I never really knew my dad.
If you added up all the time I spent with him, it wouldn’t make six months. The first time I saw him, I was around eight, and I don’t remember doing much with him. The next time was as a preteen, and that round didn’t do me any favors — he ended up dragging me into issues with my associates.
He’s dead now. Been gone a few years.
I didn’t cry. Didn’t go to his funeral. My life didn’t change at all. I’ve got a half-sister he apparently was a real dad to, but for me, he was basically a donor.
I had a few temporary father figures growing up, but my grandfather was the only consistent man I could ever really model myself after. He was steady. Quiet. The kind of man who showed up even when he didn’t say much.
So when I became a dad, it wasn’t some grand plan to carry on a legacy. I never really thought about having kids at all. It just happened. My first son came along when I was twenty-three and still in the service. I didn’t have a plan for fatherhood — hell, I didn’t even have a plan for life. But I loved that kid instantly. He came along halfway through my second enlistment.
When my first enlistment was up, I was stop-lossed in Iraq — held past my three-year contract. My squad leader told me, while we were in Abu Ghraib, to write out an exact plan for what I’d do if I got out, and he’d stop bugging me about reenlisting.
I never wrote shit.
My only real plan was to head back to Vegas, maybe go to UNLV. You know, like the South Park underwear gnomes:
Step one, steal underwear.
Step two…
Step three, get rich.
Instead, I reenlisted. The tax-free bonus overseas didn’t hurt either. Responsible young man decisions — i.e., I bought an Impala SS from a custom car shop.
Then I got hurt again. This time, I couldn’t infantry anymore. At first, I thought I’d bounce back — just another obstacle. But not long after, I realized I’d plateaued hard in my recovery, and I hadn’t been doing great even before that injury.
By the time the med board process kicked off, I’d just started contemplating a reclass. One minute I was still trying to decide if I was going to stay in; the next, I was out — trying to get my GI Bill lined up and figure out what came next.
And like any “responsible” young man trying to regain his footing, I made my family bigger after getting out.
When my kids were little, everything was simple. All I could do was love them. But as they got older, it got less simple. I started to withdraw. I was angry — at the world, at life, at myself. They caught some of that fallout. Anger aside, I was withdrawn, lost, and living beyond years I ever expected to make.
Fortunately for me, I didn’t have PTSD.
Just because I was a little extra vigilant — maybe a little morose and reckless — that didn’t really cause me issues and was totally unrelated to PTSD.
Right.
Then the panic attacks started.
They only happened while I was driving. For work, with my family, or anywhere else I needed to go. Which was fortunate, because I’d just landed the dream job at Coke — driving from store to store all day long.
Every single time I started my car, the thought hit me: What if I lose control this time during an attack?
Every. Single. Time.
During the actual attacks, my rational mind still worked. I’d see something on the side of the road — a tire, trash, debris — and my brain would say, It’s nothing. But my body didn’t believe me. My chest would seize up, my hands would lock, and all I could think was, Breathe… don’t crash.
But I could barely force an inhale, let alone steer.
For a guy who drove all day for work, that became impossible to manage. I was living recklessly when I should’ve been focused on building a future.
Then came the accident.
I was on an ATV and had a panic attack. For some reason, I’d convinced myself that because it wasn’t a car, I’d be fine.
Apparently, my nervous system hadn’t gotten that memo.
I hit a tree doing about 80 km/h. Made a lot of toothpicks that day. I broke my back, my neck, and a whole list of other bones that don’t bend that way.
My son was on another ATV behind me with his uncle. His uncle needed to go get help. He asked my son to come with him, but my son said no. There wasn’t time for them to argue about it. I needed medical attention immediately.
So his uncle went for help.
And my son stayed.
He sat there on the side of the road while I gurgled and bled and tried to hang on. He watched his dad dying, basically.
I traumatized my son that day.
There’s no poetic way to say it.
After the accident, I knew I needed to get serious about taking care of my mental health.
I’d made an attempt years before, not long after getting out, through the VA. I waited around four or five hours to see an intern, and when I finally told her my story, she looked repulsed.
Not shocked. Not sympathetic. Repulsed.
That was the moment I realized some truths are too ugly for people who haven’t lived them.
But after the accident, I couldn’t keep putting it off. I needed help.
That’s when I ended up with a doctor who doubled as a dispensary, a pharmaceutical rep. Wasn’t a symptom she didn’t have a script for.
Can’t sleep? Here’s a pill.
Can’t get up? Here’s another.
Can’t concentrate? Got something for that, too.
Too sad? Too mad? Too morose and divorced from any sense of satisfaction? Here’s a couple more pills for that.
Before long, I had a fistful of pills to take morning, noon, and night.
Eventually, I hit a wall.
I looked at that pile of prescriptions and realized I wasn’t living anymore — just medicating.
So I quit all of them. And her.
I started looking inward.
Reading philosophy. Microdosing. Building small routines. Epictetus became more helpful to me than any prescription ever was. Stoicism taught me something simple but life-saving: I can’t control what happens, but I can control how I face it.
That doesn’t mean I’ve got it all figured out.
I’m no sage.
Some days still suck. Some days I lose ground. But I keep showing up. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
And we lose way too many good men that way — men who could’ve found their way back if they’d just had one more day, one more reason, one more hand to hold.
For me, those reasons are holed up in their rooms right now — taller, calmer, nicer, and way less trouble than I was at their age.
My oldest is now older than I was when I joined the Army. He’s even contemplating joining the Navy, possibly through a program that would pay for his education and put him on the path to becoming an officer.
I’m proud of him. And frankly, I’m glad he’s not looking to become a grunt like his old man. He’s thinking about getting an education, learning a skill, and building a future beyond the military. Already showing more foresight than I had at his age.
It’s strange ground to stand on. Watching my son contemplate military service while knowing firsthand what it can give a man, and what it can take from him.
But there’s something reassuring about it, too. I left home with little guidance and even less of a plan. He’s making these decisions with a father who has been there, made plenty of mistakes, and is still around to help him navigate his own.
Still learning. Still working at it.
I haven’t been — and am not — a perfect dad.
They don’t need a perfect dad.
They just need one who stays.
And I’m still here.
Still trying.
And that’s the win.
Mic G
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