I also felt as though I’d taken on a very dangerous job, my greatest responsibility as a Marine, and I’d failed. The only reason I survived, the only reason I didn’t get any other Marines killed, was luck. I still believe that.

Something changed in me after I got fired as mine sweeper for my squad. I felt, for the first time, that I might survive Afghanistan, but I also didn’t care if I lived or died anymore. And I wasn’t emboldened by this carelessness. Instead, I felt as though I had spent all the courage I had.

I didn’t mean to share all that, I only meant to explain a possible cause for my distress when I’m out in noisy places. And as I was saying, distress of this kind gets much worse for me when I’m in a new place.

I discovered too that I’ve got thyroiditis, and I’ve had it for years, but somehow the VA didn’t catch it until this winter. It’s kind of a relief to learn about, because I’ve often felt like I suffer from chronic fatigue. I think some of that fatigue is from PTSD and depression, but the thyroid condition doesn’t help.

Then there’s the body. I hate it, but I’ve become THAT VETERAN, with the bad back and the PTSD and the bad knees… I think I finally rate my little Afghanistan Veteran hat.

So the knee, the left knee at least, has patellar femoral syndrome and a hole in the cartilage. My back has all kinds of wear and tear on it, but the craziest thing we found in all the scans and exams was a fracture in my L3 vertebra that didn’t properly heal.

I’m pretty sure what happened is this: I evacuated to my mother’s house during Hurricane Helene. While there, I did a load of laundry. I carried this load of laundry* from the laundry room downstairs to my bedroom. I slipped on the wood stairs with a full load of laundry in my hands and came down right on my back.

The impact broke off the left transverse process of my L3 vertebra. It hurt like hell, but left no bruise. I never went to the doctor about it because the new back pain wasn’t much worse than my old back pain.

Anyway, if my above theory is correct, and my doctor thinks it is, I’ve been cruising around Tallahassee, working, gardening, trying to revise my manuscript, with a broken back. Then you add all the rest of my problems. I don’t mean to sit here and complain, but man, these past few months have sucked. At least I’m not drinking!

And on the bright side, learning that I’ve got a broken back makes me feel hopeful that we can fix it and alleviate some of my pain. It’s also got me thinking like, “Damn dude, you’re a DAWG.”
I’ve reflected on my past exploits as a Marine and a cross country runner and even a blue collar worker, and I always thought I was lazy, or just incapable of pushing myself to the limit. I was comparing myself to people like Kobe Bryant.

Of course, compared to the Mamba, NOBODOY has any grit. But maybe I’m a tough old dog after all. Either way, I’m satisfied, I’m grateful to be writing again, and I’m especially grateful to you, Dear Reader, for allowing me to gripe.

*Moral of the story: Don’t bring laundry home to Mom.