I’ve never publicly shared this before.
Not under my name, not even anonymously. But if it helps even one person understand—or feel less alone—then it's worth sharing.
In early 2000’s, during my service to this country, war didn’t just claim territory on the battlefield—it took pieces of me. A traumatic brain injury (TBI) in combat set me on a path I never could have imagined.
I went from being sharp, capable, and strong—the guy people counted on, the one who led from the front—to someone who couldn’t walk, talk, read, or write. The simplest things I once took for granted vanished.
That day, when everything went dark, I was told I died twice.
I don’t remember much from that moment other than that I went somewhere. It wasn’t cold or blindingly bright—it was just warm. I have only fragments, bits, and pieces from the time I was “away.” I recall being pulled—ripped, even—out of my body. It happened fast, violently fast, as if I were being carried away amid flashes of color streaking past at impossible speed.
Time itself seemed to vanish—or perhaps stretch into infinity. I can’t say for sure, but in those moments, something inside me changed—my perspective, my understanding of life, and what the future might hold.
I still have no idea what any of it means. I try not to dwell on it, though I can’t shake the feeling that someday, I will understand. I don’t talk about it because it sounds crazy—or maybe it makes me sound even more crazy than some already think I am.
But none of that changes the fact that it happened.
People often assume that recovery is simply about working hard—that if you push enough, you’ll get back to “normal.” But war doesn’t work that way. And neither does the brain.
It doesn’t care how much discipline or drive you have; it rewires itself on its own terms, in its own time. And while it’s rebuilding, it tortures you.
Imagine being fully aware of everything you want to say, yet your mouth refuses to form the words. Imagine trying to take a step, and your legs simply won’t obey.
Now, imagine that feeling repeating itself over and over—day after day, week after week, month after month.
In the midst of my recovery, people around me tried to help. They were patient, they were kind. But I didn’t want kindness—I wanted my life back.
I was furious. Furious at them, furious at myself, furious at the entire situation. Every single second of needing help, of feeling trapped inside my own body, ignited a burning anger that turned inward all too quickly.
There are dark moments in recovery that no one talks about—the ones where you wonder if you’ll ever be yourself again, or if the real you died on that battlefield, leaving behind nothing but a broken shell.
It’s easy to begin hating yourself when even asking for a cup of water feels like an insurmountable task.