Educations
A Marines firearm is a lot like a woman's hair. It's an extension of them. Somewhere along the line it in many ways, defines them. My husband was a Marine for twenty years. I was lucky enough to share a life with him through most of his career. He was taught that his first job as a Marine was to be a rifleman. That is a Marines most basic function. So, threatening to take their firearm is no more life altering than to tell a woman shes going to lose her hair. The idea isn't just a loss of a possession. It can feel as daunting as a complete loss of identity.
My husband spent the second half of his career battling something no one could see. I may have been the only one who saw the changes in him. When I asked him about it he just said he was ready for retirement. Against my better judgment I accepted the excuse offered. In hindsight I guess I would rather face that prospect than to wrap my mind around the truth. Its funny how we can trick ourselves into believing the lesser of two options as one is ugly and messy. He had Post Traumatic Stress. It was an intensely private struggle. He adamantly denied anything was going on. He could easily blame others for his volatile behavior. Every time he came home from a war tour he left a little bit of himself overseas. I convinced myself this was something he had to do in order to fight a war. He had to hide parts of his humanity away in a box within himself. It would return when he retired. I just needed to be patient and empathetic to the demands of his active duty career.
So, I did. For ten years I bit my tongue and committed to seeing our family through to retirement. And that did come. In 2013 he began terminal leave. We drove cross country to our hometown and began the second phase of our life. It was exciting and scary. It was all new. We celebrated a lot. All the plans we'd made for 20 years were finally possible. He could finally "come back" to us. I was so relieved the day we drove off Camp Pendleton for the last time.
I wish I could say that relief was not short lived. When we arrived in our home town in Missouri the celebrating continued. My husband let his hair grow out and began to grow a beard...because he could for 20 years. He did all the things he was restricted from. It was a little bit like the first few weeks of college. Away from the "parents" and now able to do all the little things never done. That part was fun. I loved watching him really live it up. But, as time went on the novelty wore off for me. Yes, we were finally on our own again. Free to do what we choose. Life started to fall into place. I began working again and he started school. The kids and I began forming a routine but he was still in "Frat Boy" mode. He stayed up late drinking with neighbors. There were several times he was still "partying" when the kids and I woke up to start our day.
Retiring was not the golden ticket we thought we nabbed. His drinking became heavy. When I approached the topic with him he said he'd just retired and earned the right to celebrate. I felt guilty for even asking. But still it didn't feel "right". That combined with his more aggressive behavior had me walking on eggshells. I went out of my way to anticipate his reaction to things and was proactive in ensuring he not be triggered by the children, by myself. I could not control his environment and as a result he reacted in violent rages. It became so bad that I could no longer trust him around our children. When I went to work my sister was there with him and the kids just to be a buffer. I saw him bully the kids with my own eyes. He would fling them around by the arm, get so close to their faces as he shouted that he would literally spit on them. When I would catch it he would tell me I was mistaken. That's when I really knew I could no longer keep the charade up. He wasnt the man Id married. He was a stranger. His entire personality had been eclipsed by the illness. My sister even said "Why do you allow him to treat you like this? I've known you my whole life. This isn't you. You'd never stand for this." Now that we were back around family and friends I could no longer hide this from others. I was...ashamed.
I told him I could no longer enable him. He had to get help or he couldn't be in the house with the kids and myself. He had a month to get into treatment or he was going to have to go live with his parents for awhile. I was feeling so defeated. We were told that if we could stay married through a career in the Marines we could make it through anything. Here we were 4 months into retirement and our marriage was crumbling. I felt unsafe. I was scared for my kids. There was literally no one to go to for support or advice. He had a reputation as the brave Marine. As much as I began to resent him, I still felt I needed to protect his image. I began to believe maybe it was us. If it was us then to say something would be to tarnish a good mans standing in the eyes of those who loved him. I felt trapped by the situation. Like I said, I was also terribly ashamed of how far I had allowed him to push us. I was confused. Just so defeated.
On September 15, 2013 Just two weeks after I had the "talk" with him he took his life in our garage. With a rifle. I could not stop, standing him just feet away. Only one thin wall separated him from our sleeping children. He had to walk past them and me to do it. He used his privately owned Savage rifle. Ironically, the ammunition was a "Full Metal Jacket". He'd told me about the bullets when he'd first gotten them. He told me they are designed for maximum destruction. Purely to kill. I'd wondered why we had them at all. But, firearms are an accessory to a well trained Military Vet. I figured it would be like him asking why I need 4 different types of brown shoe. Variety is the spice of life. The culture we lived in made it seem completely normal to have many types of firearms and other tools. He had a K-bar, a saber/sword, an e-tool. These were always part of the package. Who is more qualified to own and operate a bunch of weapons? We made clear rules and plans to keep our three children safe. They were always locked up out of reach in the garage. That is the only safety plan I pushed. I had zero idea I should have thought of HIS safety also. I'm sure he would have been incredulous if I did.
I found a post he made on Facebook just an hour before he died. It still exists today. It says "Please forgive me, God." It is haunting. No one noticed. He only survived for 135 days after dedicating his entire adult like to his country.
...If I only knew then what I understand now.
My husband spent the second half of his career battling something no one could see. I may have been the only one who saw the changes in him. When I asked him about it he just said he was ready for retirement. Against my better judgment I accepted the excuse offered. In hindsight I guess I would rather face that prospect than to wrap my mind around the truth. Its funny how we can trick ourselves into believing the lesser of two options as one is ugly and messy. He had Post Traumatic Stress. It was an intensely private struggle. He adamantly denied anything was going on. He could easily blame others for his volatile behavior. Every time he came home from a war tour he left a little bit of himself overseas. I convinced myself this was something he had to do in order to fight a war. He had to hide parts of his humanity away in a box within himself. It would return when he retired. I just needed to be patient and empathetic to the demands of his active duty career.
So, I did. For ten years I bit my tongue and committed to seeing our family through to retirement. And that did come. In 2013 he began terminal leave. We drove cross country to our hometown and began the second phase of our life. It was exciting and scary. It was all new. We celebrated a lot. All the plans we'd made for 20 years were finally possible. He could finally "come back" to us. I was so relieved the day we drove off Camp Pendleton for the last time.
I wish I could say that relief was not short lived. When we arrived in our home town in Missouri the celebrating continued. My husband let his hair grow out and began to grow a beard...because he could for 20 years. He did all the things he was restricted from. It was a little bit like the first few weeks of college. Away from the "parents" and now able to do all the little things never done. That part was fun. I loved watching him really live it up. But, as time went on the novelty wore off for me. Yes, we were finally on our own again. Free to do what we choose. Life started to fall into place. I began working again and he started school. The kids and I began forming a routine but he was still in "Frat Boy" mode. He stayed up late drinking with neighbors. There were several times he was still "partying" when the kids and I woke up to start our day.
Retiring was not the golden ticket we thought we nabbed. His drinking became heavy. When I approached the topic with him he said he'd just retired and earned the right to celebrate. I felt guilty for even asking. But still it didn't feel "right". That combined with his more aggressive behavior had me walking on eggshells. I went out of my way to anticipate his reaction to things and was proactive in ensuring he not be triggered by the children, by myself. I could not control his environment and as a result he reacted in violent rages. It became so bad that I could no longer trust him around our children. When I went to work my sister was there with him and the kids just to be a buffer. I saw him bully the kids with my own eyes. He would fling them around by the arm, get so close to their faces as he shouted that he would literally spit on them. When I would catch it he would tell me I was mistaken. That's when I really knew I could no longer keep the charade up. He wasnt the man Id married. He was a stranger. His entire personality had been eclipsed by the illness. My sister even said "Why do you allow him to treat you like this? I've known you my whole life. This isn't you. You'd never stand for this." Now that we were back around family and friends I could no longer hide this from others. I was...ashamed.
I told him I could no longer enable him. He had to get help or he couldn't be in the house with the kids and myself. He had a month to get into treatment or he was going to have to go live with his parents for awhile. I was feeling so defeated. We were told that if we could stay married through a career in the Marines we could make it through anything. Here we were 4 months into retirement and our marriage was crumbling. I felt unsafe. I was scared for my kids. There was literally no one to go to for support or advice. He had a reputation as the brave Marine. As much as I began to resent him, I still felt I needed to protect his image. I began to believe maybe it was us. If it was us then to say something would be to tarnish a good mans standing in the eyes of those who loved him. I felt trapped by the situation. Like I said, I was also terribly ashamed of how far I had allowed him to push us. I was confused. Just so defeated.
On September 15, 2013 Just two weeks after I had the "talk" with him he took his life in our garage. With a rifle. I could not stop, standing him just feet away. Only one thin wall separated him from our sleeping children. He had to walk past them and me to do it. He used his privately owned Savage rifle. Ironically, the ammunition was a "Full Metal Jacket". He'd told me about the bullets when he'd first gotten them. He told me they are designed for maximum destruction. Purely to kill. I'd wondered why we had them at all. But, firearms are an accessory to a well trained Military Vet. I figured it would be like him asking why I need 4 different types of brown shoe. Variety is the spice of life. The culture we lived in made it seem completely normal to have many types of firearms and other tools. He had a K-bar, a saber/sword, an e-tool. These were always part of the package. Who is more qualified to own and operate a bunch of weapons? We made clear rules and plans to keep our three children safe. They were always locked up out of reach in the garage. That is the only safety plan I pushed. I had zero idea I should have thought of HIS safety also. I'm sure he would have been incredulous if I did.
I found a post he made on Facebook just an hour before he died. It still exists today. It says "Please forgive me, God." It is haunting. No one noticed. He only survived for 135 days after dedicating his entire adult like to his country.
...If I only knew then what I understand now.
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