To My Warfighters...

To all my Warfighters,
Stand the fuck down. Do not do it. I say again, stand the fuck down. Spit out the pills, put down the blade, unload the weapon, take the keys out the ignition, take the noose from around your neck. Do not fucking do it. You did not survive that shit over there only to be defeated back here.
I don’t care if you’ve never seen my face. I don’t care if we’ve never shared a brew. I don’t care if we’ve never bummed a cig from each other. The shit we did, the shit we saw, the shit we endured, that makes us family. I don’t care about the “family” you come from, THIS family leaves no one behind. It doesn’t matter if we have to carry your ass the rest of the way, that is what we do. We take care of our own. But you have to let us.
You have to be willing to let us speak for you when you have no voice. To lift you up when you cannot see through the pain and anger and guilt. To pick you up when you cannot walk. You have to be willing to reach out to us, your family, when you falter. You have to be willing to trust us that it is not the end and that we will get each other through to the other side. You don’t even have to be strong. All you have to do is make a phone call, send a text, bang on a door, throw a rock through a window if you have to. But let someone know. We will do the rest.
We’re a dirty, uncivilized, rowdy, alcohol infused, crazy ass family. But we are a family. Each one of you that takes his own life leaves a hole in this family that all we survivors feel. I want to be mad at you, but I can’t. I want to be rip-roaring, hell-shaking, earth-shattering righteously pissed at you. But I can’t. I can’t because I have been there. Some days, I am still there. I’ve downed that bottle of pills. I’ve sliced through the skin and the veins. I’ve driven, like a bat out of hell, down the highway, hoping to lose control and smash head-first into a barrier. I’ve wanted it all to end. I’ve wanted to be free of the pain, the anger, the guilt, the remorse, the depression, the blackness, the nothingness.
I don’t have all the answers. None of us do. But I do know that taking your life is NOT the answer. That ain’t the one you want. I can’t call you selfish, because unless they have been there and done that, no one can know the sheer weight of what we endure. I cannot fault you for just wanting it all to go away. But I can ask you, I can plead with you, do not do it this way.
Please, Warfighters, brothers. Please let us put that 360 security around you. Let us protect you from the demons, even when the demon you fight is your own self. “I will never leave a fallen comrade. I will never accept defeat.” Warfighters, brothers, we took an oath, an oath that remains valid even after we step off the field.
Please, I am begging you, stand the fuck down. Let us have your six.

Your brother,
Nevermore-1

Enough!

• When will it stop? When the hell will all the loss, suffering, and death finally be enough? When will one loss of life be enough for them to finally say, "No more!"? How many more have to die? As if losing men overseas on the field of battle isn't enough, why do we have to lose more in one day here at "home" than we did in a month over there? With the stroke of a pen and a well groomed appearance on national television, a war is started. Men, our men, our brothers, sons, fathers, uncles, husbands, boyfriends, best friends are sent to die. We are trained, torn down, broken apart, cleansed, purged, and reforged into what they need us to be to do the job. And we have become very proficient at our job. We have become Zeus's lightning bolt, Poseidon's trident, Apollo's arrow, Achilles's sword, Leonidas's spear, and the thundering judgement hand of God. We have become the hounds out of the very depths of hell. And we have accepted it, embraced it, come to love it. We have accepted that, for our deeds, Hell doesn't want us and Heaven has no room for us. But what they don't tell you is that the war never stops. Not for us. With another stroke of a pen and another manicured appearance, the war is declared over. For them. For the ones who never stepped foot in the sand. For those whose shield and sword were suit and pen. For those who shall never know what it is to find the true measure of your character amidst the carnage. For those who shall never know what it's like to embrace Death as a lover. For those who shall never know what it is to fall in love with the most savage environment imaginable. For them, sure, the war is over. They rant and rave about the value of our lives while they are the ones throwing away that same value like a fiend in a whorehouse. And it is all in the name of spreading Democracy, under the guise of Patriotism, and with the stamp of Freedom. But it is never enough. Like a drunk in a bar, they want more. And they never tell us that while they go on their vacations, play their games of golf, attend their formal dinners, entertain their celebrity friends, and lie straight from the teleprompter, they never tell us that we will still be fighting the war forever. Only now, it's beneath the facade of "home." They beat us into being and then expect us to automatically un-become. But that change we go through, it's not a switch we can turn on and off. It becomes the blood flowing through our veins, the air we breathe. It becomes our genetic code. You can put your hands to the plow, you can bury them in soil instead of blood. But your hands will always remember the rifle. They don't train us for that. "Go to war, be this, do this. Now come home and forget all about it. Don't be like that, don't do that. The war is over, didn't you hear?!" But we can't, because it's not. The only time a Warfighter ever truly leaves the field of battle is when he dies. And still, it's never enough. "But we won!," they say. What did we win? What prize could be worth the blood price we pay, everyday, for you? What could be so valuable that it makes our lives seem like pocket change to you? Have you not yet learned, 10,000 men only need one general. But one general needs 10,000 men. The prize we fight for is the sanctity and preciousness of American life, yet, to you, that is the least valuable mean, and you throw it away like pennies. But, even enough pennies will make you rich. So, when will it be enough!? When will we stop having to die!? When can we rest easy, knowing that our sacrifices were not in vain!? We have seen enough death in the midst of war. That is acceptable. But when will we stop having to see it in our homes, in our streets, in our alleyways, and in our bedrooms? When will enough finally and forever be enough!?