IN JULY, I RETIRED FROM THE AIR FORCE, ending twenty years of service. My days of fighting against the Taliban and associated terrorist groups were over; my days of fighting with the Department of Veterans Affairs had begun. The way veterans are treated in America is not only a moral abomination, but also a rotten sore in the body politic. It’s easy to reduce the problems America’s veterans face statistics (which are alarming). But now I’ve experienced them myself.

Within days of my retirement, the VA rated me 100% permanently and totally disabled due to traumatic brain injuries, post-traumatic stress disorder, dizziness, and other ailments accumulated during my four years in Iraq and Afghanistan.

My family celebrated this news. Not only do I get $4,000 more per month, but I also don’t pay property taxes or taxes on my pension or disability benefits, and my dependents’ college tuition in most public colleges are greatly reduced, or even eliminated. With my pension and disability rating, I was ready to live a comfortable lifestyle, allowing me time to write and reflect on the past twenty years.

But before that, I knew I needed immediate mental health treatment. I was diagnosed with PTSD in 2008 and spent the next sixteen years in treatment around the world, while repeatedly retraumatizing myself in service to the country. Some of my therapists were great, but many were not. Military mental health professionals are running out of steam. Wait times can be very long, even for active duty military personnel.

The VA’s Solid Start program was supposed to help me navigate the department’s byzantine health care system. It didn’t live up to its name – somehow the VA managed to list me as single with no children.

While this error was being corrected, I decided to cold call the Kansas City VA Mental Health Clinic to make an appointment. I waited on the phone for three hours just to be told I would have to wait three months for a mental health appointment. I told the patient and respectful lady on the other end of the line that I had voluntarily admitted myself to an inpatient program less than a year ago and that I had a history of flashbacks and hallucinations. It made no difference.

I thought I could last three months. I was wrong.

BY MID-SEPTEMBER I was having flashbacks more regularly. I struggled to connect with my autistic daughter. Even simple tasks like changing her diaper or placing her in a car seat brought back vivid and disturbing memories of Iraq and Afghanistan. The anniversaries of the fall of Afghanistan, 9/11, and the fall of a beloved comrade have resurrected old nightmares. But I was only a few weeks away from my first appointment. So I gritted my teeth and tried to build muscle.

In mid-September, I was working out in a park in an affluent part of town when I had a flashback. Something about my workout routine, appearance, or behavior must have scared someone, because someone called the police. I explained to the police that I was a veteran and that I was having a flashback and asked them to take me home. Instead, they involuntarily admitted me to a state psychiatric hospital. I asked to be transferred to a VA hospital, but the VA refused: they only accept voluntarily admitted patients.

Let this sink in for a minute. A 100 percent totally and permanently disabled combat veteran was denied admission to a VA psychiatric hospital at his time of need.

Due to the VA’s denial, I spent four days in a state mental hospital filled with drug addicts, homeless people, people with deep psychosis, and, of course, violent criminals. I didn’t have any shoes. I didn’t have any friends around. I only had two hours outside all week.

Fortunately, I was able to be discharged without incident. But that episode ended my marriage, and I now join a long line of other veterans whose families were destroyed by war and the neglect of the system that promised to care for them.

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Last week I went to visit another war-damaged family. The mother of Captain Jesse Melton III, killed by the Taliban in September 2008, had read a tribute I wrote to his son and contacted him.

I felt at ease when I arrived in front of the house. I had already met two other Gold Star families, so I knew how calming the experience would be. I first met Jesse’s father, a Jamaican immigrant. I talked a little about my life and how I met his son. As we spoke, Donald Trump’s election victory just days before inevitably came up.

“Look, I’m independent,” Jesse’s father explained. “But what happened at Abbey Gate was not good and it was not necessary. He (Biden) could have done something about it.”

Who can blame Jesse’s dad (his last name is different) for being a one-issue voter? Families like Jesse’s remember Afghanistan. Their sons were killed fighting for a free Afghanistan. But no one talks about it, as if the worst day of their life was some kind of national taboo. I know a little bit about what it feels like.

Eventually, Jesse’s mom came home from the Gold Star mom event she had attended. When she saw my face, she exalted herself: “Hallelujah, praise God. » No one has ever been so excited to see me in my entire life, especially at the park where I loved to train. We embraced in pure joy and love.

We talked about his son and how I knew him. We cried a little and remembered Jesse together. She told me about her daughter, who was deployed to Afghanistan as a civilian after a stint in the military so she could “continue Jesse’s mission in Afghanistan.”

That was the problem with Jesse. He believed in the mission. Many of us, especially those who shed blood and collaborated with the Afghans, thought it was worth it.

“God bless you,” she said repeatedly. “God is good.”

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Even though we only spoke for an hour, it was one of the most rewarding times of my life. Despite everything that has happened to her, she still loves this country deeply. She maintains a deep faith in America and its people.

I struggled to maintain my faith in America or God. The Global War on Terrorism generation deployed more often and fought longer than any group since Vietnam. And like Vietnam, our wars ended in retreat, abandonment and shame. As in the 1970s, we face an overworked and overwhelmed VA that continually fails our veterans. Like the previous generation, we return home to a population largely ignorant of the war.

The GWOT generation is lucky in one sense: we were not denigrated upon our return like the Vietnamese generation was. But we face unique struggles. It’s not just the VA; these are regular run-ins with the police which result in detention, incarceration and sometimes death. Vietnam defined an entire generation of Americans, both civilians and veterans; the GWOT meant nothing to anyone who didn’t fight there.

Nearly 44 veterans commit suicide every day, a sharp increase since the end of the war in Afghanistan. This is not a coincidence. While both political parties have attempted to forget the reasons for the disastrous abandonment of Afghanistan, America’s veterans, particularly those who served in or alongside special forces, have not.

What we gave up in the Doha agreement is important. What happened at Abbey Gate is important. What is happening to Afghan women today is important. This is causing incalculable damage to a generation of American veterans who lost part of their body, mind and soul while toiling in a faraway land for a country that has essentially forgotten them.

The country has rarely been more divided, nor our public life more acrimonious. For those looking for a way to “heal the wounds of the nation,” start by caring for “the one who bears the battle, his widow and his orphan.” Let’s restore trust by keeping our word to our veterans. We owe it not only to those who served and their families; we owe it to ourselves as a country.

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