Veterans have long grappled with the challenges of reintegrating into civilian life. Many see suicide as their last hope for tranquility. In their desperate search to quiet their inner turmoil and escape the emotional torment they endure, they often find themselves adrift, alienating loved ones in the process.

Public perception often dismissed veteran suicides as mere anomalies, tragedies encountered by those unable to manage their experiences.

Military narratives perpetuated this viewpoint, leading many to underestimate the prevalence of such struggles.

The traumas endured in combat zones complicate their transition back to civilian life, making coping even more difficult.

The bureaucratic obstacles imposed by the government further hinder veterans from accessing the support they need, ultimately undermining their will to survive. In far too many instances, the only perceived relief from their suffering becomes the act of taking their own lives.

Having never faced a level of despair that drove me to contemplate suicide, I felt fortunate.

While I empathized with their pain, I had experienced it differently in my own life. To call my situation a blessing felt insufficient.

The veterans shared their memories with me in a way that allowed me to experience the war through their eyes, granting me a perspective most people could never grasp. I recognized how fortunate I was to lead the life I did.

The existence I enjoyed was a gift from veterans like Chappy, Roy, Loo, and their Canadian comrades who served before, during, and after the Vietnam War. They fought for my freedom, enabling me to make my own choices about my life. I wish more people acknowledged that sacrifice.

It was crucial for me to convey this to them; they needed to know they still influenced civilian lives.

I am in awe of your resilience and courage in your service during Vietnam. The veterans I have encountered, including you, have immersed me in their memories of the conflict. This experience has been invaluable. I wish I could alleviate your suffering. Witnessing the lasting impact of those experiences on you, decades later, pains me deeply. It is even more heartbreaking to know that the government you served often knew of your suffering and contributed to it.

With sad smiles, Chappy and Loo nodded in understanding. Their acknowledgment revealed that they not only comprehended my sentiments but also resonated with them. Chappy's hand on my cheek sent chills down my spine as Loo nodded in agreement.

Captain Reynolds spoke highly of you, Sarah. He mentioned your compassion. Meeting someone like you is refreshing.

Even years after our service concluded, we still faced scorn and judgment when people learned we were Vietnam War veterans.

It has been a relief to speak with someone who listens to us without judgment, someone who is empathetic to our experiences.

You are a remarkable person, Sarah. I wish I had met someone like you when I returned from Vietnam. Perhaps I would have found a path forward that didn’t involve contemplating suicide.

Choked with emotion, I found it hard to respond. Chappy was a kind soul, and it pained me to realize that he had never been recognized for his worth as a person, leading him to take his own life before I was born.

Oh, Chappy. We would have connected. The women who failed to see your worth lost something significant. I know that realization wouldn’t have made it easier during your life. Loneliness breeds insecurities, creating a barrier that isolates you and fosters feelings of being unloved and unworthy. This cycle can become a nearly insurmountable trap.

Chappy struggled to find words, overwhelmed by emotion. Even in death, he remained ensnared in the human tendency to keep feelings hidden, never revealing how his Vietnam service affected him.

He had never disclosed his true emotions, even to Loo, and my response to his vulnerability seemed to overwhelm him.

Loo took a deep breath and placed a hand on Chappy's shoulder.

I understand, my friend. I went through three marriages, and my children didn’t truly know me. My first wife and I separated when they were teenagers. I was never the father they needed. I didn’t spend enough time with them before the divorce and distanced myself afterward. My children chose to embrace my wife’s second husband as their father. He was there for them, creating memories, while I missed important moments due to assignments. The Corps values families more now than they did back then, but nothing can reclaim the years I lost with my children.

Face it, Sarah, in many ways, you are the ideal woman for a veteran. I served alongside men who would have cherished the chance to meet someone like you. I know I would have loved to connect with someone as compassionate and understanding as you. Some veterans have, but not many. Even now, many years later, it remains a challenge to love a jarhead and maintain a marriage. I know more divorced Marines than those who are married, and if they are, it’s often not their first marriage.

I recognized the truth in Loo’s words. The pressures faced in military marriages differ significantly from those in civilian life. The military often comes first, with spouses second. This reality saddens me, knowing how many veterans, both active and retired, miss out on that vital relationship.

How can I assist you from here, gentlemen? I leaned back in my chair, one leg crossed and tapping to an unspoken rhythm.

I’m not sure, Loo replied, exchanging a knowing look with Chappy. My role tonight was to bring Chappy to you, ensuring he had his chance to share his memories. He has begun that process, so my task is complete. Thank you for listening; it has been enjoyable to discuss long-buried memories, like Puck. Though he could be a nuisance, he ultimately proved invaluable.

As Lieutenant Walters spoke, Chappy appeared contemplative. His eyes, clouded with pain, turned toward me, silently pleading for assistance in his search for peace.

Sarah, Chappy licked his lips, had someone asked me if I needed to share my burdens, I would have insisted I was fine. But I don’t think I was ever truly fine after leaving the Corps.

The memories of Vietnam lingered, causing me distress. The line of lost souls and what happened to Yarrow haunted me. I wished I could have guided more souls to peace or intervened to prevent Yarrow from taking his life. Perhaps I could have saved him, but now I realize I did all I could.

It took me a while to recognize the connection between his fate and my own. I believed my struggles stemmed solely from the treatment I received upon returning home, but it was more complex than that. The roots of many of my issues lay within the war itself and the multitude of souls I witnessed perish. I felt powerless to assist them, unable to help them cross over due to their sheer numbers. That sense of helplessness weighed on me more than I acknowledged. I never failed to heed the spirits' call, aiding those who couldn’t help themselves, but over there, I was just one medium, powerless in the grand scheme.

Upon returning home, the way I was treated only compounded my dissatisfaction with life. I was a wounded veteran, ignored and ridiculed. It was easy to feel that I no longer mattered.

I longed—no, I needed—to feel that I made a difference to someone.

Like any young man, I was drawn to women. Chappy chuckled, mimicking an hourglass figure. He gave me a sheepish glance, as if caught in a moment of vulnerability. I wanted to find love, to share my life with someone. That proved difficult when women treated me as if I had lost my manhood along with my leg in Vietnam.

I yearned for someone to see the man beyond the disability, to recognize a partner rather than a wheelchair. Someone who would acknowledge that I was no different from any other healthy young man. Debbie Winston was that woman.

Debbie hailed from Chicago but relocated to my hometown of Everett, Washington, to attend Everett Community College.

We crossed paths at a downtown coffee shop. I stopped in for a cup after an interview with Boeing, where I learned I was deemed unqualified. The whispers and side glances from the employees made it clear that my disability was the real issue. Their discomfort fueled my anger.

Debbie was busy working on her thesis, pen moving rapidly across the page, when I accidentally bumped into her. I apologized, irritated with myself, but she simply shifted over and invited me to join her in the crowded café.

She was stunning, with golden hair cascading over her shoulders and eyes sparkling with vitality. Dressed in a long patchwork skirt and a fitted top, she looked as if she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. We spent over an hour together and dated for the next two years.

When she graduated with honors, I proposed. She looked taken aback, expressing that she didn’t share my feelings and apologized for leading me on. The next day, she returned to Chicago.

Her departure shattered me. She had made me feel whole again, reminding me of the man I was before Vietnam and the man I could still become. When I was with her, I forgot the wounded half-person the world saw.

I envisioned a future with her—marriage, children, a life together, growing old side by side. The life I had always dreamed of with the woman I loved.

Debbie dashed those dreams, leaving Everett for Chicago without a second glance.

I hope she found someone deserving of the life she sought—happiness, love, and fulfillment. I wouldn’t begrudge her that, even if it was the life I had hoped for.

His words carried a haunted quality, filled with love intermingled with bitterness over their separation. I wanted to help ease his uncertainty and heartache.

I straightened in my seat and raised my eyebrows with excitement, trying to instill some hope.

What if I could assist you in finding Debbie?

Continue the journey of Chappy and Debbie's love story in By the Grace of God: Chapter 10 here:

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<h2>By the Grace of God: Chapter 10</h2>

<div><h3>Finding lost loves along the cyber-highway of life</h3></div>

<div><p>medium.com</p></div>

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To start at the beginning, see By the Grace of God: Chapter 1 here:

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<h2>By the Grace of God: Chapter 1</h2>

<div><h3>The man in the light has something to say</h3></div>

<div><p>medium.com</p></div>

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