# Coming Home: A Veteran's Journey from War to Healing, PTSD, & Finding Peace
You're never really the same after you get back. At first, all you want is to be left alone. You don't think you're special for what you did over there, but it bugs you when people act like nothing's happening halfway across the world.
Watching war movies makes your blood boil. They get everything wrong - the sounds, the fear, the boredom mixed with terror. "Thank you for your service," people say with a smile, but it feels empty, just words they think they're supposed to say. You nod and move on.
Everything back home seems so damn trivial. There's a war going on, and people are obsessed with some singing competition show? Seriously? Those contestants crying over not making it to the next round don't know what real problems are. They don't know what it's like to lie awake listening for sounds that mean you might die.
Nobody gets it. Not really. Even guys from your unit had different experiences. "You weren't there when our convoy got hit," you think. "You didn't see what I saw." My war was worse. My pain cuts deeper. Nobody could possibly understand.
So you drink. At first, it's just to take the edge off, to stop being so angry all the time. Then it's to help you laugh again, to feel something besides rage and emptiness. Then it's because, hell, you earned it. You put your life on the line while these people were going to football games and complaining about their boss.
Your wife tries to help, but you see it in her eyes - that look of worry, of disappointment. She doesn't understand what you've sacrificed for this family. How could she? So you push it all down, try to act normal, try to move forward. Get out of the Army. Find a civilian job. Show up on time. Follow instructions. Simple stuff, right?
But you still hate everyone at work. These soft-handed people in their comfortable office chairs, what have they ever done? What do they know about sacrifice? About brotherhood? About fear?
They invite you for beers after work. You go because you need to seem normal, but you can tell they're on edge around you. They watch what they say. They give you space like you might explode. You're the weird experiment they need to monitor.
Then one night, after a few drinks, a guy from accounting starts talking about his mom's suicide. Just out of nowhere. He asks how you deal with loss. Another coworker mentions the cancer that ate his dad alive over two years. The quiet woman from HR talks about the car crash that killed her best friend in college.
Wait... what?
These civilian office workers had tragedy too? No way. They can't possibly understand what real pain feels like. My war was the worst war. My suffering was the worst suffering.
But then it hits you - how can I dismiss their pain but expect them to always care about mine? We've all got our battles. Maybe mine was packed into a shorter time. Maybe mine came with dust and blood and explosions. But pain is pain. Loss is loss. Fear is fear.
I'm not special after all. We're all just people trying to get through our days carrying different weights.
Maybe I'm not the same person I was before I left. The war changed me. But I'm not alone in facing hard things. Other people have scars too, just different kinds.
It helps, realizing that. Not right away, but slowly. You start listening more when people talk. You catch yourself before snapping at small problems. You try to explain things to your wife instead of expecting her to just know. You call your battle buddy when the memories get too loud instead of reaching for another beer.
The little things still get you sometimes - like having to pay for energy drinks and water bottles again. Driving without scanning for IEDs. Waiting in line at the grocery store without watching everyone's hands. Sleeping in a bed that's too soft with a ceiling fan that makes sounds like helicopter blades.
It takes time. More time than you think it should. Some days are better than others.
But you're not alone in this. Not the only one carrying weight. That helps, somehow. Knowing we're all in this together, even if our battles looked different.
Maybe I'm not the same, but I am not alone.
That's something. That's a start.
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