The 22

"All I could see in front of me was darkness. It was like we entered a new world when we slid down that hill. As soon as we hit the bottom of the hill, the chatter started up."

I watched Teddy write down some notes on his bright turquoise and purple notepad with a pattern that always reminded me of the infamous swoosh logos on those plastic cups from the 90s. He has been my therapist for the last three years, and I feel like I've never seen him not write anything down before. These sessions have always had a clinical framework to them. The walls are adorned with cheesy quotes that would be hanging in my grandmother's kitchen. Sitting on a table in the corner of the office is a little waterfall that can change sounds from white noise to a jungle at the press of a button. The only thing that wasn't a sign of a doctor's office was the walls themselves. An off-color brown is like the briefcases that people used back in the 50s and 60s. Teddy finishes his scribbling and adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose.

"What was the chatter you were hearing?"

"They were exchanging our positions with each other. They knew exactly where we were and were just waiting for the perfect moment to do something."

"Did you have a bad feeling?" said Teddy inquisitively. He pushed himself to the edge of his seat to listen.

"Honestly, no. We have done missions like this before and have heard the same chatter all the time. The trust I have for these guys made me feel like nothing like what happened could ever happen."

For what seems like the first time ever in these sessions, Teddy puts down his notebook and sits back in his chair with one hand crossed over his chest and one rubbing his chin.

"Then what happened?"

I sit back in my chair and begin to recap the entire situation in my head. These memories always come back in waves, some more vivid than others. Still, all leave me with a sense of fear, sadness, and unnecessary regret. I catch my breath and begin to recant.

"It all happened so fast. Pop shots fly in our direction, and we hit the ground, looking for the muzzle flashes. We catch a couple of light flashes off in the dense part of the woods. Sargent Everett pats me on the back and tells me to unload in the darkness. He said he was taking our team leader, Trevor, and a special forces team member back up the hill to see if they could get eyes on anything."

"How close were you to these individuals?" Teddy says, grabbing his notepad again.

"I'm really close to Trevor and Sargent Everett. The special forces guys, not so much."

During our rotation in Afghanistan, our unit was broken down into squad elements, 5–8-man teams, who were spread across the country. The army attached a special forces team to each squad to live and work with. When we first arrived, we were with an entirely different team. ODA 3654 was their unit out of Fort Bragg. We worked with them closely for 8 out of the 12 months we were there. When 3654 left, another ODA team took their place for the remainder of the deployment. These guys were complete trash. Came in gung-ho in full battle rattle and wanted to start and finish fights. This mission was an idea of the new ODA team. As the infantry unit that was there the longest, we told them not to go into this location. We suggested we scope it out first before walking there, to which they denied forcefully. It was the perfect recipe for disaster.

"Go ahead and continue, Jack."

"I watched as they went up the hill and out of sight. I looked back in the dense forest and began firing as many 5.56mm rounds into that place as possible. I'm pretty sure I reloaded twice before pop shots rang back. " My leg bounces up and down like a pogo stick on the faded blue carpet beneath my feet. This always happens when I talk about these kinds of things. I can never seem to get through talking about this kind of stuff without having a sort of existential crisis.

"I heard about three or four of them. On the fourth, I can hear yelling at the top of the hill. The other guys heard it too and looked in that direction. We see Sargent Everett hobbling down the hill, grabbing his ass. I'll never forget the blood-curdling scream that came from him. Our medic lays him down to look at his wounds. I heard him ask, "Am I going to die?" Our doc just laughed and told him no. he was going to be fine."

I pause before continuing. The images racing through my mind are not ones I love re-living. They just create a haze in my head that is doubled down by a pounding that will cease after a long while. I can feel this feeling arise as I try to mutter through the rest of the story.

"Then we see Trevor coming down the hill with his back to us, walking backward and crouched down. As he gets closer, we see he is dragging the special forces guy. His body is lifeless. He isn't moving, and blood trails on the dirt follow him as he is dragged. I remember a sense of anger at this moment, so I turned around in my firing position and aimed back at the woods and just unleashed a slew of bullets."

Teddy is scribbling for what seems like forever. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and looks up at me.

"Did you hit anyone?" asks teddy. I laugh at the question, not because it's funny but because I'm pretty sure he doesn't expect the answer.

"Nope. I honestly didn't see a living soul out there. They were there, but the odds of us seeing anyone in that dense wood is practically impossible. We would have to be right up on them to get a glimpse."

Teddy chuckles with me at this answer. I think it's hard for people to believe that we shoot at nothing most of the time. The Taliban where we were located was known as the "ghosts of the woods" as they could come and go, and no one would have any idea that they were there until it was too late. They were good at shooting guns, but what they lacked in marksmanship, they made up with stealth. Teddy scribbles a little more and looks back up at me.

"What happened to the special forces soldier Jack?" This question was, for some reason, not what I had expected.

"He died right there. I had a moment to look behind me where he was lying down, and our medic was giving him CPR. After about 20 minutes, I watched the doc throw his arms up and loudly say, "he's dead--he's dead." I start to cry, which I don't often do but can't help now.

Teddy looks at me with a blank expression on his face. The classic look I get whenever I give out this horrible story.

"Jack, I'm so sorry that happened to you." he grabs a tissue from the tissue box on his desk and gives a few pieces to me. I wipe the tears from my face and try to hide my embarrassment. Teddy writes in his notebook and looks at me.

"How about we stop for today, hmm?" I nod and finish wiping my nose with the last inch of the wadded-up tissue in my hand. I hate being this way in front of people. The military had purposely stunted all my emotions to make me a better soldier. Still, after my service, the only emotions left controlling my life are anger and bitterness.

"Thanks, doc. Same time next week?" I say through the muffling of my words due to the tissue being stuffed in my face.

"Yes, same time, the same place. But I wanted to give you something first. " he brings out a pad of papers and begins to scribble something on it.

"You need to understand that what you have gone through is something most of us would never have to deal with. I've seen military members go through hell and back after they get out, and I think this might help a bit." He rips off the top sheet and hands it to me.

"Sertraline?" I say, confused.

"Yes, it's an antidepressant. I believe it could hold the key to you getting out of this funk you're in." Except for the fact that this is no funk. This is my life now, and I don't think any pill will make this any better. "On your way out is a pharmacy downstairs. Just stop there, and they will get you taken care of. "

I nod in agreement and head for the door, shutting it behind me. I looked at the small white piece of paper he gave me.

Sertraline. 10 Mg. take with a meal once daily

I always told myself that I wouldn't end up like one of those veterans who has to be dependent on drugs of some kind. It always seemed to lead down a darker path than it would have been if they hadn't taken the medication, and I refuse to be one of those statistics. They say that 22 soldiers die a day from suicide. Most of those people had probably been on some sort of medication for depression or anxiety, or PTSD. It would have been better if the military had given you some kind of help when you got back from a warzone. Instead, they ask minimal questions and send you on your way because they are too interested in gearing up for the next deployment to care about the ones who just got home.

I hop on the elevator and press 1 to go to the first floor. While I wait, I realize that the entire walls of the elevator are mirrors. I look at myself at all angles and find it hard to see the person I once was looking back at me. I'm honestly not even sure if that person exists or will exist anymore. I used to be a loving, fun kid who would do anything to help someone else who needed it. In my teens, I started to get myself into trouble by sneaking out and smoking weed with my friends, which eventually led me to join the military, surprisingly enough. I was searching for something more than what I had, to be a part of something bigger than myself, and it seemed like I could get a new start in the military. I could travel the world, which I got to do, and make something of myself. I shipped off to basic training, scared and hopeful for my future. After finishing my training in May of 2011, I got to my first duty station at Ft. Lewis, Washington. I was told to get ready because we were deploying in December. Still hopeful, I did the training and felt good entering my deployment. I left for Afghanistan as a 20-year-old kid and came back a year later as a 21-year-old broken man who yearns for the way things used to be, but this constant imbalance in my head seems to be the only thing holding me back from being happy again. The only thing since that has made my life worth living was my wife and eventually my daughter. They both gave and continued to provide me with a sense of purpose and meaning on this planet. Without them, I would have most definitely been made part of the 22 a day statistic, but that isn't to say that there haven't been problems. My wife and I have been struggling with these demons that I have for a long time now, and shit hit the fan after multiple blow-ups about my heavy addiction to alcohol and cigarettes that seems to poke itself into our lives byways of stress, which undoubtedly, is an everyday occurrence. My wife is the one who pushed me to get this help for myself and for our family.

The elevator makes a stop on the second floor and opens to an old man in a black t-shirt with a jean jacket. His jacket is covered in pins and patches from all his training in the military. He also wears a hat that says all gave some, some gave all, and VIETNAM VETERAN is between the phrase in big, bold letters.

"Going down?" the old man says with a smile on his face that can't help but be infectious. I gawk a smile back.

"Yes, sir, I am." I said

"Well, let me join you on this journey." The old man gets inside the elevator, and we wait for the doors to close. We look at each other in the reflection of the elevator doors.

"Vietnam?" I say softly but loud enough where he can hear me.

"Yup," he says proudly. "Did 13 months over there and not a minute more. You?"

"Enduring Freedom. One tour to Afghanistan."

"So, what are you doing here youngin'?" he says inquisitively.

"Decided to seek some help. I'm trying to work some stuff out." I pause, waiting for his reply, but he just nods his head at me with his big smile.

"Got any advice for a youngin' like me?" I say to cure the deafening silence.

He looks at me, and his smile seems to fade as quickly as it starts. He limps towards me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and stares me dead center in my retinas as if trying to acquire my soul.

"The job of taking care of your own doesn't stop when service stops, son." he says in a low tone. Almost somber.

"What exactly does that mean?" I say back with a confused look on my face. He chuckles and removes his hand from my shoulder.

"You think you're the only one in pain? I know you have men who did and saw the same things you did. Don't forget about them."

I stare into his big, blue eyes that seem to be welling with water. And for a moment, I began to think about all the other men I had been there with. Among our squad, we had seven guys, all of whom were there on all the bad days and good ones. I think about our newbie, Greer, who came to us the last month before we deployed. He was a young, naïve kid who sometimes didn't know his left from his right. I remember our senior, Tyler, who was given the nickname D-bag and lived up to that, was a big teddy bear once you got to know him. The list of people seems to scroll in my brain like credits on the end of a movie.

I hear a voice, first low and then increasing in loudness coming from in front of me.

"Kid? Hey kid?" I snap out of what can only be described as a daydream or a flashback. The old man, smiling back on his face, is standing outside the elevator holding the door open, looking at me as I just stand silently inside the mirrored box.

"You coming, kid?"

I have a moment to realize where I am and what just occurred, and I answer back,

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

I step out, and we head in different directions. I wave at the old man, and he waves back at me tenderly. As I head for the door, I begin to pass the pharmacy where I am supposed to pick up my prescription. I get to the entrance doors and take another look at the sheet given to me.

--Refills available--

This stood out to me not only as a guideline but also as a requirement. I had to keep refilling this thing until noted otherwise, and the feeling of knowing that led to me turning around and throwing the prescription paper in the trash outside the door as I headed towards my car in the VA parking lot.