Crafted by Valor

Can anyone identify with being a young person, going through the paces of school, sports, and all the social things required to be a young person? I don’t know about others, but I was not able to decide just what the hell I wanted out of life, especially how I wanted to spend my life earning money so that I could have a life. I was unsure of who I was, certainly had zero ideas what I was capable of, and not really comfortable in my own skin. I think I played a good role of a guy that looked like he had his shit together. Not hard to fool high school kids or college buddies. 

Growing up in the shadow of the two men that are my brothers, was not an easy task. They were great at everything they touched and the expectation for me to have that same swagger was ever present. I knew sticking around Wyoming being a hometown dude wasn’t going to be my story. 

Upon completion of my psychology degree from University of Wyoming, I knew it was time to make the move for my preferred career choice as a pilot.

 Around the age of 24 or so, my father discussed with me the opportunity to join up with the army as something called a Warrant Officer. He said: “all they do is fly, if they aren’t flying; they just go home. No one messes with them because they are the experts of everything”. Well; I wanted to do that. So it was settled; I would become a Warrant Officer. 

Let’s just say it was naïve to assume I could just get in this program. Yet as one can clearly tell, I got in the program. It is the most rare and competitive route to become an Army helicopter pilot Warrant Officer. This selection; there were four thousand applicants and four slots to fill. I was selected for the second position. This was not something that was lost on me. I knew that I had found what I was going to do now. I was wrong with what I thought would be me serving out what ever penance is required to get these valuable rotor wing ratings and flight experience. It will be valuable after the short six years I would owe. 

I was never good at the fine print. In that little tick turd stuff it clearly stated that the six years begins upon the completion of training, which took two years. They have you for 8 years and a big decision is looming. It happens to coincide with a big promotion, if you earn it obviously. What I didn’t know is that the Army was going to fit me like a glove. I absolutely loved the job once all the crap of basic training, Warrant Officer Candidate School, and Flight School were over and I was out in the units operational. I found what I was meant to do.

In my case, I was selected for promotion to CW3. I was serving my first tour in Iraq, it was brutal. I hated the Army and wanted to sprint away from this promotion. On another hand and another side of my brain; I wanted this more than oxygen. They amped up the juiciness by offering a bonus of $48K, which because I was in Iraq, it would be tax free. I had no job, I had not been searching, once my tour is over; I will be headed back to Hanau Germany to finish my time. It is impossible to job hunt in the US while living in Germany, 2004 timeframe. The choice should be obvious. This shifted gears in my head. I am going to do the full career. I am in full for CW5, it was my goal.

Not only for those reasons, but I knew I was fucking crazy. I was hiding it from everyone I knew as hard as I could. I had all my unit mates fooled. They only knew me as the hard-nosed Warrant Officer that demands high standards of everyone around me. I felt like I was functioning on a high level when I was at work, when I was planning, when I was teaching, when I was flying. I made people work hard. I was so worried I was going to sign someone off as fully qualified that wasn’t ready and couldn’t handle the tasks that lay before them. I knew how fucking hard this is to take this huge hurricane producing machine and land it in talcum powder in the middle of the night in the middle of the desert. I didn’t care if I hurt the feelings of these fledgling pilots, many lives will be at their hands, their mind has to be sharp, motions so rehearsed that they will be done when their brain is panicking. 

I have seen the results of an upside down Blackhawk in that night time inky black desert. I saw my buddy from that crashed cockpit trying to revive the dead infantryman that was thrown from the crash and then crushed by the rolling helicopter. His hands were inside this soldier squeezing the exposed heart, his eyes were dead, he was on auto pilot, he was hurting because of the result he owned. He was my guy, my student, my brother; I owned that crash also and that death. 

Previous outcomes have always driven my behavior and intensity. None of this worked at home, especially intensity. Not that I got to spend much time at home; but in that rarity, I had to tamp down the beast and hope like hell I could keep getting away with my crazy. That is a fucked up conflict to have; hating my job because it kept me away from my family while also hating the way I felt at home. I just couldn’t adjust. I had changed too much. I hated myself for this fact. I tried very hard to train myself through commitment and discipline to regain where I was and what I had in my home life previously.

As a helicopter pilot, I am fully aware of balance. In this discipline, balance is required and useful. It is the hover. At first learning to hover seemed impossible, until one day it suddenly happens to the pilot. All maneuvers in a helicopter use that hover as a foundation for other more useful functions. Pushing the stick forward moves the nose of the helicopter forward and we start going faster and faster. The aircraft wants to fly even more as the speed increases. I find maneuvers at high speeds and low altitudes to be an amazing thrill. It actually turned into a drug so I could continually tap into that adrenal gland and milk a lifetime’s worth of chemical go juice for survival. I also happened to love to scream and holler like I was having a blast, because I truly was. 

Coming back to a hover just lost the thrill it had back when I finally achieved this rare talent. I needed the nose down or an atrocious bank with the stick pulled back just enough to plant everyone firmly in their seat and stuff them with a little G force magic. I was also happy to demonstrate weightlessness for short periods of time. When strung together; I was probably at my happiest. But a hover was boring. Unimpressive. Blah. Perfect balance.

The madness of the army took its chunks as time marched forward. I was in a perpetual state of wishing for the future and hating my present. Counting down days of deployment or training got to be so normal. The anticipation of getting home and being with family is a primary focus. The day always arrives, it did over and over again for me. At first coming home was just joyous but within days became a nightmare contained in my head. I know it spilled out at times even when I didn’t recognize it. Many times it came out very noticeable. So my skills to explain away behaviors became pretty good. I was quick on my feet and able to improvise.  

The countdown to retirement even becomes reality one day. The suit gets put in the closet, the beard begins to grow. Mine took two years to shave, it was epic. I used that beard to scare people away from me; I wore a belt buckle that stated “Fear the Beard”, and I damn meant it. I couldn’t figure out what had me so pissed off all the time. Retrospect is a damn good rear mirror. I was being forced to come in and hover. I wasn’t ready to hover. I didn’t need to do anything more than that; just hover. I felt incapable of this, I raged against it. I had nowhere to go with anger that was unresolved. 

I was losing more than just a career that took me away from my family all the time. I suddenly lost my community, my language was suddenly useless, I went from running the aviation program for a 300 plus helicopter, 3000 personnel organization to suddenly being nothing. Worse, I was told that I wasn’t good enough to continue service as a CW5, after completing two jobs and five years in CW5 positions. My new boss requested that the army send me to fill that job over other CW5s being paid as a CW4, cheap labor. Confusing to say the least. Thanks Obama.

The years get blurry and messy. Time just stole from me as I stared into space wondering what the fuck happened. How am I going to make a comeback? Do I even want a comeback? Suicidal ideation kicked in hard for me. I was at war on a daily, fuck; an hourly basis with myself. My self-loathing was deep, my depression is the deepest black I have felt since facing the desert nights flying in the moonless sections of northern Iraq where there is absolutely nothing to see. I had tried a pistol in the mouth before and was incapable of pulling the trigger. I knew I wasn’t going out that way; I berated myself for not having the guts to pull a damn trigger. I was getting too damn close though and I knew it. 

Desperate attempts at driving so drunk, reckless and fast had to end. I needed to actually make the change that stops the madness, at least puts it in neutral so I can push uphill. My therapist looked at me and said: “I’m sending you to Warrior Ascent, call them and they will get you in a great program”. Oh, just like that?! I went home muttering to myself. I looked up Warrior’s Ascent and noticed a course was going to begin in like 3 days. I thought, “never mind, there is no chance at this point”. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I filled out the application thinking maybe another time or they might have a connection for me. Damn! Tammy contacted me within like two hours of my application being submitted. They had a slot for me just down the road in KC. Crap! Now what? I guess I don’t have any excuses. I accepted the slot. Yet, I wasn’t so sure I was going just yet!

That weekend looming ahead had Mother’s day. I was alone and without any mothers to celebrate with. I felt more alone at that moment than ever before. That was the deepest and darkest hole I had discovered. I reluctantly packed a bag, I hadn’t really looked into the course I was about to attend. I just knew it was my last fucking shot. 

The Monday morning sunrise was crisp, the sky was that blue color only a cold ass morning casts. I climbed into my Denali battle cruiser and pointed down the driveway. I called my buddy Christian. I needed him to talk me into taking this step the entire two hour drive. My packed bags contained clothing adequate for continuing on east until I hit Virginia, a left turn would take me to ungodly northern Minnesota, or south and west for Arizona. Boston, Colorado, Vermont, Ohio; all were on the list of potential destinations. Yet I pulled into that damn scout camp. My phone was ringing and it said “Tammy”, I could see her with the phone to her ear. I guess I am here.

I decided to take the plunge and see what this organization had to offer, after all; I was at the end of my rope. There was really nothing I wasn’t ready to try. What occurred in those 5 days was nothing like I thought it might be. We were a bunch of burly men that got down on yoga mats (donated by the way) and we tried to stretch our old tired, broken down bodies. I was thinking; “oh great, more hippy dippy voodoo”. My mind was opened, my mouth was shut to listen, my heart and soul opened to these other warriors. We recognized we are a community of warriors that are not disposable members of society, we are a value add. We are a small but growing Tribe of warriors. 

This organization has also opened its doors to the First Responders; Police, Department of Corrections, EMS, Fire…..Citizen heroes that serve communities. Service in this capacity can be extremely tough on one’s mental, physical, and spiritual health. The parallels between Veterans of our Armed Forces or Citizen Warriors serving everyone in our midst are a match, our community is larger and stronger due to this smart, innovative incorporation. 

I totally believe that this organization saved my bacon, this short retreat with guided assistance into mindfulness, self-care, meditation, and even yoga stopped the madness in my head that called out for suicide. 

With these tools and the knowledge that I received with WA; I now hold the power to keep myself balanced. This old helicopter pilot has brought the ship back to a stable hover. With the wisdom that time and experience grant, I have discovered that the stable hover, the foundation for chopper maneuvers, holds for me the balance and stability that I required to heal from my combat trauma wounds.