Nazca
Member
- Sep 8, 2022
- 12
I'm a United States Marine. I got out in 2009. I was the victim of some intense hazing. To be honest, my seniors just didn't know how to lead. We were all dumb kids after all.
I wasn't a shit bag and I did my job well. I was even the radio operator. You cant operate the radio without being a good marine. Imagine if you messed that up in a real situation.
But still, I was a boot and they hazed the fuck out of me.
I deployed to a combat zone in Karma Iraq. Combat Outpost Ibrihim Bin Ali. COP IBA for short. There, I was blessed with PTSD.
I was standing post one day and a white pick up pulls up on the road. Fairly distant, by 2008 the insurgency knew well the accuracy of marine rifles. They had to keep their distance. The white pick up fires an RPG directly at me. If flies by me in my post by about 3 feet. He missed. This is when I think I suffered my first mental injury. I thought to myself "I should be a dead man, the only reason I'm alive is that mother fucker missed." I was a stationary target for a rocket propelled grenade after all. The thing sprays fuel over my post, flies by and explodes on the ground nearby.
React runs to reinforce the walls as the pickup peels off, machine gun fire chasing it away. At least the driver survives and the pickup remains functional. In the infinite wisdom of the military the decision is made not to chase with with the quick reaction force. QRF for short.
The schedule at COP IBA was horrendous. We spent 8 hours security patrolling, once back from that, we spend 8 hours standing post on guard duty on the walls. After that we got 8 hours of QRF. That 8 hours of QRF time was the only real time we had to maintenance our vehicles and weapons, sleep, eat, shower, or write letters home. We only had one sat phone for the whole battalion available for calling home. Its safe to say, sleep time was never available, and sleep was hard to aquire any way. While on a security patrol, a mortor exploded right where my platoon sleeps. No one got hurt, but only because we were patrolling. No sleep. Ever.
Finally, while standing post one day. My postmate, patel sits down on the ice chest in the post to rest his legs. I take up the M240 golf. I particularly remember pretending to mow down a zombie horde with the machine gun. Not actually firing of course. Just pretending and passing the time while keeping an eye on my surroundings. At this time my team leader, Garcia, a lance corporal at the time was operating as Sergeant of the Guard. Essentially the boss of guard force. He is doing his rounds and when he comes to my post he finds patel with his Kevlar Helmet off. Immediately he accuses patel of sleeping. To this day I contend that Patel was not asleep. In fact, he was wiping his kevlar and his forehead clean of sweat. Garcia leaves the post where we complain to each other what an ass hole he is.
Later Garcia decides to haze us more. Our punishment for what happened on post is that we are to wear our full combat gear and dig metal out of the burn pit. I protested. I wasn't getting in there no matter what. Its full of chemicals, batteries, dead dogs, port-a-shitters. This is so significant that today we have the PACT act in the United States. The PACT act centers around problems from being exposed to burn pits and the cancers and other health issues it has caused. Well, I refused. I wasn't getting in there. Garcia then attempts to physically force me in the burn bit. Threatening violence as marines do. I defended myself with martial arts, pushing him back. Just as my training had taught me to do in combat, I pointed my rifle at him. PTSD in action. He turned around and walked off silently. But he came back with all the senior marines in the squad. Each with a condition one rifle. I remember Eberle, he was only a private first class having been demoted for some crime. He had a giddy smile on his face. My squad leader, unsure of exactly what had happened walked up. He was the only one unarmed. He asked me to hand him my rifle. Which I complied with expecting to be able to explain what happened. As soon as I was unarmed, Lance Corporal Johnston buttstroked me in the face. Knocking me clean out. He had anger issues and his lawyer would later advice him not to write a statement. I woke up in hand cuffs and was moved to H&S company, without a weapon. In a combat zone. They court-martialed me for aggravated assault and sleeping on post. The thing that hurt most was patels statement. Patel wrote that I had laid down and gone to sleep. He wrote that he attempted to wake me up multiple times and I told him to "leave me alone." They had all gotten together and written their statements while getting their story strait. A total lie. This is my first fall into major depression. I accepted a plea deal as it was my word versus the other marines who had lied. I didn't see how I could win, though my lawyer was adamant about fighting it. In H&S I was put on "chow hall duty." Which is simply to sit at a desk in Baharia and ensure each marine entering the chow hall scans their ID. This is simply so KBR can get paid. KBR is the Halliburton owned company that operates the chowhalls in Iraq. My schedule was company formation at 6am, then hard labor until 6pm_. Then I had chow hall duty until 4am. This was every day for months. No sleep. I was sent to Fallujah for a medical check up where I was diagnosed with Major Depression and anhedonia. Finally I was able to beg and plead to get to guard force in Baharia. Where I would actually fulfil an infantry job and have a non punitive schedule. Sadly, within a couple of days, due to my exhaustion, I actually did fall asleep on post. I was immediately caught not performing radio checks and was of course NJP'd for it. I didn't fight it, I felt guilty. I made it through the rest of the deployment honorably. But when we returned home, I was immediately put on restriction. Kind of like a kid being grounded. You must wear your uniform and not civilian clothes, check in once an hour, and you aren't allowed to leave base. The hard labor I had done in Iraq didn't count. For who knows what reason. During this time I was place in a squad bay with other marines in similar situations. Every single one of them smoked in the squad bay. With depression and anhedonia I succumbed to it and also participated by smoking in the squad bay. After check in one day the Duty Officer, some hard charging NCO I didn't know came in and singled me out for smoking, then dragging me off to the duty office. They actually put me in the brig for that. For 26 days. For smoking in the squad bay. Near after, I was separated with an other than honorable discharge. They told me that it wasn't punitive when I accepted it. I begged for a general discharge. I had seen other marines with mental injuries on medication and getting general discharges. For some reason I was different. I didn't deserve that. Because of that separation I have been unable to get help from the VA here. It has caused problems with my family, with my wife who left me. The anxiety and distrust is so bad I can't get a job. I just can't walk through the door sometimes for fear of whats on the other side. I've wanted to die ever since. The pain is too great. I cry every day. Medication doesn't help and my family has abandoned me. This was 13 years ago. Now I'm left with no money. No cell phone, no anything. I just want to die. But when I put the inert mask on I am overcome with fear. Life sucks and every one dies. There is nothing left for me to live for. I need xanax. If I could somehow get some xanax the fear and anxiety would be lessoned. I could put the mask on and go to sleep forever. My teeth hurt. I have dental problems. My back hurts from humping around in the marines. My legs hurt my body hurts everything hurts all the time. I have a ringing in my ears. And all I do is cry. I'm ready for it to end. I just can't get over the fear. How do I get xanax?
I wasn't a shit bag and I did my job well. I was even the radio operator. You cant operate the radio without being a good marine. Imagine if you messed that up in a real situation.
But still, I was a boot and they hazed the fuck out of me.
I deployed to a combat zone in Karma Iraq. Combat Outpost Ibrihim Bin Ali. COP IBA for short. There, I was blessed with PTSD.
I was standing post one day and a white pick up pulls up on the road. Fairly distant, by 2008 the insurgency knew well the accuracy of marine rifles. They had to keep their distance. The white pick up fires an RPG directly at me. If flies by me in my post by about 3 feet. He missed. This is when I think I suffered my first mental injury. I thought to myself "I should be a dead man, the only reason I'm alive is that mother fucker missed." I was a stationary target for a rocket propelled grenade after all. The thing sprays fuel over my post, flies by and explodes on the ground nearby.
React runs to reinforce the walls as the pickup peels off, machine gun fire chasing it away. At least the driver survives and the pickup remains functional. In the infinite wisdom of the military the decision is made not to chase with with the quick reaction force. QRF for short.
The schedule at COP IBA was horrendous. We spent 8 hours security patrolling, once back from that, we spend 8 hours standing post on guard duty on the walls. After that we got 8 hours of QRF. That 8 hours of QRF time was the only real time we had to maintenance our vehicles and weapons, sleep, eat, shower, or write letters home. We only had one sat phone for the whole battalion available for calling home. Its safe to say, sleep time was never available, and sleep was hard to aquire any way. While on a security patrol, a mortor exploded right where my platoon sleeps. No one got hurt, but only because we were patrolling. No sleep. Ever.
Finally, while standing post one day. My postmate, patel sits down on the ice chest in the post to rest his legs. I take up the M240 golf. I particularly remember pretending to mow down a zombie horde with the machine gun. Not actually firing of course. Just pretending and passing the time while keeping an eye on my surroundings. At this time my team leader, Garcia, a lance corporal at the time was operating as Sergeant of the Guard. Essentially the boss of guard force. He is doing his rounds and when he comes to my post he finds patel with his Kevlar Helmet off. Immediately he accuses patel of sleeping. To this day I contend that Patel was not asleep. In fact, he was wiping his kevlar and his forehead clean of sweat. Garcia leaves the post where we complain to each other what an ass hole he is.
Later Garcia decides to haze us more. Our punishment for what happened on post is that we are to wear our full combat gear and dig metal out of the burn pit. I protested. I wasn't getting in there no matter what. Its full of chemicals, batteries, dead dogs, port-a-shitters. This is so significant that today we have the PACT act in the United States. The PACT act centers around problems from being exposed to burn pits and the cancers and other health issues it has caused. Well, I refused. I wasn't getting in there. Garcia then attempts to physically force me in the burn bit. Threatening violence as marines do. I defended myself with martial arts, pushing him back. Just as my training had taught me to do in combat, I pointed my rifle at him. PTSD in action. He turned around and walked off silently. But he came back with all the senior marines in the squad. Each with a condition one rifle. I remember Eberle, he was only a private first class having been demoted for some crime. He had a giddy smile on his face. My squad leader, unsure of exactly what had happened walked up. He was the only one unarmed. He asked me to hand him my rifle. Which I complied with expecting to be able to explain what happened. As soon as I was unarmed, Lance Corporal Johnston buttstroked me in the face. Knocking me clean out. He had anger issues and his lawyer would later advice him not to write a statement. I woke up in hand cuffs and was moved to H&S company, without a weapon. In a combat zone. They court-martialed me for aggravated assault and sleeping on post. The thing that hurt most was patels statement. Patel wrote that I had laid down and gone to sleep. He wrote that he attempted to wake me up multiple times and I told him to "leave me alone." They had all gotten together and written their statements while getting their story strait. A total lie. This is my first fall into major depression. I accepted a plea deal as it was my word versus the other marines who had lied. I didn't see how I could win, though my lawyer was adamant about fighting it. In H&S I was put on "chow hall duty." Which is simply to sit at a desk in Baharia and ensure each marine entering the chow hall scans their ID. This is simply so KBR can get paid. KBR is the Halliburton owned company that operates the chowhalls in Iraq. My schedule was company formation at 6am, then hard labor until 6pm_. Then I had chow hall duty until 4am. This was every day for months. No sleep. I was sent to Fallujah for a medical check up where I was diagnosed with Major Depression and anhedonia. Finally I was able to beg and plead to get to guard force in Baharia. Where I would actually fulfil an infantry job and have a non punitive schedule. Sadly, within a couple of days, due to my exhaustion, I actually did fall asleep on post. I was immediately caught not performing radio checks and was of course NJP'd for it. I didn't fight it, I felt guilty. I made it through the rest of the deployment honorably. But when we returned home, I was immediately put on restriction. Kind of like a kid being grounded. You must wear your uniform and not civilian clothes, check in once an hour, and you aren't allowed to leave base. The hard labor I had done in Iraq didn't count. For who knows what reason. During this time I was place in a squad bay with other marines in similar situations. Every single one of them smoked in the squad bay. With depression and anhedonia I succumbed to it and also participated by smoking in the squad bay. After check in one day the Duty Officer, some hard charging NCO I didn't know came in and singled me out for smoking, then dragging me off to the duty office. They actually put me in the brig for that. For 26 days. For smoking in the squad bay. Near after, I was separated with an other than honorable discharge. They told me that it wasn't punitive when I accepted it. I begged for a general discharge. I had seen other marines with mental injuries on medication and getting general discharges. For some reason I was different. I didn't deserve that. Because of that separation I have been unable to get help from the VA here. It has caused problems with my family, with my wife who left me. The anxiety and distrust is so bad I can't get a job. I just can't walk through the door sometimes for fear of whats on the other side. I've wanted to die ever since. The pain is too great. I cry every day. Medication doesn't help and my family has abandoned me. This was 13 years ago. Now I'm left with no money. No cell phone, no anything. I just want to die. But when I put the inert mask on I am overcome with fear. Life sucks and every one dies. There is nothing left for me to live for. I need xanax. If I could somehow get some xanax the fear and anxiety would be lessoned. I could put the mask on and go to sleep forever. My teeth hurt. I have dental problems. My back hurts from humping around in the marines. My legs hurt my body hurts everything hurts all the time. I have a ringing in my ears. And all I do is cry. I'm ready for it to end. I just can't get over the fear. How do I get xanax?
