TW: Self harm, suicide, alcoholism, sexual harassment
The person that I am is not the person I was a year ago.
The person that I was a year ago had her growth, her confidence, and her passions stripped from her throughout the course of my deployment.
I look at the person that I was with agonizing longing and a type of anger that makes me wonder who I can blame for creating the conditions of that loss. For the longest time upon returning, I believed that person to be completely gone. I spent days gathering the pieces of who I was, who I wanted people to remember, and shoving them into the mask I presented to others.
The military can do many things to a person, and many of those things include stripping away people’s personalities, values, morals, and replacing them with a false sense of camaraderie through trauma bonding. I joined the military for the money, and that’s that. The ways that the military abuses the most vulnerable folks with the promise of adventure, money, and honor—to die for a country that would not ask the same of those who already have these resources—it’s a tool of exploitation.
The truth is that the military takes more than it gives. The most significant thing the military has taken from me is time. I haven’t had a full summer with my family and loved ones since 2014. I’ve missed weddings, birthdays, births, and funerals due to the military. As a primary caretaker for my family, being gone for months at a time means that my brothers shouldered most of the burden of translating, explaining bills, calling SSI, working through transitional periods, and during this past year, COVID response.
My deployment took time away from me and my loved ones. It took time away from my graduate degree, time away from learning, time away from myself in the prime of my years of activism and passion. It is time I will not get back.
When I deployed, the world and time seemed to stop for me. For my family, friends, and loved ones, their world continued. It’s such a hallowing feeling to know that everyone’s life goes on without you while your world has completely halted. I still feel like I’m living in 2019 sometimes, and the changes in people’s lives without me still feel so drastic.
The Deployment
The details of my deployment are fuzzy at best.
All of the things that happened to me feels like a list in my brain. Some are bolded, italicized, circled, but each thing that happened to me (and others) got bumped down every time something new popped up. There are things my mind has intentionally blocked out. I will attempt to recall my experiences as a means for you to understand the mess of my mind.
I deployed to a non-combat zone. While there were definite risks where I went, I was not actively being shot at. I make this clear because the type of PTSD that veterans go through can be from multiple types of experiences, and one is not more or less than the other. PTSD is a serious mental condition that the military still misunderstands (i.e., seen as a weakness). I am here to say that it is not, and anyone who is in the military who undermines Soldiers and their strength for not being “resilient enough” to “get tough” with shit going on in their head is not here to support anyone but themselves.
There are two types of Soldiers: commissioned officers (Officers) and non-commissioned officers (NCOs). In a perfect world, Officers are the “planners” and “decision-makers” while NCOs are the “executors” and also the subject matter expert in their specific areas—they come with a wealth of knowledge to ultimately drop knowledge bombs on officers so they make the right decisions. Both officers and NCOs are entrusted with caring for the Soldiers below them.
I am a commissioned officer. I was not only new to my role, but new to being a commissioned officer. I was fresh out of my basic officer course—which teaches you the basics of your job in the military but not quite the intricacies. The military typically trains its Soldiers with “on the job” training.
For the deployment, I was assigned as the Human Resources Officer in Command (OIC). I said earlier that Officers and NCOs work in tangent with one another, so an OIC has an NCOIC assigned to it as well (Noncommissioned officer in charge). Typically, you pair a new officer with a more seasoned NCO. My NCOIC and I were completely new to our roles, which meant collectively, the HR expertise was not there—this was at no fault of our own; the people who created the manning document should have put someone who would be able to advise me through this HUGE role. This is where the problems would begin, and never end.
Because of the lack of expertise that we both had, our credibility was not strong to begin with. It only plummeted from there. Ultimately, I was the face of our HR section (6 Soldiers total, including us).
Because of my youth, and because I didn’t know any better, I was easily manipulated to get what people wanted, to get the answers that people wanted to hear.
Because of my youth, my superior officers did not take my recommendations into consideration. It was always “this is how we do things” with the guise of “I just didn’t understand yet.”
Tasks were given to me without context, without purpose, without direction. This meant I put countless hours of work into products, only to have them dismissed because they weren’t what people “wanted.”
Being an OIC is a position of high responsibility, even when I am not a high ranking officer. Equating my rank and responsibility meant that my words did not mean anything when I provided answers or recommendations. People would always find a way to tell me I was wrong, that I didn’t know what I was talking about, or simply berate me because they had more experience in the military than I did.
I did my research. I consulted with the experts of the organization for their advice, their input. I did everything in my power—gathered all the information I had at the time to make an informed decision. It was never enough, there was always something wrong, and the way it was delivered to me was never in a way to empower me, only to exert power over me.
At the beginning, I was resilient. I took it one win at a time. I reminded myself that HR was a thankless job, that there would be more difficult problems to solve than easy ones—that I was being paid to think and problem solve. But there was so much more going on that pushed me over the edge.
There are days I would skip lunch to cry in my room, because I knew my roommate wouldn’t be there at the time.
There was a week straight where a high ranking officer came into my office everyday to interrogate me about decisions that were made at a level higher than me. I was just the messenger. That week, I cried every single fucking night. That weekend, I skipped every meal except dinner so I could sleep through the day.
Not a week went by where I was able to keep a consistent schedule or task list. There were always things being piled on, emergency fires to be put out, one being prioritized over the other. Deadlines from 9am being due at 12pm. Emergency meetings added onto my plate. Soldiers coming to me to fix things “at that instant.”
My inability to draw boundaries and need to find a purpose meant that people manipulated me. I was approached and asked questions/for favors at every venue. The gym, the track, walking back to my room, the coat room before getting into chow, on the way to the bathroom, getting out of the bathroom, when there was food in my mouth, at the beer tent. Everywhere.
There would be nights I would have nightmares about waking up late, missing meetings, misspeaking at meetings, missing Red Cross Messages, forgetting to address someone as Sir/ma’am in emails. Forget to send up a report at 10am on the dot and get a phone call from our higher HQ.
There were rumors spread about all the women and who they were supposedly sleeping with. At the beginning of the deployment, I took it personally, and as a marker on my character, as if people weren’t questioning it enough. Even after multiple tries by the command team to address the issue (i.e., a separate meeting with the women to address it…as if the only problem was the women), eventually, I became numb to it.
The military has a fraternization policy on NCOs and officers not having unprofessional relationships beyond work. But when the gossiping came about, I was told to “watch my perception” and to hang out with the women of my section instead of hang out of people who were my own rank (who were mainly men). I was being given a different set of rules in order to navigate the system and my “perception” because it was too difficult to create the conditions for people to stop spreading rumors. With every rumor that was spread about the women of the deployment, I became more and more suspicious of everyone’s interactions with me and “what people would say” if I laughed too loud, if I smiled, if I didn’t smile, if I rolled my eyes, if I did yoga, if I was walking the same way as someone.
Testimonies, quotes, “proof”
These are comments that were made about me:
- “Take pictures when you have sex with her.” – A Soldier had messaged me asking about HR questions, and a buddy of theirs had looked over their shoulder and said this to them.
- “She’s just learning English.” – A group of officers and I were playing scrabble and I had failed epically because I’d never played before.
- “I want to put my nose in your butthole.” – An officer said this to me while wasted on New Years night. I left immediately afterwards. When I told someone about it, they made “nose” and “butthole” jokes for the rest of the deployment when I was around.
- “I treat you like a daughter” / “I’m old enough to be your father.” – Literally all the fucking men on the deployment. I’m not your daughter. I don’t want you to protect me like a father. I am a commissioned fucking officer in the fucking Army, and I deserve to be treated as a fucking professional. I deserve to be respected as a person, as a woman of color and the unique experiences that it affords me, but not as your daughter. It is infantilizing and condescending.
- “I’d like to talk to you about polygamy.” – This person found out that I was bisexual and immediately equated it to polygamy (this happens a fucking lot…please fucking stop. I’m monogamous), and asked me about my “experiences”
- “We don’t serve people who don’t open their eyes” – A man of color, to me.
- “I don’t want COVID from you.” – After the COVID bs and the racism against Chinese/Asian presenting folks, someone said this to me when I offered them my drink because I was leaving. I said something back on the lines of “Wow, it must suck to be such a racist piece of shit.”
I don’t remember when I hit my breaking point—it was definitely 2-3 months in. It was amidst the feeling of hopelessness, having my recommendations dismissed, the gossip, COVID. I dreaded waking up and having to sleep just to wake up. There were days I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up. I wanted to die so I would not have to face people, but I remember telling myself I had to live because there was so much work to do that it would just create more of a burden for those around me.
I did everything in my power to prove that I was trying, that I was making decisions as indicated by my job. I tried to prove myself to people who were dead set on misunderstanding me.
I drank almost every single night. If I wasn’t at the beer tent, people would ask for me (and that’s a bad fucking sign y’all). I started cutting myself (again). It’s the first time I’ve cut myself in years. While the feeling of relapse was terrible, I drowned it out with alcohol.
I mentioned earlier that the military is good at masking trauma bonding as camaraderie and group cohesion. I had a strong bond with people through the traumas that we were going through, which isn’t the best way to form friendships with people, but they saved me during this time. I’d like to think we all saved each other. I had a group of women who ate together, drank together, went to the lake together, or worked out together. While they were not regular in my life (because I was always busy working, or asleep), they allowed me some comfort.
I also had strong bonds with a few men during the deployment. Of note is that the bar is low, but I was craving such intellectual conversations beyond work, that leading up to the George Floyd protests, there were a few men that had a racial reckoning and were able to process with me. The emotional labor that went into developing these men took a toll on me, but it was one of the very first times that I was able to have candid and critical conversations in months. I craved it and it fed my soul. These people helped recenter me, remind me where my passions lie. These men were also the ones who supported me as I completed my training to become a Unit Victim Advocate on top of my regular duties.
Again, the bar is low while the trauma-bonding was strong with the folks I surrounded myself with. But some of these folks saved me during this time. I hold these connections as necessary during hardship and I hope that they grow—and even if they don’t, I’ll know that during my deployment, we had one another.
I’ve said this many times before in my career in the military: code switching from Ka to Military Ka is exhausting. When I was in college, code switching was only on during my ROTC courses, and I could turn it off when I went home for the night. But for 9 months straight, I wore a mask. You wear a mask for so long and you start to forget who you were underneath it (it’s a v for vendetta quote lol). The type of emotional and mental exhaustion is unimaginable. I’m still tired from it. I don’t even know what recovering looks like. There are still missing pieces of me that I am still discovering everyday.
The aftermath
My therapist and I have worked through my emotions since coming back. It took me a few months to even push myself to get a therapist. I recognize how privileged it is to even afford one (my therapist is free; I receive an hour of free counseling per week through a military program called Give an Hour). Going back to therapy was a good decision, and I don’t believe you have to be “fucked up” in order to go. Sometimes you need someone who has enough distance from you to process through events in your life or your childhood and call you out on your bullshit.
She and I have worked through (and continue to work through) key things from the deployment:
1) My confidence was not lost, it was taken from me. Overworking to fill the gaps of my knowledge, only to be told my work would not be taken into consideration for 9 months straight takes a toll on the voice and confidence I had. ESPECIALLY because on the civilian side, I work in an office that values my voice and all that I have to offer. Coming back and attempting to engage with less confidence is demoralizing and dissonance-inducing for my body that has only knew defensiveness for 9+ months straight.
2) My inability to draw boundaries is directly tied to the worth that I placed in my work, and when I was told that I was unworthy, I intentionally put myself out there for people to do labor and find a purpose through that labor.
3) The way that we cope when we are stressed is not inherently wrong/right. Regaining control by cutting/drinking are not healthy coping mechanisms, but they were all I had to have control.
4) There is no saying that I can’t go back to the person that I was prior to the deployment, but the person who existed before the deployment does not have the experience and resilience that I do now; not acknowledging that does a disservice to my survival. I wish surviving this wasn’t a marker of strength.
I was not prepared for the drastic change of a person that I was when I returned, and as I recount the person that I was when I returned, I think about how much pain I inflicted on those closest to me. I’ve left scars on people in ways that I can never forgive myself for.
When I returned from my deployment, my friend committed suicide a few weeks after. In the same way I am still learning to grieve the beautiful person that she was, her absence, and the anger of the conditions of her suicide—I am doing the same to grieve the person that I was before this deployment.
I still don’t know what it means to “allow myself” to feel all the emotions from this loss.
Responding to the feelings the deployment created for me has been messy. I have not been the best person to be around. My worst traits have revealed themselves through unhealed trauma: pushing people away, being silent when I’ve wanted to say something, being easily irritable, being a control freak, being selfish, stifling my own creativity because ‘I don’t deserve it.’ I’ve ruined relationships and hurt loved ones through this. I’ve become someone I do not love, I do not admire. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if this is the best person that I can be for myself, for the world.
My entire life, I’ve held words of affirmation as one of my top love languages to affirm my existence, because I can’t seem to do it for myself. I’ve heard so many times, “You don’t realize how amazing you are” “I wish you could see you the way I see you” “You underestimate your impact.” Because the truth is, I don’t know how to accept myself or love myself for who I truly am. I live in moments and bubbles where there are times I can acknowledge it. But it is not a truth I can accept of myself yet.
I’ve never fully believed the phrase “if you don’t love yourself, no one will.” I believe that if I don’t love myself, I won’t be able to accept others’ love. It’s one of the hardest fucking lessons I’ve learned in life, and I hope that one day, I can see myself worthy enough for the love that everyone gives me.
I’ve spent my entire life caring for others, pleasing others, and serving others in ways that is so detrimental to myself. I am a first generation Hmoob daughter of refugees, the eldest daughter in a swarm of sons, whose life is supposed to be dedicated to leading my people to liberation. But I know that it’s time for me to invest in myself. It’s time for me to care, please, and serve myself.
I still don’t know what it looks like. But I know that my decision to choose myself is the best decision for the version of myself waiting on the other end. I hope she is proud of me. I hope she can look at me with more love than I can give myself at this moment. And most of all, I hope she can fully and truly say that she made the right decisions for her healing.
